This morning Bernadette and I took the dogs for a walk and along the way headed for our local Starbucks. After receiving my Blogger hoodie in the mail the other day I figured, a brisk morning walk would be the perfect time to showcase my new winter fashion. While walking Bernadette pointed across the street and said, "Look, there's another guy wearing a Blogger hoodie." We both had a good laugh and I proclaimed, "See! We're taking over." After the laughing died down I realized that he was also wearing khakis and a baseball cap, and so was I. I then came the startling notion of, "What if he just committed a crime, and they put out an APB for a guy wearing khakis, a Blogger hoodie and a hat." "That would be funny," Bernadette said. "No it wouldn't! I'd get picked up in a second! 'No, no! It wasn't me!' I'd yell. 'Give it up sir,' they'd tell me. 'We know you're wearing a Blogger sweatshirt. We know it's you'." It's funny in theory, but we all know it's the guy like me who ends up doing 5-10 for a crime he didn't commit and easily slides into the role of prison bitch.

A little more than a month ago I received an e-mail from Blogger (the fine service that I publish this blog on every day) telling me that the $14.95 I had paid a few months ago for Blogger Pro (which gives me special features and options not available for free) didn't matter now, and that now everyone got the special features and options. I was no longer special. So, as a consolation prize, they were going to send me a Blogger hooded sweatshirt [cut to me making that noise when you pop your index finger out of your mouth]. Well, today my Blogger hoodie has arrived and I'm telling you that it's better than expected. It's got that big orange and white B on the front with the word Blogger underneath it. Get ready for me to proclaim my nerdyness to the world.

Today at lunch I went to the W Hotel (an exquisitely modern and beautiful hotel, I visited the their loop location, not the north side one by Navy Pier). I sat in the lobby for a bit, occasionally checking my watch and looking around as if I was meeting someone. I then noticed a bar right off the lobby and headed in there. I promptly ordered a Stoli Raz and 7 and proceeded to have an argument with my editor on my phone for the next ten minutes. "Francis, yes....yes, I understand but I can't....well no, I don't.....right, and I do sympathize with you, but I can't do anything about it...well I do realize that and I'm sorry, but it's not up to me....I know, and I'll be back in New York by six." In my head I had concocted that I was a writer for The Economist named Darren Ansel and I was in Chicago on business (and pleasure) writing an article on Bank One and their new international policies (as well as visiting my friend Brian). After another drink I headed back to work and thoroughly enjoyed the rest of my day. Ah, what a great lunch it was.

Today a bought a book titled "This Book Will Change Your Life". In the book you're given a task to do every day (for an entire year), and the general idea is that by this time next year my life will be changed. Examples:

-Day 3: Throw something away that you like.
-Day 20: Discretely give people the finger all day long
-Day 29: Write a letter to a serial killer (included are a list of serial killers and their prison addresses)
-Day 49: Pretend you're a secret agent all day
-Day 68: Do a one day detox body cleansing (an all liquid diet of teas and water to clean you out)

The list goes on and on for 365 days. There's no telling where I could be next October 22nd.

Today on my lunch break (after picking up a sandwich from Corner Bakery) I was standing on the corner enjoying said sandwich when I was approached by a homeless woman. "Do you have any change? I need change for the train," she told me. I reached into my pocket for some change, holding my sandwich in the other hand. Suddenly she said, "Shit, that sandwich looks good." I shrugged and said, "Eh, it cost way too much. Wasn't worth it." I then handed her my change and she left, and I wondered to myself, "Is it tacky to tell a homeless woman (who is probably very hungry) that the upscale sandwich that I'm enjoying cost too much money?" Perhaps I should write Miss Manners.

The other night I was walking down the street and noticed a disgustingly happy couple walking in front of me. They were being very cute, and nice, and the guy emphasized this by putting his arm around the woman and kissing the side of her head. It was at this point that I made a disgusted face at the two of them, and also the exact moment that the woman chose to turn her head around and see me making the exasperated face and her and her boyfriend. Needless to say I looked down in shame and immediately crossed to the other side of the street.

While I don't think that I'd ever actually want to live in a high-rise building, I do always enjoy leaving them in the morning. Just getting onto the elevator, joining (or being joined by) other people, also on their way out and onto their day. For some reason I just get a nice little sense of community. Plus sometimes they're hot. Ah, I love the smell of flirting in the morning. It smells like...napalm? I'm done.

Dating is like apartments here in Chicago (or, I guess, most citys for that matter). Of course there's the fixer-upper, who, if you have the time and energy to put into them, you could walk away with a great deal. There's the new construction, which is pretty enough, but it looks like all the other new condos, and it just doesn't have the same history and structure as older buildings. There's the gut-rehab with a new kitchen and bathroom, and hardwood floors; this one may come with some quirks and issues, but overall, it's the best for my money. There's also the highrise, which is tall, chic, and gives a great view, but really, not everybody needs all that. And then of course there's just your basic rental; two bedrooms, good living space, and you're very happy with it. On second though, maybe dating is like cheese fries.

Last night I got a good look at how ridiculous my life really is. A friend of mine in the midst of moving (and without a place to stay for the night), slept over at my house, and there's nothing like seeing yourself through someone elses eyes to realize how nuts you are. How Bernadette and I talk to the dogs (and how we change our voices to have them talk back); how phrases like, "Whatever!" "What the fuck!" and "You bastard!" are common place; how at any time there will be someone running, yelling, throwing up (usually a dog), chewing on something, or eating; and while our guest went to bed around 11:30 (we all had to be up at 7:30) Bernadette, I, and the dogs all packed into her room to watch Queer Eye for the Straight guy till about 1. That's right, we're a house of crazies, and we wouldn't have it any other way. ...unless of course DCFS splits us up.