the chicago dispLAcement ®

I’m a little slow when it comes to television hype. I got into Sex and the City only after watching the series finale. I finally understood why everyone loved Family Guy when watching an episode eight years after it premiered. (I have yet to jump on board The Simpsons train.) And it was only three months ago that I finally saw American Idol.

I never needed to watch American Idol to know who was getting the boot. With each new season, a huge billboard goes up on Pico Boulevard – and I’m assuming other major streets around LA – that displays the headshots of the top ten contestants. And every week, one unfortunate soul gets a huge, humiliating, red ‘X’ plastered over his or her face. So it never occurred to me to tune in until one evening when my boyfriend and I couldn’t find anything good on TV. That’s when we caught one of the audition episodes.

Though critiquing the contestants – especially the crazies – was entertainment enough, my bf and I were fascinated by what the judges had to say… and whether or not we concurred with their opinions. To our collective horror, we seemed to be locked in agreement with virtually every assessment that Nicki Minaj gave to each singer. Also, I discovered an inverse relationship between Minaj’s outfits and her performance reviews: the crazier she looked, the saner her advice was. My boyfriend and I gasped several times at her innate wisdom. She’s like a bleached blonde Buddha.

Carey on the other hand… It’s a good thing that she can sing because that girl cannot give a decent critique to save her life. Most of the time, she simply blurts out a series of “dah-lings” and “you’re so you” and “I love what you’re wearing.” But I can’t really fault her. Though the Mariah of today is a far cry from the chick that came on the scene with “Vision of Love,” she’s still got the goods. Because she’s such a phenomenal singer, though, I don’t think she understands how to talk to someone so obviously below her. It’s like asking Meryl Streep to explain the finer points of acting to Megan Fox.

From what I hear, I missed the heyday of American Idol judging. Apparently watching Simon Cowell eviscerate contestants was entertainment at its finest. Meh…. I tuned into The X Factor once to see what the hubbub was about, but the only thing offensive about Cowell was his ridiculously tight T-shirt.

However, my boyfriend was taking great offense to a certain wannabe Idol: Lazaro Arbos. Now when we first met this shy, unassuming contestant, we were as enamored of him as the rest of America. Lazaro has a stutter, yet he still found the courage and perseverance to audition. You go, Lazaro! So when my bf and I found out that he had made it to the top ten, we were thrilled. But by the next show, we were looking guiltily at one another, both of us thinking the same thing… Lazaro had to go. For the record, Lazaro’s stutter isn’t an issue when he sings, so don’t get all in a tizzy that we’re discriminatory a-holes. Plain and simple, he wasn’t as strong a singer as the rest of the crew. In fact, he was easily at the back of the pack, vocally speaking. But week after week, just like his namesake, Lazaro would keep rising from the dead and live on for another show. And my boyfriend would get increasingly more indignant with each non-Lazaro elimination. Mind you, this is a man who graciously smiles each time that my beloved Blackhawks steamroll his broken down Red Wings, which incidentally happened during each of their meet-ups this season, but I digress… He simply could not accept the fact that America was pity-voting Lazaro to the top.

Though mildly surprised, I accepted it. Dancing with the Stars has already taught me that the American public doesn’t know its cha cha from its samba when it comes to judging good dancers. How else do you explain Kristie Alley, Rob Kardashian, and Bristol Palin all making it to the finals? I figure that American Idol voters know just as little about singing talent. (Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood are statistical aberrations.)

But finally justice was served. Last week, Lazaro got his walking papers, my bf was appeased, and sanity was restored to the American Idol world. If I’m honest, though, watching last night’s episode without Lazaro was a tad boring. Here’s hoping that Mariah and Nicki finally give America what it wants: a stiletto throwing, hair extension pulling, fake fingernail breaking catfight.

Image courtesy of MR LIGHTMAN / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Certain things make me nervous. Like seeing eighty-year-olds behind the wheel. Or watching the Blackhawks when Corey Crawford’s in the net. Running out of coffee creamer is enough to spike my blood pressure, but by far the worst is making a call to customer service.

For one, they have the power. As much as we would like to think that threatening to cancel our service would make them tremble with fear and guilt… They don’t care. I know this to be true because I’ve worked in customer service, or rather I’ve worked in places with customers. Most stores emphasize that you should consider the customer king, but at the end of the day, we all know the deal. No one person is going to single-handedly take down Target or Bed Bath & Beyond.

I once worked in a clothing boutique, and for the record, twenty-something women are the worst customers ever. Every week, I would get some chick trying to return a dress that not only looked worn, but also reeked of smoke and alcohol. Apparently you don’t go clubbing in the same outfit twice. So I would refuse the return. And she would pout. And I would just stare at her with a smile. And eventually she would angrily stuff that disgusting dress back into her bag and stomp out of the store. Why? Because I had the power.

Secondly, I hate when customer service representatives bombard you with countless “offers.” It’s like walking into Trader Joe’s for a loaf of bread and being pummeled with apples, eggs and jars of salsa as you’re trying to check out. Doesn’t feel good. The pseudo enthusiasm in a customer service rep’s voice as he informs me with rapid-fire speech about the great price I can get for bundling my bills is both commendable and slightly confusing. Is basic cable really that exciting? Then I burst his bubble and tell him no anyway.

So… I had to call customer service the other day. My internet bill had increased by 20% in the last two months, and I wanted to passive-aggressively express my disapproval. The first guy I got on the line was your classic CC rep. Way too excited about his job and way too eager to sell me services that I didn’t want. After a series of polite yet firm refusals, I finally got him to explain what was going on with my bill. To my surprise, he then told me that I could decrease my bill by getting rid of an unnecessary feature. Before I knew it, he was transferring me to another department to make the change and thanking me for my business.

However, my conversation with the new rep started off a little rocky. She went through the same spiel as the first guy and again I responded with “no,” “no” and “no.” Was this some kind of bait and switch situation? I knew it was too good to be true. Yet before I could hang up, she asked that I hold while she consulted her supervisor… A few minutes later, she got back on the line and informed me that they could reduce my bill to less than half of its current price!

Needless to say, I was highly suspicious. I hadn’t threatened to cancel my service once, so why was she being so nice to me? That’s when she asked what I did for a living, and we got to talking. I found out that she lived in Orange County. I mentioned that I had attended grad school there. Then we started chatting about how bizarre the entertainment industry can be. She told me about a trip she took with her daughter to see all the fancy shops on Rodeo Drive, but unfortunately it was cold and rainy that weekend… That’s when it dawned on me that this woman wasn’t just a customer service rep. She was a real person. This was merely her job, and as it is for many of us, it didn’t define who she was.

We ended up having a perfectly lovely conversation. Also, I’ll now be saving over $300 a year on my internet service. Thanks, AT&T!

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If living in an urban area with a larger than usual population of crazies, you quickly learn how to be antisocial. Avoiding eye contact is a given, and pretending you can’t hear someone talking to you becomes routine even if that means ignoring the barista who only wanted to know if you’d like whip on your Frappuccino.

Yet being friendly is sometimes encouraged. For instance, at sporting events. In fact I’d dare say it’s impossible to attend a game and not get chummy with your neighbors. For one, those seats are super close to each other, and given the – ahem – heftier builds of some fans, you’re oftentimes making more physical contact with the guy sitting next to you than the players are on the field. Second, the bathroom breaks. If you force your entire row to stand up and let you wiggle past them more than once, you kind of have to be nice to them. Otherwise an “accidental” foot in your way or beer on your back should come as no surprise upon your fourth trip to the ladies’ room.

But because these people are here to cheer on the same team I love, it’s not that hard to bond. Case in point? Last week at the Blackhawks game. I immediately knew that the chick sitting next to me was cool when upon hearing my high-pitched scream she said, “Oh good, you’re loud, too. Most people hate sitting next to me because I make so much noise.”

Three hours later, Trish and I had become bona fide besties. We had discussed at length our childhoods, livelihoods, love lives and the fact that you should be very, very careful when comparing any female to a celebrity. During one of the timeouts, they were going around the stadium and matching fans to different Seinfeld actors. As it turns out, most women are horrified when compared to Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Personally I think she’s pretty, but I get it. Whenever somebody says, “You know who you look like?” I usually don’t want the answer. (BTW, guys apparently love being compared to Kramer. Not a compliment, fellas.)

Trish and I gossiped together, laughed together and screamed together. We also cried together when the Hawks lost during the overtime shootout. Suddenly the game was over; all the fans rose from their seats. I turned toward my new BFF who was chatting with her husband. I then turned back to my father who was making a beeline for the exit. I didn’t know what to do. I just met this really awesome person and now I was expected to walk away like the last three periods had never happened? Surely she wanted to become Facebook friends.

I gingerly tapped Trish on the shoulder. She spun around with a big smile. I knew it. She felt it, too.

Me: “It was so nice to meet you!”

Her: “You, too!”

Me: “Good luck with everything!”

Her: “You, too!”

Me: “So mayb-”

That’s when her husband nudged her from behind. She put up a finger for me to hold on and then turned her back to me once again. I waited… and waited some more. Then much to my surprise and disappointment Trish and her husband began to exit the row without even saying goodbye.

Whatever… She lives in Chicago and I’m in LA. It never would have worked out anyway.

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Last month I spent some time traveling through the Midwest. It was great. Every morning, I would wake to a pressing itinerary of seeing loved ones and enjoying the day at whatever yummy restaurant or café chosen for our catch up session. Though I passed through many exotic locales such as Grand Rapids, Michigan and Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I spent half my time in Chicago and would crash nightly at the home of my good friend, S. I’ve known S for about ten years now, and she’s one of those fantastic friends who graciously gives up her own bed for visiting guests and doesn’t get mad when they come home at midnight and want to chat even though she has to get up for work in six hours. Also, she lives in high-rise with a killer view of the city.

So one evening I was having dinner with another friend, D, at Hub 51. Great food. Even better mojitos. And creepy monitors in the ladies’ room that watch everyone in the restaurant. Yet after a delicious slice of icebox pie, I forgot about all that. I also forgot how late it was getting. I knew that S hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep the last couple of nights (I might be partly to blame for that); also, she was battling a cold. But I was having so much fun! Not wanting to be a total jerk, though, I texted that I would be home within the half-hour. No response.

I didn’t think much of it. Once I finally arrived at her place, or five blocks away – how I miss Chicago parking! – I called to give her a heads up. Because S lives in a high-rise, you can’t just walk in. It’s one of those fancy schmancy places where you get buzzed in. There’s even a very intimidating front desk dude who’s ready to pounce should you try to slip by with another resident. I rang S seven times. No answer.

Déjà vu.

About four years ago, the very same thing happened. I was again staying with S (that’s why I can’t be mad; she hosts me every time I come into town) and on one particular night, I found out the hard way that she is a crazy deep sleeper. That time, I managed to get into her building (different place) with some unsuspecting (or not caring if I was a serial killer) resident, but still couldn’t get inside her apartment. She had a studio, and though I could hear her phone ringing through the door each time I called – I could even hear her shifting in her sleep! – that girl would not wake up. I fear for her future children should there be a house fire or alien abduction. She was out cold. Given that I had come back to her place after midnight and perhaps deserved this taste of hell, I couldn’t pound on her door without waking the neighbors and causing a commotion. Thankfully, she finally woke up around 2am and found me in the fetal position in the hallway.

Fast-forward to last month. When S didn’t pick up on the fourth call, I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. At this point, it was once again the midnight hour, and I had a decision to make. Should I appeal to the better nature of the front desk dude to let me in, and even if he did take pity on me, then what? Once more pathetically wait in her hallway until she woke up? Plus, I had to use the bathroom again.

It’s an odd feeling to feel homeless in your own hometown. I went through my options… Should I call my family? The last thing I wanted to do was drive my ass out to the suburbs. Moreover, they were just as bad as S if not worse. My sister screens her calls in the middle of the day; no way was she going to pick up at midnight. And my parents still occasionally employ the tried and true tactic of unplugging the phone when they don’t care to be bothered. Given that they’re retired and really the only people calling are their daughters, I’m a tad offended but anyway… Even if I crashed with one of them, I would have to battle Ike traffic the next morning to ensure entry to S’s apartment before she left for work. No thank you.

So it came down to my friends in the city. Truth is, I could have called any of a dozen people and would have received an immediate “Sure, come on over!” Though exhausted by a day of fun and annoyed by this unexpected exile, I smiled. I haven’t been a resident of Chicago for more than six years, but realized that I would always have a home here. Not because of that brownstone I’ll one day have within walking distance of Wrigley (fingers crossed!), but because of the people I love.

It was late, though. All my friends are day job people whom I assumed were already sleeping. Except D. Given that I had left her merely twenty minutes ago, I figured she might still be awake. Plus, D’s another amazing friend who thinks only of others no matter the inconvenience to her. She’s like Jack in Titanic and would happily give up that life-saving piece of wood to some ungrateful rich chick only to freeze in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That’s just the kind of person she is. She’s also really good about answering her phone: “Sure, come on over!” When I arrived fifteen minutes later, already laid out on the couch were blankets, pillows and pajamas, including a Blackhawks tank top. It’s true; home is where the heart is.

Epilogue: At 2:30am, my phone rang. A frantic and still groggy S was calling: “Where are you? I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! Where are you? Are you on the street? Are you in your car? I’m so sorry!” I wasn’t mad, but allowed her to apologize a few dozen more times before going back to bed.

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As a kid, I never really appreciated how awesome it is to catch a game – baseball, basketball or otherwise – in your own town. To experience the splendor and storied history of Wrigley or Soldier Field. To be surrounded by thousands of other fans screaming for the Blackhawks or Bulls. To have your father pay for everything.

Though I’ve long since accepted the smog and gridlock that come with living in LA, I have yet to embrace the Lakers, Dodgers, Kings or that red-headed stepchild called the Clippers. Never gonna happen either. How can I support a city that doesn’t even have its own NFL team? Puh-leeze. I’d sooner become a Cheesehead. But sometimes it does kind of blow to cheer for the away team.

I never considered just how odd it would feel to be odd man out until I attended a Blackhawks-Kings game a few years back. To go from the United Center where usually one walks out with a disconcerting ringing sensation in the ears and sandpaper throat to the Staples Center… It was weird. Be vewy, vewy quiet. That’s all I kept thinking; no one was making a peep. Even when the Kings scored, there was barely a ruckus, and I live for the ruckus. Sometimes back in the day I even had other Blackhawks fans shoot me none-too-friendly sideways glances in our very own stadium. (I have been blessed with the ability to scream quite high and loud for all the wannabe kidnappers and rapists reading this. I also have a sweet left hook so don’t get any ideas.) You can imagine my conundrum. Throughout the stands sat many other Chicago fans, but it just wasn’t the same. From the moment I could actually hear the national anthem being sung, I was bummed. It all went downhill from there. No cheering. No Tommy Hawk. No fun.

Fast-forward to this week. The Cubs were in town for a three-game series against the Dodgers, and I was going to one of them with about eighty other Columbia College alums. Dodger Stadium wasn’t new to me; I’d been to the venue for a few baseball outings already. Definitely better experiences than my bizarro world Staples Center debacle, but a lot had changed since my last time there. In particular, the police presence. Like most everyone else I know, I was deeply saddened and shocked to hear about the Giants fan beaten by those whom I refuse to call baseball fans or even human beings. More like animals. Definitely cowards. Anyway… I’ll admit that I was a wee bit nervous. Eighty plus Cubs fans all together in one section? Were we putting ourselves in a Wild Kingdom situation here? You know, where the sweet, unsuspecting, perhaps slightly dim gazelles are trying to quench their thirst from a peaceful little pond when all of a sudden they’re viciously attacked by a pride of lions? Sure, we’ve bravely weathered a hundred years of verbal abuse from pretty much everyone else on the planet, but I’ll gladly be on the receiving end of a few “Cubs suck!” as opposed to having actual broken bones.

However, I shouldn’t have been so worried. For one, there truly is strength in numbers, and maybe that’s what I needed all along. I just have to make sure that whatever game I go to in Los Angeles, there are at least a couple dozen other Chicago fans with me. Because it really is all about your friends. That’s what makes going to a game so much fun. The camaraderie. The laughter. The way you can make a fool of yourself and it’s not even slightly embarrassing because everyone else is acting like a fool right along with you. Plus it didn’t hurt that we had the most perfect night weather-wise and all-you-can-eat nachos!

For the most part, the Dodger fans were gracious as well. Maybe because they risked arrest if they weren’t, but so be it. I once heard a story about a White Sox fan getting a Budweiser bottle to the forehead at a known Cubs bar, so we’re not perfect either. (Though perhaps not the smartest move on his part to patronize an establishment called The Cubby Bear.) We did hear a few “boos,” some of which were directed at a father and his young son, but there are classless idiots no matter where you go. However, they do seem to love the sporting arenas. Hmm… But best of all, the Cubs won! So as the Dodger fans began to file out before the game was over – can you really be considered a fan then? – we Cubbies cheered and held high a huge ‘W’ flag. Yes, someone actually brought a Cubs Win Flag. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

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Living in LA, you tend to see celebrities every once in a while. However, as I have never dined at The Ivy or snorted blow at Trousdale, I don’t come across these freaks of nature in the usual places. Most often I’m grabbing a coffee or debating what kind of potatoes to buy when I catch a glimpse of Kate Bosworth ordering around her assistant in the produce aisle (true story). I’m usually caught off guard and therefore do a hard double take to make sure that person is who I really think she is. Yet upon confirming her identity, I immediately turn back my attention to the potatoes because I don’t want to be that person. You know, the one who runs up to Kate and babbles on about how I loved her in Blue Crush (again, true story). Once you do that, you’re not really a person anymore. You’re just a fan. You’re the freak of nature.

Even when spotting someone whom I truly admire, I try to remain a cool customer. No big deal if my celebrity crush is sitting next to me in a restaurant. No matter if it’s my birthday and I’m feeling somewhat entitled to disturb his romantic evening with a very attractive hussy. I won’t say anything, even when both his dinner date and mine excuse themselves, leaving just the two of us in the room. I will not make a peep, only stare creepily as he plays with his iPhone.

But we all have a weakness. We all have that one actor/athlete/American Idol who makes us smile and instantly gush, “I love them!” And we really do. We love their sense of humor or how they broke the record for most combined return touchdowns. We love their unique voice or how magnificent they were in The King’s Speech.

Me? I love Tina Fey, and I’m not alone. Millions of people love her. It’s obvious why. The lady is funny. The lady is smart. The lady is super sexy because of the previously stated qualities. And lucky me, I got to see her in person the other night.

I found out through the Twitterverse that Fey was promoting her new book by having a Q&A with another well-respected entertainer, Steve Martin. Now I’m not one to make rash purchases – I will circle Target a full two times while thinking long and hard if I really need those $3.99 pair of boot socks – but that’s exactly what I did when I read that fateful tweet. I needed to be in the presence of my celebrity girl crush.

Fast-forward to that evening. One of my dear friends and I were seeing Fey together. I knew it was going to be a special night because (1) the Blackhawks had finally won a game against Vancouver, thus avoiding a shameful first round sweep and (2) that dear friend surprised me with a copy of Bossypants for the book signing after the main event. I was gonna get face time with Tina Fey!

Not surprisingly, the Q&A was awesome. Fey and Martin were hilarious, though they could have read from the dictionary the entire time and I still would have laughed my head off. The only real downer was that it lasted just an hour. Had I not a book in my hands to guarantee some Fey action later on, I would have left a wee bit disappointed.

Yet as the crowd filtered out of the auditorium, it became clear that many, many people shared my celebrity girl crush. I started to get a little nervous. Was she really going to sign all of our books? Um, no. After many minutes of standing in a massively bloated line snaking toward her table, we began to hear rule upon rule barked at us from some buzzkill ushers.

“If you don’t have a book, you can’t wait in line to see Tina Fey!”

“There will be no personalization for your book. Tina Fey will be signing only her name!”

“Tina Fey has a plane to catch! Tina Fey will be signing books for only one hour!”

“If you preordered your book, it is already signed! If it is already signed, Tina Fey will not be signing your book again!”

Wow. What a bunch of party poopers. But then suddenly there she was… We made eye contact. She smiled. I smiled back. She signed my book. I said thank you. She said thank you back. I walked away. It was magical.

I’ll heart you forever, Tina Fey.

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June 14, 1992. Game six of the NBA Finals between the Chicago Bulls and Portland Trail Blazers. It’s the end of the third quarter. Bulls are down by fifteen points. I am in the bathroom… praying.

That’s not a euphemism. I did it a lot as a kid, this praying to God in the bathroom. Every time one of my teams began to falter, I would calmly excuse myself from the living room and go have a chat with The Man Upstairs. Why I didn’t use my bedroom, which was just next door, I don’t know. I suppose I thought the intimacy of the bathroom was a better spot to beg. In exchange for a victory, I would promise God the world, which is a tad ironic when you think about it. I also put Him on the spot quite a bit. Many a time I uttered the phrase, “If you really love me…” Yet our conversations were mostly one-sided, and not so much a conversation at all as a desperate plea for my team to win.

My dad couldn’t watch the game either. At about the same time that I rendered the bathroom occupied, he decided to take a walk around the block. That’s where he did most of his praying. My family didn’t mess around. We immediately invoked help from the Da Big Guy because above all else, this series could not go to a game seven. My father and I needn’t have worried, though. Our beloved Bulls came back from that deficit to win the game – and a repeat championship title – with a final score of 97-93.

To date, I’ve never had to deal with a game seven. How exactly do fans survive one? I fear them more than earthquakes. At least earthquakes you can prepare for. I have a stockpile of bottled water and candles should ever The Big One hit, but I just don’t know what I would do if a game seven happened. A crushed apartment I can handle; a crushed heart I cannot.

I’m not a hugely superstitious sports fan. Every time one of my teams makes it to the postseason, though, I do find it necessary to perform a ritual or two to help out in any way I can. There’s the praying in the bathroom. I think that one makes a lot of sense. Yet sometimes I’ll take a break from watching the game for an altogether different reason. Though I love my teams, occasionally I feel like I might be bad luck for them. Somewhere deep down inside, I know that I’m affecting their performance so I’ll shut off the television. Crazy, right? How can a devoted fan be anything other than good luck? But guess what? Half of the time, my team rebounds after I stop watching and they end up winning the game. So there. It works.

As mentioned, though, the worst is when the game is close. I may get a lot of flack for this, but it’s kind of a load off when you know your team is going to lose. Case in point? Super Bowl XLI. It started promisingly enough with Hester’s kickoff return touchdown, but pretty much went downhill from there. Of course I didn’t want the Bears to lose, but if it wasn’t meant to be that day, then I was thankful to have had those three hours to come to terms with my grief. Had they lost from a last-minute field goal or touchdown, I would have had a heart attack.

I’m just getting too old for the stress that comes with watching a close game… June 9, 2010. Game six of the Stanley Cup Finals between the Chicago Blackhawks and Philadelphia Flyers. Overtime. I didn’t even have the energy to walk to the bathroom. Instead, I was curled up in the fetal position on the couch, pillow over my head. A few moments had passed with me not knowing what the hell was going on, so I snuck a peek just as Kane made that fateful goal… The goal no one realized he scored. I remember sitting there utterly confused while the sportscasters and referees and players themselves looked around, wondering why Kane and Co. were stripping off their gear and celebrating. Huh? They won? Really? Oh… They won!

Now my Bears are just one game away from playing in Super Bowl XLV. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. My sleep has been only so-so. I know one thing, though. Come Sunday morning, I will most certainly be having a little heart-to-heart with a certain JC – and I don’t mean Jay Cutler – to give my guys the edge against Green Bay. But seriously, how can God possibly back a team whose fans call themselves Cheeseheads? (Shakes head.)

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For most of my adult life, I’ve been surrounded by men. As a college undergrad in a film production program, my campus was overrun by hundreds of movie geeks. I say this with love. Think slightly emaciated and/or slightly stout dudes in their favorite movie quote T-shirt milling around, arguing Coppola versus Hitchcock versus Kurosawa versus Kubrick… They were sweet guys.

While getting my MA, I worked at a traffic-engineering firm where I was the only female in the entire joint. It’s an odd feeling when a guy makes some stupid sexist comment, sees the irritated look on your face, and then says, “Sorry, I forgot you’re a girl.” Thank you? Once grad school was over, I then got a job at a motion graphics company where the guy to girl ratio was about 3:1. The sexist comments continued, but by then I rarely could muster the energy to care.

Why does any of this matter? Because since I was a little girl, I’ve been a sports fan. Why shouldn’t I be? I grew up in one of the best sports towns in the world. Da Bears. Bulls. Blackhawks. Cubs. (The White Sox do not exist for me.) “Bear down, Chicago Bears, make every play clear the way to victory! Bear down, Chicago Bears, put up a fight with a might so fearlessly!” I also know the words to the “Super Bowl Shuffle.” (At least the Walter Payton part – that song has ten verses!) I still remember my grade school teacher bringing a TV into our classroom one afternoon so us kids could dance along to the video after they won the championship. Ah, the good ‘ole days.

I was there for the golden era of the Chicago Bulls. I truly consider myself a fortunate soul to have seen Michael Jordan play in person. I remember that breakthrough playoff season when we finally – finally – beat the Pistons and went on to win our first championship in 1991. Then the first Three-Peat. The second coming of Jordan. A second Three-Peat. I remember the rallies. Standing for hours under the sun’s intense glare, waiting for our boys to show while getting crushed by the overweight throng of fellow Chicagoans wanting to see Jordan and Co. It was awesome.

Then there are my Cubs… I guess now they’re promoting the slogan, “It’s a Way of Life,” for the 2010 season. I dunno – I think it’s a bad sign when a team’s marketing campaign alludes that to be a Cubs fan is to resign yourself to continual disappointment and heartache. The slogan might as well be, “We’ll always be losers.”

But sweet redemption! My Blackhawks have just become the Stanley Cup champions! There’s always a silver lining. How many peeps can say they’ve witnessed seventy-five percent of their teams taking it all home during their lifetime? Not too shabby.

Look, I don’t know all the statistics. I don’t know all the history. That said, my father has taught me well. We have nary a conversation where he doesn’t throw at me some Chicago sports fact. (FYI – We have two requisite topics for every phone call: the weather and sports.) Yet every time I’m within earshot of any other dude and I mention one of my teams, it’s usually followed by “You’re a hockey fan?” or “You’re a baseball fan?” or “You’re a football fan?” Okay, guys, enough.

Honestly, it’s fine if some dude is surprised that I care about the Stanley Cup Finals. Whatever. What really grinds my gears is when they feel the need to school me with whatever obscure tidbit of trivia that happens to pop into their head at that very moment. Do I know what the initials GSH stand for on the Chicago Bears jerseys? As a matter of fact… RIP, Papa Bear Halas. Was I aware that Toews tied Denis Savard’s franchise record of twenty-nine points during a postseason run? Good to know, thank you.

Why do guys do this with chicks? Because here’s the thing – I’m a keen study. I see the way guys are when watching sports and they don’t do this with each other. They don’t throw out random facts at their fellow brethren as if watching a baseball game was automatic grounds for an impromptu sports history lesson.

Okay, it’s kind of cute. Mildly endearing. I usually just smile, nod and let them have their moment of whatever it is they think they’re getting out of it. Pride. Manliness. Comfort in the hope that they know more about sports than some lame girl. I get it.

Though if the tables were turned, I highly doubt I would feel the need to explain the Big-Carrie-Aidan dynamic to some guy who mentioned that he’s a Sex and the City fan. (And fella, if you ever admit to being a SATC fan – and you’re straight – then I applaud you. You have HUGE balls.) But I digress. If he’s a fan, then I will assume that he probably already knows the B-C-A storyline. I don’t have to one-up him with my SATC wealth of knowledge.

Guys… News flash! Girls. Like. Sports. “And that’s… okay.” They also sometimes love SNL skits from the early nineties. Stuart Smalley, anyone? No? Okay. I guess that’s a blog post for another day.

Photo courtesy of Bob Kimball

My blog has been up a whole two weeks and for every entry made, I have received probably three times as many suggestions as to what to write next. Don’t get me wrong – I freakin’ love that people are reading my posts. You guys rock. However, no one has been as vocal with his “helpfulness” as my very own father. I believe his idea was to write about how I’ve become his California-living, vegetarian-eating, liberal daughter who – and I quote – “reads The Nation.” Gasp. Wow. A scintillating topic indeed, Dad. Nevertheless, you have inspired my next post… Just not the way you think.

This one’s for you.

Folks, I have the most amazing father in the world. Period. When I was little, I would always tag along with him to the grocery store. (For you locals, we shopped at “Jewels.” Great deals – you could get “tree” liters of “pop” for a dollar.) Every single chance I got, as soon as those sliding doors opened, I would make a beeline for the toy section. My Barbie absolutely needed another outfit. After picking out the perfect one, I would then meet up with my dad and plead my case. Who knows if he was just a big softie or I was just the bigger brat, but he would inevitably acquiesce every time. And yet continue to take me to the store with him. Sucker.

Not much changed over the years. When I didn’t get asked to the senior prom, it was my father who let me ditch school the Friday before to go on a shopping spree. To be honest, I wasn’t all that broken up over the turn of events, just smart enough to play the card I was dealt. Cha-ching! Poor guy. He just knew that he couldn’t say no to any request I made that day. To make up for my sorrow, I pretty much had a whole new wardrobe by the end of that weekend… Not sure if I am actually explaining why my dad is so awesome, or just how I am a monster of a daughter.

I can’t argue that I’m not “daddy’s little girl.” Yet my father never treated me like I was “just a girl.” I mowed the lawn. Raked the leaves. Helped repaint the house. If he ever got Bulls or Blackhawks tickets, you’d better believe I was in the stands cheering alongside him. But even better, my father was always my biggest cheerleader, pushing me to do well in school and not be ashamed of who I was – i.e. H-U-G-E nerd. His unconditional love and encouragement has never wavered, and for that I will always be grateful.

What else can I say? My dad is the kind of guy who allowed his five-year old daughter to give him haircuts. The kind of guy who gave his fifteen-year old daughter driving lessons at the cemetery because as he would put it: “Who are you gonna kill? Everyone’s already dead.” He’s the guy who would cut out of work early just so we could battle each other watching Jeopardy! Did I mention I was a huge nerd?

Thank you, Dad. Thank you for always being there for me. For always supporting me through either the smallest of victories or the biggest of failures. And most importantly, thank you for your generous cash contributions at both Christmas and my birthday. You’ll be happy to know they’re donated directly to PETA, the Earth Liberation Front and Americans for Democratic Action.

Image: luigi diamanti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net