Office Fat

That's right babes, this post is about that all-too-real mythical creature . . . office fat. It is something I had heard about, something I've joked about, and today, something that became all too real to me. Now to back up a sec, I've never had a real office job before this year. Out of college I was a teacher - where I spent my days on my feet, dodging flying books and often dragging kids in the desk out of my classroom when they started to act like little shits - so needless to say, I was babe-a-licious! Then I went back to being a student - running from class to class, late night studying, and a few years with a stomach problem due to stress gave me three more years being babe-dacious and office fat free.

Then came this year . . . for the first time ever I sit in front of a computer all day. Worse yet, my only co-workers are two skinny males who can eat Chipotle and McDonalds and Dunkin' Donuts every day (literally, every single day!). Never to be one to be shown up by boys in eating skills, I often join them. So today, my weeks of sitting in an office chair, calling throwing a football around the office a "work out," and eating like a 25 year old dude finally caught up to me. Myself, Loafers and Wisconsin (the co-workers) walked into the office and were all standing in my office. Loafers and Wisconsin started a debate about something anti-babe, like buttons on their watches, and I went to plug in my phone charger. I hinged at the hips to reach the outlet . . . the convo going on above me sliped into a silent pause . . . and then it happens . . . teeeeeaaaaaaaarrrrrr. Yup, it's my pants - splitting up the seam. The boys polietly looked away while I hustled to the bathroom. I was able to cover it up mostly with my suit jacket for the rest of the day and the co-workers thankfully understand the un-spoken rule to never speak of this incident again.

As for tomorrow morning I will be off to the tailor . . . and maybe the gym. Then again, a little office fat can be babe-a-licious too, right?

You Can Take the Babe Out of the Baberhood...

I left the baberhood this weekend and hit the road to see my family and friends for Thanksgiving. Although the trip was fantastic, I realized that the old adage couldn't be more true: You can take the babe out of the baberhood, but you can't take the baberhood out of the babe.

On the first leg of my trip, I was delighted to learn that I didn't have to make the journey alone. As I was boarding my flight, I heard a familiar voice in front of me. Turns out Nosey and her new mang squeeze (so totally babe) were also eastbound for Turkey Day. After a brief chat I settled into my seat and noticed a little babe, about 12 years old, sitting white-knuckled next to me. Having a babe's intuition I asked if this was her first time flying alone. It was. So, to distract her, I struck up a conversation. We talked about what we were doing for Thanksgiving, the mangs in her class (at school), and the mangs in my class (in life). I offered her one of the magazines I had with me to pass the time, but it wasn't until she flipped to a page featuring Jerry O'Connell in a Speedo did I realize that I'd given her People's "Sexiest Mangs of the Year" issue. Needless to say, I opened up this babe-in-training's eyes to more than just the friendly skies that night.

Fast forward a few hours and I'm stuck smack dab in the midst of an RHS reunion at our favorite local dive. As I was doing my best to catch up with my real friends (numbering approximately 6) and avoid everyone else (numbering approximately 600), a very bombed, much older non-mang with a wedding band approached me (never a good thing unless your name is Wizard LSD). "Is your name Birdie?" he asked, slurring the whole time. "Yes," I replied tentatively. "Did you live in Mill Iron apartments when you were in college?" he asked. "No," I said, realizing this creep knew where I went to school. "Oh," he replied. "Cause I met you at a party there in 2003." Babes. Let this be a lesson. We are just so dang charming with such delightfully good looks that guys we meet at parties will remember us 6 years later. Let's keep this in mind as we tear through the baberhood bars leaving nothing but empty pitchers of beer and broken hearts in our wake.

Fast forward a few more days. Craving some time away from the off-color jokes of my creepy uncle and full-on wrestling matches with my very favorite nieces and nephew, I decided to head back downtown for a few cold beverages. After some Blue Moons and more than one Long Island Iced Tea, my neighborhood friends, my little sis and I called up a cab. As we piled into the mini van and began to head north I had a brilliant idea. "Hang a right!" I yelled and the cab erupted into cheers as the glowing neon of the Taco Bell sign came into view. Thankfully, I know my way around ordering TBell in a cab, but even more thankfully I had just had ANOTHER Taco Bell-in-a-suburban-cab experience just a week earlier in Sammie Sem's hometown. (Not sure if this qualifies as an accomplishment or a major fail.) And although TBell is always a treat, as I sat with my friends in my parents' kitchen eating chalupas and trying on hats (don't ask) I realized that the tacos don't taste nearly as sweet when they're not from the TBell on Addison.

Oh how I missed you, sweet baberhood. It's good to be back.

If only the walls at the baberhood T-Bell could speak...

If there's one thing a babe doesn't know how to do, it's diet on the weekends. AND, if the walls at the local T-Bell could speak, they'd agree with me full-heartedly. Tacos and Emergen-C Vitamin C packets... that's how a recent weekend of mine went. Because, let's be honest, downing an Emergen-C Vitamin C packet the morning after you've indulged in a shitload of tacos (preceded by many alcoholic bevs - the culprit) clearly cancels everything out.

After regrettably - yet lovingly - thinking about my weekend homebase (TB) during the aftermath that was Sunday, I started thinking about all the greatness I've been privy to within the confines of those TB walls.

Policing the border. On-duty cops are often assigned to the baberhood TB in order to keep all those Lakeview hoodlums in check when they're fighting over their crunch wrap supremes. As such, I once saw a cop hurl himself over the counter and start handing out orders to keep the biz moving smoothly. Chi-town's finest to the rescue!

Keep it classy TB. A friend of a friend of a friend - who's a very close friend of mine - once got into an almost brawl at TB over who was the classier broad. Oh, the irony.

So clutch it's scary. A few college boys with deep voices walked into TB one hazy late-morning, and stopped dead in their tracks as they crossed the threshold, shouting "This place is so clutch!" I guess you have to be there for this one, but I'd just like to say: "well played, college boys, well played."

Barefoot and fancy free. If I had a dollar for everytime I've seen a barefoot customer at TB, I'd probably buy TB and put up some signs that said "shoes required." They'll be sorry.

Daytime TB attire. Galoshes, pajamas and dark shades... it's the only way to dine-in.

Who goes to TB for the meat? I'll tell you who does... our own Birdie Seminary's former guest at the house of ill repute. He joined us for a mid-day hungover TB run one time and - I kid you not - proceeded to eat only the meat out of his taco shells. Weird on so many levels.

Halloween at TB. Who knew that Lady Gaga liked TB so much? Respect.

- Sammy Seminary (aspiring health nut)

Babe Quiz

If you see a 50s something woman looking pretty classy, despite the fuck me boots and short skirt, in the elevator in a predominantly oldie apartment building and notice she doesn’t have a ring on, do you:

A) Mean mug her because there’s no excuse for a 50s something woman to be wearing fuck me boots and looking all hot. What does she think she is? 25?

B) Start sweating out of worry and mortification because you can’t get a good look at her through her sunglasses and big blond curly hair over her face, but you’re pretty sure that’s your mom…about to mang jangle with some oldie. FML.

C) Just shake your head and mumble to yourself, “god dang it,” because you realize that MILF is the new neighbor that your mang has been hanging pictures for.

D) Give her props and ask for some tips because you can only hope to be looking like a babe and mang jangling when you’re her age.

--Wizard LSD

Baberhood Tip

If you find yourself at the Big Shitty Tap pre-midnight on a Tuesday, befriend the bartender. Make music requests, as if she is your own personal dj. You'll have a dance party going in no time.

City Babes head to the Country

This weekend, Lady Clifton, Babe Sr., a few guest babes and mangs and I roadtripped it out to the great Hawkeye state for some good, clean Midwestern fun. We planned to stay with a friend of Sr.'s (Farmer Babe) who may or may not live at a boarding school on a farm. Lady and I left at your standard Friday roadtrip time and drove west. Our car was loaded down with an air mattress and bedding for eight, just in case. So the sherpas forged ahead, with great excitement and tunes ablarin'. Once we got out of the urban jungle and into the fields, we stopped for food at the only rest stop for miles. During our luxurious dinner in the "picnic area" (food court-style tables in a cafeteria overlooking the highway), we heard from Sr. that her car was running an hour behind. Well. Might as well have some ice cream and play some arcade games at the rest stop, Lady and I decided. Sorry babes, we really tried to bring back souvenirs, but "the Claw" is just too dang difficult.

After killing an hour (no joke), we hit the road again. And after getting a little lost in the cornfields in the dark without a GPS, we actually found the farm. Farmer Babe was still out raging, but she told us which rooms to claim in the guest house. She also told us to be quiet because there were a Grandma and Grandpa staying in one of the rooms, and to not sleep in the biggest room because that was set aside for Grandma, "for when Grandpa starts snoring too loudly". Ok, that leaves the two smallest rooms, both of which were infested with ladybugs. None of the babes had a problem with these innocent little creatures, but the mangs sure freaked out and insisted on killing each and every one before going to sleep.

In the morning we had your standard tailgate and gameday experience, except with a devastating defeat and a stadium full of stunned fans. But we sucked it up and went downtown afterward to enjoy the college town experience, drinking beers outside on an unseasonably warm day.

After a while, we ventured into one of your not-so-classy joints on campus, where we witnessed a really intense game of Country vs. City flip cup. The scene was described by some as a train wreck, and more of a shit-show by others. Farmer Babe was hit on by a married friend-of-a-friend that kept asking if she was a hippie, and tried to provoke her by saying "McCain" really loudly in her face. After getting no response, he gave up and flashed a drunken peace sign while muttering "Peace and love....peace and love....", and ending it with a compliment: "You have really nice teeth." We heard later that his wife was not pleased when he got home, rang the doorbell and promptly fell off the porch just as she was opening the door.

After a long day away, it was time to head back to the farm. As we drove down the gravel road, we quickly realized that something had changed while we were gone. The wind had shifted or the field had been plowed, because suddenly the smell of manure was overtaking our nostrils. Lady and I sat in the car with the windows rolled up, breathing through our mouths, unsure what to do next. Once we got out of the car, the stench was overwhelming. We ran to the building like a stink bomb had gone off and we had to take cover. Farmer Babe casually strolled along, wondering what we were freaking out about: "You babes know that this is a FARM, right??"

Needless to say, these city babes were happy to drive away from the wide open spaces of manure and get back to our smoggy urban paradise. The baberhood has never looked so clean or smelled so fresh. It's good to be home.

Yours truly,
Goldie Wilton

So last Saturday, I went to a wedding. One of those weddings where if you're single you don't get to bring a guest. First of all it started at 12pm, the reception at 2pm. Odd timing if you ask me and so I went to get a drink even though it was in the broad daylight and then saw...duh duh duh...the cash bar. After paying $6 for my Cosmo, I went to find my table and found that it was in the far corner of the room. Like the furthest you could get from the wedding party. At my table was myself, one guy, and 8 other women. Yes, eight. And at the next closest table there were relatives, I'm assuming- all single and male, with an average median age of 14. After the meal came the dancing which included, no joke, the Macarena. And boy did I shake it. Needless to say, the highlight of the occasion was the cake, as it was the richest, chocolateyist cheesecake I've had in a while. So cheers to the babes out there, surviving weddings, breaking hearts, and taking names. Its about time we get the party started and celebrated ourselves, ladies!

Babe Sr.

Sometimes, when my upstairs neighbor sets his shower to just the right temperature, I can hear a faint whistling coming from the inside of my babepad bedroom walls. This frequently comes around 6:00 a.m., and, as I'm almost always fast asleep at this time, the whistling works its way into whatever I happen to be dreaming about at the moment. This morning, in my dream, the whistling was the noise inside Wizard and hubby Ya'akov's old-timey cobbler shop as they worked to repair worn-down shoes.

Which got me thinking, while we're certainly the first generation to clearly define our beloved baberhood, we're definitely not the first set of babe friends to reside within its friendly confines.

Here, a look back at the babes who may have been here before us:

1900's: Though confined by corsets and an inability to vote, these babes could sure scoot through the streets of Lakeview on their bikes. As far as I'm concerned, there's no doubt that once away from the watchful eye of that mang on the steps, they started making trouble in the baberhood.

1920's: Check out these speakeasy babes. Believe it

or not, this photo was actually taken at

Higgins. Check out the babe second from the right. Though she's smiling, you can tell she's really thinking, "That dang Capone, he never called me back after we mang jangled last Thursday."

1940's: While it may seem that the baberhood is all fun and games, we also know how to bring home the bacon. Our DubDub2 (WWII) foremothers weren't all that different. How else were they supposed to keep themselves busy when all their mangs went off to war?

1960's: Ah, the 60's. A time of hedonism to the

max. I like to think we'd get along with these babes just fine - just maybe without the LSD (except for Wizard, of course). I mean, look at them, they're feelin' those late night Big Shitty grooves.

So the next time you stroll through the streets of our fine hood, please take a moment to remember the babes who walked there before you. The baberhood just wouldn't be the same without them.

Confucius Say: If it Sounds like a Bad Idea, get Chinese Food Instead

Dang, rough night in the baberhood yesterday. The day started off perfectly -- I was successfully balancing fake work (a.k.a. perusing Perez “for a client”) with the real thing, making the day go by fairly quickly. My perfect day ended around 4 p.m. when, after I had been sitting in my desk chair for awhile with my leg kicked up under me, I went to get up to go to the bathroom. I was stuck to the chair.

Yes, I had a large wad of minty gum that had transferred from the side of my shoe (yeah, I don’t know how the hell it was stuck to the side of my shoe to begin with…and that it took me until 4 p.m. to notice). This wasn’t an ordinary piece of gum. This piece was a remnant, if you will, from Goldie’s b’day celebration at the “saloon of the week” -- you know, the one with all of the popcorn on the floor. Imagine what that nasty piece of gum looked like. I suppose I deserved it -- that’s why you have separate bar and work shoes. Needless to say, I had to freeze the wad with ice before scraping to get that shiz off…and then I had to hold my bladder for the next 45 minutes while the wet spot on my butt dried. Perf.

Despite the 40 minutes the gum incident took out of my day, I left work early enough to work out and, even though it was cold, raining and dark outside, I had an urge to ride my bike. I got all of 30 feet before a dang Chinese food delivery man in an SUV whipped around a corner and t-boned me (and not in the mang jangling sense). I knew I was fine, physically, when I got up from under the SUV and screamed at the guy for the next five minutes while he sporadically interjected with “sorry” and “how much do you want for this.” The bad news (for him): He’s on the hook for my damaged bike. The good news (for me): I know I’ll be able to score free Chinese food from Yen’s for at least the next month!

--Wizard LSD

Mang Juggling Advice from a Mang (told through a babe)

On Saturday night, while walking through the baberhood, dangerously close to our old friend Higgins, Birdie turned to me and asked, "have you always been a mang juggler?"

Important side note: different from a mang jangler, a mang juggler is one who casually dates multiple mangs . . . now, to jangle or not to jangle while juggling is a dangerous and personal question that will not be answered in this posting, or ever.

To the point of this posting though . . . I am not a mang juggler. At least not at heart. But, pursuing the advice of my co-worker Loafers (see earlier post), I have thrown myself into the dating world and inadvertently ended up juggling (sort of). So, in doubt, I turned back to Loafers for some advice . . . how does one mang juggle? Here's what I got:

(disclaimer: I do not embrace all of Loafers' advice - in fact, I don't embrace most of it. But who am I to deprive all of the TFB readers of the sage advice of a man who wears tailored shorts with a blazer and loafers?)

1 - Approach everything as a negotiation. Wait until the other person broaches the topic of exclusivity and don't give in too easily. You can easily drag it out 8-10 dates before having to be exclusive. (please note that this directly contradicts Loafers' earlier advice that I should just settle for whatever I can get before my babehood slips away.)

2 - Don't make any decisions after the first jangle - always jangle twice before you decide if you want to be exclusive. (I almost spit coffee at him on this one, then I thought about handing him an at home J(angling) TD testing kit. In the end, I just listened politely. Like I said, to jangle or not to jangle is a personal question.)

3 - What really matters most is scheduling. Mangs are interchangeable - if a mang doesn't fit with your schedule, find a mang who does. (ah, true romance . . .)

4 - Look for a mang who wears something memorable on a first date, like a blazer or a recreational tie. You don't want to date the mang who just shows up in jeans and a shirt. (I didn't know how to tell him that's exactly the mang I want to date . . .)

5 - "If it doesn't feel a little bit dirty, you're doing something wrong." (This was where I left. I didn't ask for clarification. I just walked away.)

So there you have it. Mang juggling advice from a mang himself. I don't know if it's good advice considering I haven't implemented any of it, but I wanted to share it so that others, who may wish to juggle, may try it. Take all of it, take none of it, or maybe just take as a sign that hanging with the babes is a better use of your time than mang juggling . . . although, as we say in the Clifton family, sometimes its worth it for the story value . . .

TFB

-NC

monday LOL

a little baberhood math quiz....

Q: What do you get when you have 6 babes out for a night on the town??

A: 12 yabs!

Don't be a remnant

Courtesy of Urban Dictionary (official dictionary of the baberhood):

remnants
A 'remnant' generally refers to a small leftover portion after the main part no longer exists (as in leftover cloth), but for our purposes: the last few girls still at the bar/club as closing time approaches.

"I think I'll stay a little longer and wait around for the remnants."

When you wake up in the morning, and all you can remember from the last hour of your night are a bunch of babes wandering around in a stupor, shuffling between the bar and the bathroom, not being particularly charming, or even very much conscious, you ask yourself one, singular, age-old question: why didn't I go home earlier?

Nothing productive ever happens during those last 60 minutes at the bar. In fact, counterproductivity is par for the course. Beer-goggle-induced mang-jangling decisions are made, monstrous portions of disgusting food are consumed, and your standard disasters occur during this period of time. Disasters that, interestingly, could be averted by one simple action: going home.

Follower and future guest-blogger BK Babe recounts the tale of literally losing her grip on the bar one night in the wee hours, and almost falling straight backwards onto the floor, right there in front of everyone. This is not an ideal situation. In fact, it's one that would probably require her to not show her face in that bar ever again. Such a disaster can easily be prevented and this is when the mantra should hit: don't be a remnant.

Should it hold true, then, that "friends don't let friends be remnants"? Nah, I don't think so. If a babe wants to stick it out to the bitter end, she can count on me to be right there with her.

-Goldie Wilton

Mang Jangling through the Baberhood

Ahhhh, just another weekend in the baberhood - except this weekend wasn't your standard house weekend. It was a baberhood birthday rager! Our very own Goldie Wilton turned the big 2-7, and she couldn't have done it in finer babe fashion. There's nothing like pizza, wine, champag (bitches) and a quick tour of the baberhood on the way to another nationally renowned baberhood bar, Newport (see: http://www.nbcchicago.com/around-town/food-drink/Worst-Bars-in-America-Chicagos-Got-Two-63679792.html) to start a "Party in the USA." En route, signs were defaced (flyer reading YABB obvs now reads YABB-O), terms were invented (mang jangle: "i didn't think he was cute at first, but at the end of the night, i took him home for some mang jangling.") and a Higgins walk-by (Higgins!) occured.

When we finally arrived at said destination we convened with the mangs from the neighbrohood to celebrate fellow October birthday boy Sticks & Stones. And there, among the Lakeview fathers & sons, handsome Blackhawks fans with accents and regulars who haven't left their bar stools since 'Nam we raged the night away. But, as the night wore on, we just couldn't escape the call of that old familiar friend. Like the mang in your phone you just KNOW you shouldn't text after midnight, Higgy's called our name and we couldn't say no. After being rewarded with free shots from south of the border and more over-salted, steaming hot popcorn than our tummies could handle, Wizard and I decided to hit up the T-Bell, because, LBH, what baberhood night is complete without a Baja-chalupa-skip-the-Baja-sauce-please?

Unfortunately, while waiting for our wonderful bags of TBell delight, my big mouth got us in a confrontation with a couple of over-dressed eastern European non-babes. The question at hand - who was classier. Thankfully, Wizard and I didn't even have to say a word to defend ourselves. I mean, was there ever really any doubt?

Keep it classy, baberhood.

-Birdie Seminary

Date night drop-offs

If there's one thing I know, it's how to get dropped off in the baberhood after a first date in a cool and classy babe and a half-type manner...

When you're blocks away from your babepad and you see a sketchy - yet familiar - saloon (that may or may not have just been rated a "saloon of the week"), have your date pull over immediately. Do not pass go; do not consider completing the drop-off to your actual place of residence... just casually say "it's cool; you can just go ahead and drop me off at this sketchy-looking bar on the corner." If this mang is worth a second date he'll clearly know that you mean business, and that this semi-vacant, darkly lit saloon with a fresh floral selection and steaming hot popcorn is a recipe for success.

- Lady Clifton (the baberhood datemaster)

Top 10 Reasons Why Seminary Babes Should Have a ‘Ween Party at the Babepad

10. Karaoke on the outdoor speakers. Neighbors appreciate it.
9. We can’t do it at my apartment; the Oldies don’t appreciate noise after 8 p.m.
8. To spare me from a public indecency ticket -- I’m not sure the five-o’s agree that Halloween gives you a free pass to walk around in your underwear.
7. Where else can you find the likes of Carmen Sandiego (presumably), Lady Gaga (presumably), Balloon Boy (presumably) and possibly an appearance by Bacon and Eggs (presumably, of course)?
6. Babe parties with babes in regular clothes: Babefest. Babe parties with babes in costume: Babe masquerade ball.
5. The porch is a perfect place to bob for apples. And by “bob,” I mean “shotgun” and by “apples,” I mean, “beers.”
4. How else is the Biz going to be sunk?
3. There’s no chance the babes are kicking anyone out of the babepad for any of the following reasons: falling numerous times, Wellie wrestling, having a “Party in the U.S.A.” dance off, bonging the aforementioned Biz or engaging in Suicide.
2. Because the ideal way to end the night is with a Big Mac, macaroni and cheese pizza slice and a burrito (or a “breeto,” if you prefer), and all that shiz is next to each other and within walking distance.
1. Why the f not?!

-Wizard LSD

Babe Bar is Saloon of the Week!

Miller Lite has declared Higgins' Tavern the Saloon of the Week!

http://espn.go.com/chicago/specialFeature?page=millerlite09

The baberhood has a lot to offer, in terms of drinking establishments. But nothing is dearer to our hearts than Higgins. When a babe has nowhere else to go, it's always there for us, just around the corner. When driving by in a cab, a cry of "Higgins!!!!" is warranted, at any time of day or night, just to be sure it knows how much we care, and that we'll be back soon.

So thank you, Miller Lite, for recognizing what we've known all along. Higgy's, we're glad to have known you before you got famous.

Babe Schoolin'

Greetings from a babe in a babepad in the baberhood. I'd like to take a step back here and clear a few things up courtesy of the Urban Dictionary [insert shout-out to the Urban Dictionary here]...

babe:
a girl or guy who is easy on the eyes, talented, and good looking, overall just very sexy. referred to as "babe". (i.e. "man, those girls are babes.")

baberhood:
a neighborhood with attractive people - fashionable, stylish, just like Paris - but not. (i.e. "I need a cheap apartment in a Chi-town baberhood.)

babepad:
babepad isn't defined yet.
*I BEG TO DIFFER.

babe and a half:
when a person is just too sexy for words. and the only way to describe how yummy they are is "babe and a half." (i.e. "damn. that mary is so fly tonight, she is just lookin like a total babe and a half.)

babernecking:
ascertaining the physical traits of someone you find attractive in a nearby vehicle during automobile operation while attempting to not crash into other objects, pedestrians or drivers; automotive sexual objectification. (i.e. "I was babernecking on 405 the other day and almost slammed into the car in front of me because I was trying to check out the hot babe in the car next to me.")

babe convention:
a gathering or convening of a large group of babes, or even megababes, in one place, whether by design or coincidence. as yet, there is no officially recognised babe convention, however there have been recent talks among world leaders on the topic. (i.e."holy crap look at that group of chicks over there! theyre ALL hot!"; "and there's another one!"; "this place is a babe convention!")
*Please note that babe conventions are a common occurance in the baberhood.... and at the babepad.

Now that you've been schooled, consider yourself fully prepped to digest the hap's of the baberhood.

- Sammy Seminary

Dating and Disasters in the Baberhood - The Beginning

Okay, for now this post will be short, but there will be much, much more to come here (hopefully). We're in a crunch time at work for the next few weeks, and during crunch time at work, myself and my two co-workers will do just about anything to avoid doing our work. So last night, during a late office night, the conversation turned to dating. My two male co-workers gave me (what they thought was) a sage hour long lecture on dating . . . although one of them believes its okay to wear tailored shorts with loafers and a blazer (we shall call him Loafers), and the other is from Wisconsin (a state where I have notoriously bad luck with men), so I'm a little skeptical of their advice. (some of their advice will be added later).

Today, I received an email from Loafers with no text in the body, simply this link:

http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200803/single-marry. Go on ladies, and any gents reading this, read it. An unambiguous message from my beloved co-worker that I need to settle while my eggs are still young, my skin is still firm and my waistline is under 40.

And so I feel like the timing of receiving this article and the starting of the blog is fortuitous. This shall be an outlet for my tales along the way . . . to settling.

TFB.

Nosey Clifton

Mr. Rogers' Baberhood

I’ve been a babe all my life, but I moved into the baberhood about three years ago. What I’ve found is that there’s a unique mix of people that populate our little corner of Chicago, but I want to talk about my personal fave: The Oldies.

For the most part, the Oldies tend to stay away from the baberhood. I guess they don’t like former frat boys playing flip cup in the front yard (still living the dream, I’m sure), gay guys walking down Halsted in heels sweeter than any pair I own (ok, that’s a generalization -- they don’t only walk in heels down Halsted, but they do help put the “babe” in baberhood), hoards of drunk people on Clark after a Cubs game screaming, “The Cardinals take it in the Pujols”, or people from Ohio. But the Oldies that do hang around the baberhood all live near me. Probably because there are three hospitals and a Jewel within a one mile radius.

Since the beginning of time, North Side Lake Shore Drive high rises have attracted more than a fair share of old-money, eccentric geriatrics. Must be the Oldie-friendly amenities: Free coffee, exercise classes in the pool and end-of-summer, non-alcoholic social gatherings. Plus, when they moved in 50 years ago, LSD was about as WASP-y as it gets -- imagine Highland Park times 100. Can you blame them for trying to continue living their dream?

But, I don’t mind living among the Oldies, in fact, I can even learn from them. Like the time I was working out in the exercise room and a man, a spry 80-years-young, changed both of the TVs in the room to CNBC. I learned that it is possible to doze off while still on the elliptical machine. I’ve also learned patience, which, for me, is usually in short supply: Even though a typical walk to the garage takes all of 10 seconds, when you’re walking behind a woman with a tennis ball-outfitted walker (dear God, I hope she’s not about to get behind the wheel of that Lincoln Continental that’s taking up two parking spaces), you have plenty of time to ponder life’s lessons. Hooray, I have time to stop and smell the roses. Oh wait, that’s the Estee Lauder perfume I’m smelling.

So, the next time you’re in my building or any of the others on LSD, keep an open mind and don’t be creeped out by the old man who reaches into his pocket to give you melted Mr. Goodbars -- he’s just welcoming you to the baberhood.

First night in the b.hood

Goldie Wilton, the newest babe in the baberhood:

Is there a better way to start off my baberhood citizenship than book club, trader joe's appetizers, WINE, group facebook commenting and a dance party? I think not.

I don't clearly remember getting home, but I guess I remembered not to go to my old apartment. For the record, it's not a good idea to get bombed on your first night in a new apartment- i had no idea where i was, who i was, or what the heck was going on when I woke up this morning. Looked down to find myself dressed in sweatpants (fine) and an inside out zip-up hoodie with just a bra underneath (not fine).
I wandered into the bathroom to find that my contacts had actually made their way into the case with solution (small miracle). For reasons still unknown, my scale was hanging out in the middle of the floor- not where I left it before book club (weighing myself when i'm drunk? "i wonder how much all that wine weighs! let's find out!").
Then, I wandered into the living room to find a full bag of popped microwave popcorn propped up on the couch, open and ready to be devoured. I guess I didn't get to the devouring part. But I did figure out how to use my new microwave. Who needs manuals when you're bombed and starving?

Needless to say, today was a struggle. One of my young coworkers asked me if I was ok because "it looks like you were crying". Sorry, young whippersnapper, but that's the wrong diagnosis for my red eyes and no makeup. This babe just got hit with a powerful dose of the baberhood and that's nothing to cry about!