Patricia and Me: Still in the Honeymoon Stage

Today was the perfect day for me to brave the Chicago streets and take Patricia for a spin. 70 degrees and sunny on a Saturday, which means Logan Square is bustling with young hipsters, families, and me, awkwardly navigating my Schwinn Breeze and trying not to hit a car. Or a stroller. Or a pedestrian.

The 8-year-old version of myself would scoff at my bike riding skills. Jay and I used to cruise up and down the hills of Mill Road for hours in the summer, no helmets, neighbor dogs tearing after us, and I really don’t recall ever getting off my bike to find my leg muscles twitching. In my defense, Patricia’s front tire is a little flat. And I don’t exercise. Wait, I take that back: in the last two months, I think I did my Self “Bikini Ready Fast” workout twice. Each time, my entire body hurt for the rest of the week. That counts, right?

But anyway. Patricia and I had a nice little ride today. I think I’ll take her back out tomorrow, at least to air her up a bit. In the meantime, I need to figure out how to look less like a geek in my helmet. Any and all hipster credibility I get from Patricia’s sexiness is completely ruined by the terrified look I have on my face every time I hit an intersection. It's something like this:


(Yeah, I just took a picture of myself, wearing my bike helmet, while sitting at my kitchen table. You needed to see it to fully understand.)

My confidence was starting to grow mid-bike ride. Then I spotted an attractive guy coming my direction. Riding a red Schwinn. A RED SCHWINN! He smiled at me, I smiled back, and promptly lost control of Patricia and narrowly missed a parked car.

I avoided eye contact with my fellow cyclists after that incident.

I’m considering riding Patricia to work tomorrow morning. It’ll be a big step in our relationship. Just have to work up the courage first…

Countdown to Schwinn Breeze: 11 days!

Yes, it's true: In 11 days, I will be the proud owner of a green, 3-speed Schwinn Breeze. With sparkly green handlebars. My pops will be delivering this belated birthday present when he comes to Chicago to visit. As if I'm not already fucking pumped to see Papa Hamm—we're going to the Chicago Botanic Gardens!—this visit, he unknowingly is giving his daughter her ticket to Hipsterville. Oh, hell yes.

My new baby looks something like this:

It's so beautiful, it hurts.

My birthday party at Grandma and Grandpa Eckhardt's house this year really was a memorable one. Not only did I have tears in my eyes from stifling laughter throughout our 3 p.m. dinner, thanks to the grandparents' tales from their annual trip to Florida (I'm not sure if they knew it was funny), Grandma E was just so damn chatty that she started cutting my birthday cake before the birthday song. Of course, the three candles were there—"Past, Present, and Future!" (uhh, maybe you have to know my grandma to find that funny)—but a third of the cake was missing as I made my birthday wish. Priceless.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, Grandma asks if any of us want a bicycle. I follow my grandpa out to the garage with low expectations. I am presented with the hippest bike the streets of Chicago have ever seen.

I fully expect something of this nature to happen within 48 hours of possessing my Schwinn:



I also hope to be engaging in these types of dialogues:





Life is going to be sweet.

More Adventures on the Blue Line

No one ever fully prepared me for the weird things that would happen to me once I became a dedicated public transit user. I really don’t remember anything strange ever happening on the tube in London. Just a lot of Brits reading books. The only minor nuisance was getting stuck on a bus with noisy school groups—but when it’s mini-Brits in uniforms squealing in a British accent, “But I wanted MacDonalds!”—somehow, it’s much less irritating than being stuck on a bus with a group of loud American children.

But here in Chicago, every day it’s something (though sadly, not all as memorable as Monday morning’s commute).

Tuesday afternoon a man clucked at me—yes, CLUCKED—as I walked past him on the stairs. A few minutes later, as I was trying to hide behind my Bitch magazine and ignore the inevitable claustrophobia that sets in during rush hour, I glanced over the top of the magazine to find two nuns staring at me in horror. I grinned at them and continued reading. Hee hee hee.

But this morning I had a special hipster delight on my morning commute. If only I had had the audacity to pull out my camera and capture these two young men’s ensembles. If only. But I did have the pleasure of overhearing this:

Faded Jean Jacket-wearing Hipster: "I mostly just love that album cause it's like, ‘we're recording this on a 4-track in our basement’ and the quality is just, so raw and real."

Super Geek Hipster, nodding: “I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.”

Alison, nudging the middle-aged woman next to her: “Look at this fucking hipster.”

Middle-aged woman: “I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.”

So maybe that last part of the conversation didn’t happen. But it should have. Instead, I almost missed my stop, had to duck under Super Geek Hipster’s arm to get out, and then almost fell over due to the powerful wave of BO.

So you’re the one stinking up my favorite record store! I knew it!

Effing hipsters.

"Look at this fucking hipster"

I don't know how my brother stumbled across this, but I am so happy he did. So, my other two readers, "Look at this fucking hipster." (My personal favorite so far is from April 2.)

HA!

I love you, Reckless Records, but what’s up with the BO?

One of my favorite Chicago discoveries is Reckless Records—largely because of its proximity to Myopic Books, my heaven on earth, but also because of the fantastic fact that you can purchase half a dozen or more used CDs of good quality there and not spend more than 40 bucks. Thank God for Reckless Records: I can now again shake my bon bon to the Soul Coughing album I lost in high school, turn into my mother by cleaning the house while jamming out to the Eurythmics, and most importantly, complete my Van Morrison collection, all at approximately $4.99 a pop.

But…what in the eff is up with the overpowering smell of BO that penetrates the store? My boyfriend and I, prior to entering the store, look at each other, take a deep breath, then see how long we can dig through CDs without breathing. The smell. Is. Awful. I get that to be a real hipster who belongs in such a hip, hip store, for some reason you are supposed to look like you’ve just rolled out of bed and put on clothes from a different era, including super tight low rider pants that will inevitably give you ass cleavage, but why, why, why can’t you put on some deodorant first?

Then again, maybe I shouldn’t blame the cool patrons of Reckless, and just blame the store itself. I swear the stench is coming out of the walls. I just hope it didn’t penetrate to all of my awesome new music.

And one last beef: Umm, where are your female employees? Are they hiding in the back where it doesn’t smell so bad?

Annie and Aretha would not approve. And yes, this little gem is on my “new” Eurythmics album.