life – Page 10 – Britt Skrabanek

Stop Farting Around

Dishes and math. Yes, these are the two things I would gladly excommunicate from my life.

For someone who loves cleaning, the endless task of dishes was, and forever shall remain, an endless pain in the ass.

I know you can sympathize.

You scan the crusty plates and silverware in a loathing manner, sizing them up yet internally pleading: “Why, why are you back in my life again, you uninvited stinkers?”

You give yourself a pep talk, pumping yourself up for the mundane. You finally do the dirty and a little while later – Damn! There’s another foul-scented bastard vying for your attention.

And, math.

I’ve never been a fan of that vindictive subject where a solitary answer – and one answer only – is the right one. If you get super close or even if you make the common mistake, inviting a sense of camaraderie for your bruised psyche, you’re still WRONG.

But, math is useful.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that one before!

I’m kidding. I know it serves a purpose with its haughty digits and conceited logic. I just always preferred words to numbers. They’re so much lovelier.

My dad always used to say two infuriating things to me about procrastination.

1) “With all that energy you used up, you could’ve done it already.”

Let’s just say I had a flair for the dramatic when I was younger. I was a good kid, but I raised hell when I didn’t get my way. And, if you think a little girl bawling and rolling around on the floor in agony works on a single dad…you’re sadly mistaken.

The damn sham didn’t work.

So, then I came back with the classic argument: “But, I don’t wanna.”

And, that brings us to…

2) “Come on, it builds character.”

After saying this, my dad went about his usual business. Then I would scribble math problems so ferociously on that lined notebook paper, I would break the pencil. I would make a bunch of racket in the kitchen, sighing with gusto, but cringing when I almost broke a dish.

Eventually, the temper tantrum would subside. The task was completed, and all the turmoil was quickly forgotten, like a mediocre joke.

When we’re young, we are told to do things. But as we grow up, we’re pretty much on our own. Sure at work there are managers, superiors, and big shots waltzing the ever-seductive deadline dance.

Yet, there is one time when we govern ourselves…our free time.

We have full reign over this precious time. And, what do we do?

We smother it with other obligations while our dreams stew quietly on the back burner. Swift and graceful, time passes us by and we realize all the things we wanted to do haven’t been done at all.

Dad isn’t keeping me in check with his catchy reprimands. At home, the boss isn’t tapping her feisty heel with her manicured hands on her hips.

Procrastination…she’s a sneaky bitch!

I have heard something consistently over the years, and I suppose it is a compliment. “I don’t know how you do it all.”

My big, dark secret is that I don’t ever feel like I’m doing enough. But, the things I manage to squeeze into the day-to-day grind are the result of passion and determination. I guess Dad and his relentless words of wisdom got in a little.

As most of you know I have a full-time day job, I’m working on my Yoga teaching certification, I do this blog thing, and I write books. Oh yeah, I’m blissfully married too. No rugrats though, just a couple of incorrigible felines.

It would be so much simpler for me to give up my dreams, to tuck my aspirations of writing and teaching for a living far, far away.

It’s not that easy for me to sit down at my computer on week nights and weekends to accomplish my writing goals. It’s not math homework, and it sure as hell ain’t dishes, but I could be doing a lot of other things.

I could spend more time with my loving family, watch bad television for the hell of it, sleep a little more, and lose myself in all the books I want.

Maybe even try that foreign concept…relaxing.

Yep, I could just walk away. But, I wouldn’t be building any character, now would I?

So, how do we deal with that clever minx called procrastination?

We have to reason with a thing called time. We are privileged to be here, to live a life surrounded by possibilities.

We have the power to do anything we want. Anything.

Dad was right.

The energy we’re expelling on the wishing can be channeled into the doing.

In other words stop farting around, get your butt in gear, and go do something awesome.

The G-Rated Deal

I always wanted to watch the Planet Earth series, and Mr. H and I got it for Christmas last year on Blu Ray.

Let’s just say we have an arrangement when it comes to watching these types of things. I do other things and Mr. H gets my attention when something cute or pretty comes on.

I spent most of Disc 1 of Planet Earth hiding under a blanket. Why?

Well, you know everything was all hunky-dory.

Gorgeous Earth showed off her sexy self left and right – her flowery mane, her pointy peaks, her undulating sea hips, and her long tree legs.

The animals started off sprightly and entertaining.

Baby versions gave me a case of the ubiquitous female sigh – awwwww. I wanted to snuggle with them, even the ones that would surely bite my ass.

Then, comes that inevitable moment…you know which one. When the animals decide to turn into Hannibal Lecter’s.

And, that’s when I cower beneath my raggedy blanket, my protective shield, praying for an end to the graphic meal in HD (for our benefit).

Mr. H. shouts things like…

“Not yet. No, definitely not yet!”

Or my personal fave…

“Don’t come out of there. It’s NOT safe!”

I know it’s the cycle of life and all that. But, I just can’t.

If I had it my way, nature documentaries would only show the following:

Interesting weather phenomena
Bold and colorful flora and fauna
Baby animals before they get eaten
Vegetarian meals only

Alas, I know this is not often the case.

Lucky for me I can sometimes experience censored cuteness and prettiness because I have Mr. H and the G-Rated Deal.

How about you guys out there? Do you hide under blankets too or is just me?

Chicago: Beyond the Shamrock Shenanigans (And Dessert)

I don’t know why, but one thought came to me after my recent trip to Chicago…crème brûlée.

Perhaps because it’s complicated, rare, and amazing.

You can try it over and over again, but each time you crack its intricate surface, you’ve barely even started to devour the insane richness beneath.

I didn’t eat any creme brulee in Chicago last weekend for Mr. H’s birthday celebration. That’s because I ate the majority of his birthday cheesecake the night before we left, for breakfast the morning we left, and the moment we got home the next afternoon.

To say I have a love for dessert is an understatement. Without remorse, I devoured my spouse’s leftover birthday cake like it was mine…all mine!

In my defense, he totally had the first piece.

So, where was I? Creme brulee.

Mmm…creme brulee.

Sorry, where was I really?

Ah, yes. The windy city!

The other day I ranted about our St. Patty’s experience. Be sure to check out Chicago: In the Throes of Shamrock Shenanigans if you want to read what not to do for St. Patty’s.

Unless you’re the public lush enthusiast, then by all means…go!

Have no fear. I’m all done bitching about the clover clad half-wits. Moving right along!

So, once the drunkards stumbled back to their emerald caves, the city was manageable again.

This was my fourth visit to Chicago – a few were last minute “Whoo, whoo! Let’s go clubbing in Chicago tonight!” trips, and the other one was spent in Bucktown/Wicker Park visiting a super awesome friend of mine.

(Love Bucktown/Wicker Park by the way!)

But, this particular adventure was all about downtown.

Chicago is a big ass city, guys. Pick a neighborhood and get in there. Don’t bother seeing “it all” because you totally can’t.

GETTIN’ PLACES

Thinking of driving? Imagine this.

After countless hours in traffic jams at unimaginable times, followed by barreling down the wrong way of a one way street that came out of nowhere, you finally arrive at your destination. After your tenth lap around the block searching for a parking space, you think you finally see one.

But, guess what? It’s a mirage, and your ass is parked on the sidewalk and an opportunist is now selling souvenirs from your trunk.

For crying out loud, take some public transportation – the “L” is a guaranteed good time. I even sat across from a questionably alive man during my first ride. Give it a whirl!

And, a word of advice while walking around. Don’t use Starbucks or Walgreens as landmarks because they are on every freaking block, and let’s face it…they all look the same.

CRASHIN’ PLACES

We stayed at the W City Center and it was pretty perfect. An eight minute walk west gets you to Union Station. An eight minute walk east gets you to Michigan Avenue.

Centrally located, indeed.

Because it was Mr. H’s birthday I called ahead that morning and requested a sweet ass view.

I worked for a big name chain hotel for a couple of years right out of high school…in the trenches of guest services. When there’s a special occasion, don’t be shy.

Ask for a little extra, but ask nicely.

We ended up on the top floor with this rad view…

My only complaint with our hotel room was the vent in the bathroom, and it’s kind of a weird story.

Apparently, because we were on the top floor, we were very intimate with the roof top vent. As such, every time we turned on the bathroom light it sounded like a space ship was landing.

And even better, when you gazed up bravely from the toilet to check out what was going on, a strange black thing moved in a slow manner.

Between the spooky ruckus and the intimidating shadow, I whispered a desperate prayer for the aliens to leave me in peace each time I sat on the pot.

And, they did.

PLAYIN’ PLACES

Any die hard tourist would look at our weekend romp and say “Shame on you.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah we thought about going to some attractions – specifically the Museum of Science and Industry or the Art Institute.

But, we were only there for twenty-four hours. So, Mr. H and I did what we always do when we arrive somewhere…we strutted.

We tend to strut.

Even though I’m one of those super organized control freaks just about everywhere else in my life, when I travel I like to wing it. And Chicago is one of the best places to get lost.

Remember that creme brulee opener? Every spectacular building stood on display like one of those dessert trays in a fancy restaurant.

You know the kind, where you drool over every single delight and you can’t choose your favorite.

Like this one. How about this dark chocolate Burberry building with rainbow sprinkles and crisscrossed icing?

Or how about wandering into the old Marshall Field’s – now masquerading as a Macy’s – and hurting your neck staring at this ceiling treat that looks like wedding cake you want to swim in…

When you wander around Chicago, you can sample every tasty building with your eyes.

And, it tastes good…I take that back…damn good.

So, we gingerly cracked the surface of Milwaukee’s famous neighbor, the city of Chicago, our honking piece of creme brulee. But, what we tasted was perfectly charred and just the right amount of sweet.

We’ll be back again soon for more.

chicago jazz hands — I couldn’t resist some Jazz hands. Come on…it’s Chicago!

Chicago: In the Throes of Shamrock Shenanigans

New Year’s Eve at Times Square in New York City definitely comes to mind…and I never ever had a desire to be there.

Why, you ask? Because it looks like my worst nightmare.

I like to get loose every once in a while – just not with everybody, especially amateurs. This is something I’ve always known without previously experiencing such a hellish ordeal firsthand until…

Chicago. St. Patty’s weekend. Cringe.

Nobody drugged me, tied me up, and strapped me to a bright green party bus covered in leprechauns that said, “Honk if you’re after my lucky charms”.

I went there voluntarily, on my own accord. (Damnit.)

So, how did this happen? How in the hell did I end up in the second most popular U.S. city for St. Patty’s Day debauchery?

Saturday was Mr. H’s birthday. (Mr. H is the artist formerly known as hubby.)

We needed a getaway, and luckily for us Milwaukeeans, Chicago is a hop, skip, and a jump away. The logistics of St. Patty’s Day didn’t resonate with us as we were arriving the day before, and we wrongly assumed we would be safe.

We seriously thought Chicago would be romantic.

My book I’m currently working on, The Bra Game, takes place in 1950s Chicago. And what better way to do research than to immerse yourself in the chosen setting? I imagined myself pointing at a beautiful monstrosity of a building and jotting down the surrounding street names just so I could include the moment in a future scene.

I seriously thought Chicago would be inspirational.

Romantic? Inspirational? Oh, how naive I was.

Twenty-somethings ran amuck like it was their last day on earth and the only way to ease the pain was to drink everything in sight.

Thankfully, I didn’t see any of them leaning over the side and lapping up the frigid, green river…

In fact, I believe their day started very differently than ours.

First and foremost, we showered. We ate breakfast. We dressed in chic outfits, which were warm and practical.

They rolled out of bed with glee…no time for cleanliness. They guzzled their cheap beer breakfasts. They layered on their emerald adornments: antennas, tutus, glitter, hats, and foul t-shirts.

Most did not bother with coats, therefore frozen arses were out in full force. And it was bloody cold, you guys.

Cold.

These dense hooligans wandered into you like it was acceptable, stepped on your feet for sport, walked in front of cars to look cool, and picked fights in the middle of busy intersections even though they threw wimpy punches.

Now I’m actually a wee bit Irish, and I’m half Czech. I know how to pour a proper beer and I know how to keep my shit together.

I found out that my great-grandmother’s last name was McSperitt.

And, Britt McSperitt was one pissed off lassie.

The shouting and belching echoed through the city like someone just learning to play bagpipes, overshadowing the intermittent hum of the “L” and the rhythmic tooting of the buses with the most horrendous sounds.

When you’re worried about some clover clad half-wit spewing on your arm, the romance is gone…long gone. And, any daydreaming about my lovable novel was replaced by a basic need for survival…survival of the fittest.

But, something magical happened after we found refuge in a pizzeria for lunch and the parade fizzled out.

The windy city blew the lightweights away to their questionable hostels and their stained apartments, to either land spread eagle on the floor, profess their undying love to the toilet, or in many cases…both.

They looked like this at Union Station the next day…

And I, Britt McSperitt, lived to tell this spirited limerick of shamrock shenanigans in Chicago.

Stay tuned for the second part of my weekend trip…Chicago: Beyond the Shamrock Shenanigans.

When there’s no occasion

It was a Thursday in downtown, around 5:22pm. I was tiptoeing through the melting snow, immersed in some gorgeous tune courtesy of my teeny headphones – just another cog in the hustle and bustle machine.

Then, I stopped.

I saw this eyesore nestled against the gallant architecture, a neon sign that said “thank you”. Seagulls sprinkled the vastness above like tasteful glitter – annoying, but somehow lovely.

We give thanks in such a lackluster manner – exchanging money and goods, and sometimes sincere compliments.

When I saw this sign, I thought about how little I say it, and how little I mean it.

So, I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you…when there’s no occasion.

Today I’m not thanking you for buying one of my books, which are thousands of words that may or may not make sense. Today I’m not thanking you for liking one of my blog posts, which are hundreds of words that may or not make sense.

Today I’m thanking you because I am grateful that anyone would take the time to pause…to see a common bird in the endless sky, to see the everyday as something – anything at all.

Thank you for being there.