I can be a little stingy with opening up. I don't think that's a big secret.

Kel can be the same way.

That's why we decided to start a joint blog. What's it called? Open to Being Closed Off, natch.

In addition to the blog, a Google group of the same name has been started at groups.google.com/group/opentobeingclosed. We think you should join. There really aren't enough groups for closed off people, y'know?

Last night I'm visiting Micah at his bar and he informs me that Sean and Carrie, a couple he likes, is on the other side of the bar.

"Yeah, I saw them," I say and shrug. "They're...yeah."

Micah nods. "I always forget that straight people don't automatically get along with other straight people."

Surprising, but true. I say, "Kinda like how I can't fix you up with someone else simply because they're gay."

Straights and gays have so much to learn from each other.

Things that get better with age:

Wine
Cheese
Demi Moore
My certificates of deposit at Chase
Chuck Taylors

As someone who has recently started their own business that requires them to sit in front of a computer for hours on end, I've taken to hanging out a lot in coffee shops. It's not that I'm trying to come across as a pretentious poser, clicking away on my laptop while sipping tea. Rather, it's so I don't get distracted in my home by TV, cleaning, or any number of random things.

And every day, as I'm out at Argo or Starbucks or The Fixx, the place that I've settled for the day is always packed. This has led me to wonder: what on earth are all these people doing out in the middle of the day? Shouldn't they be at work?

Chris Colin feels the same way, and he's found the answer. Read all about it here.

Lately I've noticed bus ads featuring Sarah Silverman promoting the MTV Movie Awards, and informing me: "For a good time, call 1-877-SARAH-07".

Wondering if the phone number actually worked, I called it yesterday. Man, oh man, does it work.

The other night Kellie and I are having a text conversation. About love.

We are also sitting next to each other at a bar. The volume at the bar is not the reason that we are texting instead of talking.

After sending a text I look over at her and ask, "Is this a pathetic way to have a conversation?"

She takes a sip of her drink and shakes her head. "We're closed off people. This is how closed off people communicate."

I nod in agreement and we go back to our text converstaion.

Names for restaurants that are actually just fronts for the mob:

-Trattoria Kneecaps
-McFuggedaboutits
-The Sunshine Bakery (Not Open to the Public)
-Horse Heads n' Sides
-Pasta You Can't Refuse
-Bada Bing Bakery
-The Godfeeder

Last night was a crazy one!

I tried to make up anagrams using my name!

Some of the ones I came up with:

"Is geeser H on job?"
"Sirens jog Heeb."
"Gosh, is Jen beer?"

I know. Any more thrilling and not only would I be endangering my own life, but the lives of everyone around me.

At this point in the history of the world (or at least western civilization) I think we've all accepted words across the front of a t-shirt. I'm not talking about words like "Calvin Klein" on the front of a t-shirt, I'm talking about words like "Foxy". Yes, you ladies who wear those t-shirts know who you are. A bit less accepted (though quickly catching up) are the sweatpants with the words across the ass (usually boasting the likes of "Juicy").

I can understand, if not support, these trends. While I've always been of the "I'll look if I want to but don't force me to," school of thought, women have a right to draw attention to parts of their body by making me read things plastered across them. C'est la vie.

But then the other day, while walking down the street, I noticed a girl in front of me wearing a green polo with the collar turned up. And what was on the underside of her collar, just where I could read it? The word "Dreamy".

When did this begin? Did I miss something? Words on the underside of the collar?

I immediately went to the internet to figure out what was going on, but after extensive searching the best I could find was a polo shirt for men by Project E that had the word "Hipster" on the underside of the collar. Close, but no cigar.

But seriously. Words on the underside of the collar?

Where are we putting words next, people? Because if I see words on the crotch I am falling out of society. I swear to god.

Two stupid movies that would be coming out this summer if I had a job in Hollywood:

1) So I Married a Tool - Heather Graham stars as a woman who has horrible luck dating, and one night, in a drunken stupor, one of her friends (who took an online course to become a minister) marries her and a hammer. The rest of the movie is filled with jokes about how her "husband" is going to "hammer" her and all her friends making comments such as, "Geez Elizabeth, your husband is such a tool." I'm think Trey Parker and Matt Stone could be good with this.

2) Hail to the Mutt - After a ballot mix-up in Michigan, a dog named Thomas Newjogger (the same as the incumbent senator) gets elected to the state senate. He passes legislation about more bones and less leashes, and everything is fine until the President, the Vice President, the Speaker of the House and the next few people in line die after eating tainted meat at a White House picnic. Thomas Newjogger (the dog) is next in line and becomes President of the United States. I smell a hit! And so does the dog, 'cause, y'know, he has a superior sense of smell.

So my latest book reviews have come out in this month's UR Chicago magazine.

I shoot my mouth off about Douglas Coupland's Microserfs (4 stars - yeah!), and the smarty-pants book What Is Your Dangerous Idea? (1 star - boo!).

Pick up a copy at your local newsstand or go to UR Chicago.com and download the PDF to read the whole magazine on your computer. Either way, you'll get to read me not writing about myself for once.

(Psst! I'm on page 20)

Yesterday, while on my way to meet a friend, I see two old men walking down the street towards me. They're both wearing large sunglasses and using colapsable canes to find their way down the sidewalk. One is holding onto the others arm, and both have their canes waving cautiously a few steps ahead of them.

They are literally the blind leading the blind.

The other day while listening to NPR I heard the story of a woman named Mary who, after returning from Europe 20 years ago, mistakenly ended up with someone elses charm bracelet in her bag during a security check at the airport. She searched and searched for the owner, but with no luck.

Then, thanks to the opportunity to tell her story on the air (and the help of NPR listeners like you!), someone who was related to the original owner of the charm bracelet (a woman named Ruthie) called in.

And then, there on live radio, Mary was able to call Ruthie, the original owner of the bracelet, and tell her that the bracelet was not gone after all, and that she had been holding onto it for that past 20 years. Ruthie was so moved that someone had held onto her bracelet for so long, and listening to the two of them talk for the first time brought me to the verge of tears.

I bunched up my fist and shook it at the radio. "Damn you, Michele Norris, for telling this heartwarming story!" I said, fighting back the tears.

Crying at NPR is definitely going to hurt my street cred.

Somehow (oh, somehow!) we've made it to day 6 of Guest Blogger Week. Today's entry comes from Kristine, who came over from Denmark while she was a teenager. I'll let the blog take you from there.

I'm going to tell you a little about my experience at an American high school, back when I was an exchange student in Michigan many years ago. While the concept of screaming cheerleaders and their purpose was a very perplexing one to me, even stranger things that I witnessed was the hierarchical system of The Most Popular, The Class Clown, the Whatever of the Year. It was really all quite vexing, especially coming from a socialist nation where no one is ever nominated as being better than anyone else. My blog entry is not about screaming cheerleaders but, rather, the kind of peculiar silences that would only be noticed by someone un-initiated into American culture. Two examples will suffice:

The first incidence was in Study Hall. My advisor had signed me up for the class and I didn't know what the class was about, but I thought it would be interesting to be taught about learning skills or something of that nature. So I go to class and the class is full. The teacher is sitting at his desk at the front. Silence. Ten minutes go by: still silence. Then twenty, then forty: still silence. I was completely baffled. What kind of class was this where the teacher doesn't teach? Then the bell rang and everybody got up and left.

The second incidence was a dialogue in a classroom before class where two kids in front of me began chatting and I decided to listen in. One of the kids responded to the other by saying, "Yeah, tell me about it!" Then there was that silence again and, slowly, the other kid turned around and started minding her own business. What just happened there? Why didn't she tell him about it? Why was there now silence after a request for more information? So confusing.

We've reached Day 5 of Guest Blogger week. Today, Kayte discusses the finer points of comicbookdom with (you guessed it!) a comic book nerd. Way to pander to my nerd demographic, Kayte!

The other day at work I was discussing the finer points of Spiderman 3 with Student Co-Worker. This led to a mini discussion of Marvel comic book characters vs. DC comic book characters.

See, Student Worker thinks I'm neat because I like to read books when I have the time and because I have boobs and am able to name comic book characters and can gloss over origin plot points without having to look anything up on Wikipedia. (I don't read comic books regularly but I do have a near-photographic memory when it comes to movie blurbs—thanks, Entertainment Weekly!)

Me: What else comic-bookish besides Spiderman 3 is coming out this summer? There are sooo many.
Student Worker: Hm, there's Transformers, which I think is gonna blow 'em all out of the water, personally.
Me: I agree. Who doesn't want to watch a kid running around with a name like Shia, right?
SW: What?
Me: Nevermind. Yeah, I think Transformers should be cool. Ah, then there's that Fantastic Four sequel with the Silver Surfer. Dorks love the Silver Surfer, or that's what I've heard anyway.
SW: Yeah, he's definitely a great character.
Me: He works for an alien named Galactus, right?
SW: Wow, you're good. Yup, he's like a herald representative for Galactus who-
Me: -takes over planets and sucks out all their resources and energy!
SW: Exactly.
Me: Hm, so the Silver Surfer is kinda like George Bush and Galactus is America then, huh?
SW: Woah. That's deep. Did you just make that up right now?
Me: Yeah, actually I did.
SW: You should submit that to a political blog or something.
Me: Hm, submit to a blog...

Day 4 of Guest Blogger Week is upon us. Today's entry is from Kate, and let me tell you, she gets to the meat of the issue. What issue am I referring to? Living in the suburbs, my friend. Living in the suburbs.

Ah, suburbia. Growing up, I never quite understood what all the fuss was about. Actually, I don't even think I paid much attention to the term suburbia. I grew up in a town of roughly 24,000 in southern Illinois just outside of St. Louis. That there was a difference between the city and the suburbs never occurred to me. The city was 20 miles away; I could see the Arch from a couple streets over from my house.

After graduating from a small college town even further south in Illinois, I moved to Chicago. Now that is a city. I lived for six months, at one point, without a car. It was surprisingly easy. I took public transportation to work and everywhere else. As a temp I even worked on the 28th floor in one of those huge skyrises downtown on Michigan Avenue. I volunteered with inner city kids. I saw just as many white people as Asian or African American or Indian. I worked in two restaurants across from the Art Institute (and volunteered in the Art Institute), and saw every kind of tourist that there was.

Two years later I moved back to the where town I grew up, and another two years later I'm still here. Now there is a difference. And not only is there a difference, but I damn well know it and can see it. It even bothers me a little bit.

I'm not quite sure if it's because I am back to where I started, an observation I noted as I walked through the Wal-Mart (yes, Wal-Mart) where I bought my first training bra, and my friend shoplifted from, and my mom bought the material for my First Communion dress. Or maybe it's because everyone here is fat and white. The "city" of St. Louis is so quiet downtown that, after living and working in bustling downtown Chicago, I can barely bring myself to call it a city. Either way, it's unsettling. Am I glad I live in suburbia?

In suburbia's defense, I hated Chicago. Well, I was unhappy at least. I missed my family and I missed having grass around me. I felt trapped, knowing that if I wanted to drive out of the city I had about a five hour window where I could leave and not get caught in amazing traffic. If I wanted to go somewhere, I had to wait 20 minutes for a bus. The city was different, and I guess I didn't totally like it.

But I do miss having different people around me. I remember once at an outdoor festival here, I saw an Asian couple. I couldn't stop looking at them and wondered at my fascination with them for a good 30 minutes before I realized, "Oh! They're not white!" I miss having restaurants around me that aren't chains. I miss being able to walk outside and be by myself but still be surrounded by people. The only time I get to listen to my iPod is when I run.

There are no sidewalks, and small towns are very pedestrian unfriendly. People look at me like, "Do you need a ride? Why are you walking?" My best friend, who still lives in Chicago, visited me recently and laughed at how close the grocery store is. We drove there.

I now live in a house. That I bought. With my husband. I have my commute in a car. I work in a cubicle. I've gained five pounds. I have a yard that needs to be mowed. I have walls that need to be painted. In about three years, the pressure to have kids will no doubt start knocking on my mind. But I have grass (that is too tall), and I have my family (that screams dysfunction), and I have my car (that I spend so much time in it feels like a second home). There are days when I am inside cleaning and doing laundry and my husband is working in the yard or on the house. We have two dogs.

So, who knows. This is suburbia. This is the Midwest. This is where I live now. This is the part of the country that has a close-minded, redneck, fat and white stereotypes. Besides its pros and cons, I just have to admit to myself: I'm a country girl. I'd just rather live here. But despite my access to my own vehicle (one that is not a minivan, although I wonder if one day I'll cave), suburbia has its own way of making me feel slightly trapped.

The other day while hanging out, Kellie goes online to look at Weather.com.

"What's the difference between isolated t-storms and scattered t-storms?" Kellie asks.

"Scattered t-storms are all over the place," I tell her. "They just can't get their act together."

Behold: Day 3 of Guest Blogger Week! Today Byron shares his thoughts on Paris Hilton, Lucky Charms, and officer "Friendly" (hint: he's not so friendly).

When I heard that Paris Hilton was going to prison, I was in line at the post office waiting to get these fantastic new stamps I found out they had. This girl in front of me was on her pink Razor cell phone, and just like when a mom drops a baby and gasps in horror, the pink Razor girl does the same gasp. "Oh. My. God. She is not! Oh, she...she just can't...she's society's staple. Paris Hilton can not do prison. It won't happen!" For ten more minutes of standing in line, Pink Razor is practically in tears reminiscing about Paris in one outfit and then Paris in another outfit and then how Paris totally pulled of earrings that no one could ever pull off. For the next ten minutes in line I smiled, thinking about Paris Hilton in prison and...Lucky Charms cereal.

Let me explain. When I was a kid I worried a lot. I'd like to think I brought OCD in to fashion-you know, before OCD became a tag line for someone who was a nut and OCD actually meant a medical condition you should feel sorry for. Anyway, I worried a lot. Like, I worried about our house running out of water. I worried that our dog could stop breathing in the middle of the night and no one would even know. I worried about losing my keys, and I didn't even have more than one. But I also worried about going to prison.

Not that I did anything wrong or would ever do anything wrong. But all it took was this one time...someone threatened me with prison. Remember Deputy Friendly? Did you have that as a kid? He was the guy, a cop, that would come in and be all "Don't do drugs!" or "Be nice to your teachers." Or "Don't wipe boogers on others." He was a do gooder. A nice guy, with a badge to prove it. Well, he came to our fifth grade classroom to talk about being honest.

"Kids, have you ever told a lie?" He scanned the room looking for guilty faces. He was more like a drill sergeant for this lecture than he was friendly.

Everyone nodded no.

"You're lying right now! I know you've all told lies! And that's not good. Not good at all! And let me tell you something, kids, lies lead to things. Lies lead to bad report cards, then to losing friends, and then to stealing. And lies...well lies can even lead you to prison."

My worrying head let me stomach drop. Lies...lies could lead you to prison? Wait, so when I told my mom that I wasn't wearing her lipstick the other day when I locked the door to the bathroom...and lied...I...I could go to prison for wearing lipstick?

"And let me tell you kids. They don't serve you Lucky Charms in prison!"

We all gasped. Lucky Charms. I mean, come on. You don't fuck with a kids Lucky Charms.

Poor Paris Hilton. Not only will she not wear her Gucci shoes in prison...she won't have Lucky Charms...or even vote for what new marshmallow will be in the mix. And that...that is the true crime.

Day 2 of Guest Blogger Week brings us an entry from my old friend Leah. And by "old" I mean "I've known her a long time", not "she's ancient". This story about her having to show her ID proves that.

A few baseball seasons ago I was in the beer line at Comiskey Park/The Cell/whatever it's called. I think I was 26 at the time, so I was prepared to hand over my ID with my request for two Miller Lites (one for me and one for my man - I wasn't double fisting). I got to the front of the line, ordered two beers, and handed over my ID before the beer guy even asked for it. He stared at it for a minute, looked at me, looked back at my ID, looked at me again and asked...

Beer Guy: Do you have another form of ID on you?

Leah: Sure. (digs through wallet and produces two credit cards bearing same name as ID)

Beer Guy: Anything with a picture?

Leah: Uh, no. Let me see... (continues to dig through purse, finds several coffee shop punch cards, a DSW frequent shopper card, a CTA card, but nothing with a picture) All these things have the same name on them. I guarantee that there are two people in the state of Illinois with this last name. The other one is my husband. The ID is mine.

Beer Guy: So, uh, nothing with a picture?

Leah: (now thoroughly annoyed and becoming rude) NO. (starts to empty entire contents of purse on beer counter) Here are some more coffee cards, Tic Tacs, a book of stamps, my National Public Radio member card. Come on, nobody under 21 has a National Public Radio member card!

Beer Guy: Fine. That'll be $12.50 for the beers.

Thank you very much, Ira Glass!

Leah did not write a bio for herself, but rather attached a picture of her and I, circa 2004 (see below). In many ways I feel that the picture says more than a written bio every could. She also writes the blog, Knitty Kitty, which focuses on knitting and kittys, among other things.

On my return trip from New Jersey my wine key was taken from me by airport security. "You can't take this on the plane," the checkpoint officer told me. "But...I...but...." I stammered.

"Sorry," he said, "you can't."

As I'm telling Kellie this story she says, "Well at least you didn't have the wine key on your person. Imagine what they might have done to you."

"On my person?" I ask her. "When did you start speaking in cop lingo?"

Today marks the beginning of Guest Blogger Week here at Berg with Fries. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the first entry, compliments of Librarian Girl.

When Josh asked me to guest blog for him, I felt like Jeff Probst must have felt when he got the call to co-host with Kelly when Regis was having his heart surgeried. I am pinch-hitting for an ornery but always lovable and much-adored host! Who will probably never speak to me again since I just compared him to Regis! Don't be mad, Josh. I just compared myself to Jeff Probst, so we're all taking hits here.

As I thought about what I wanted to say to Josh's readers, I thought "what do these readers come here to read about?" Should I write a witty post about cheese, or design, or wine, or-- let's face it--booze of any kind? Or maybe I should make a list. People come here for the lists! But why mess with what the master of these topics can write? What could I possibly have to say about cheese that Josh wouldn't say a million times better? Jeff Probst doesn't go on the Regis show and yell at Gelman. See what I'm saying?

So I'm not going to write about any of that stuff. And if this sucks, and Josh never speaks to me again, that really won't be much of a change, since Josh and I have never actually spoken. See, we're blog friends. For the uninitiated, blog friends are people who are friends only because we've connected through reading each other's blogs. And the fact of the matter is, Josh is probably lucky that he's never met me. Not because I am a To-Catch-A-Predator style scary-internet-pervert (maybe another style, but not that style), but because I have strange associations with saying the name "Josh."

It all started years ago. I had this friend, Jason, who lived two doors up from me. We had this relationship where we would try to come up with new and exciting ways to verbally torment each other. I wish I could say this happened in elementary school, or even middle school, which is when it seems age-appropriate to flirt in this manner. In truth, it was in 10th grade. Mature much? Obviously not. Jason, at one point, made a lame attempt to make fun of my name. Them was fightin' words, and I was not to be outdone. I tried to make fun of his name, but didn't come up with many options, until one day as we were playing frisbee, when I yelled his name out, all mangled, like this: "Yaaaaah-sone!" His ears got all red, and I knew I had hit upon tormentor gold. From that day forward, it was "Yaaaaah-sone!" every time I saw him. He tried to act like he didn't care, but it was obvious that he hated it. Hated, hated, hated. So I started to spread this around. I had other people call him "Yaaaaah-sone!" He took it like a man, very strong and silent. Which meant, of course, that I had to break him. After a week or two, I changed it again. "Yah-see, could you come over here please?" Yah-see. Doesn't seem that bad, right? But oh man. He couldn't TAKE it! "Stop! Don't call me that!" I spent a good few months calling him "Yah-see." It was good times.

When in college, I briefly dated a guy named Josh. He was one of those life-of-the-party type of guys, always the center of attention. One time, I was hanging out with him and some of his friends on a sunny summer day, and we were all eating popsicles. A drip from his popsicle went down Josh's arm, and so he gave his whole forearm a big, long, slurpy lick. "Wow there," I joked. "You just gave yourself Joshalingus!" And there it was again. His ears got all red. Mr. Center-of-Attention was embarrassed by Joshalingus! The 10th Grade Me emerged. I could not resist this. The tormentor was back. Every chance I got, I would call him Joshalingus. Why did I do this to him? Maybe it's years of getting made fun of for my name, or maybe my usually mild-mannered self needs to express aggression sometimes. I don't know, but it was uncontrollable. The more embarrassed he was, the more I did it.

Because of this, there is a part of my brain that has locked in the word "Joshalingus." I am unable to think of the name "Josh" without this association. If I knew Josh in person, instead of just through blogging, I am quite sure I would be unable to restrain myself from blurting out "Joshalingus" whenever possible.

Of course, knowing Josh as well as I do, if only from his blog, something tells me he might actually enjoy the name "Joshalingus." Which might then take the fun out of it for me.

This post doesn't make me come off very good, does it? Maybe I should've written a post about cheese after all. Ah well.

Yours in Guesty-Bloggerness,
Librarian Girl

So remember when I was a life coach for that guy, Reggie DeWitt, and he contributed to that blog bad people? Well that blog is long gone now. But Reggie has resurfaced with a solo blog (involuntary, same as the last one), called One Bad Person.

He's still working off the same community service, so he'll be at it for a while. Go by and check him out. He's sure to be horrible.

With all the web design work I've been doing lately I've come to realization that I have horrible self-discipline. Being your own boss will make you realize that. And doing work at home only hightens those tendencies, as they are so many ready distractions around. "I could wash the dishes." "I could do some laundry." "Oh, I haven't read this month's issue of Entertainment Weekly yet." "Hey, 7th Heaven is on!" Because of these issues I've started going out to coffeeshops to get work done.

This has led to an entirely new issue. Coffeeshops (Argo, Intelligentsia, Starbucks, The Fixx - it doesn't matter) have only single-person bathrooms. No stalls, no urinals, just a small room for a bathroom. And when I usually enter these bathrooms the light is off.

This has caused me to develop the fear that someone is waiting for me in these bathrooms. That some psycho is standing in the tiny room with the light off, hiding behind the door, just waiting for me to enter so that he can...well, I haven't figured out what he'd do to me, but it'd be bad.

I know this is crazy. I know this is highly irrational. Yet I can't help but have that twinge of fear everytime I open the door to the tiny dark bathroom. "Ahhh!" I'll scream as I close the door, flip on the light, and suddenly realize that I'm not alone. But by then it'll be too late. The psycho will have silenced me somehow, and everyone sitting outside will have been unable to hear me over whatever is playing on their headphones, anyway.

So far I haven't come up with a solution to get over this fear. Maybe when I become wealthy enough I'll just get a coffeeshop built in my house. Like how Tommy Lee has a Starbucks in his home. I'd probably feel safer in that coffeeshop. That is, the one built in my house. Not the one is Tommy's.

The Least Exciting Natural Disaster Movies:

*The Breeze
*Leaves!
*The Medium Sized Puddle
*Dry Rot!
*It's Cloudy Again
*Flurries Over Aspen
*Tree Sap!
*Sun In Your Eyes
*Forecast: Overcast!

Speaking of Boys from Jupiter, read an interview Byron and I did for D-Web Magazine, talking about all our web design and graphic design mastery.

The full article here.

With our graphic/web design business, Boys from Jupiter (please hire us), Byron handles most of the money stuff.

So I started thinking, what if he completely screws me over and I lose all my money. Like MC Hammer.

If only there there was a show like Behind the Music, but for web designers. And then I came up with an idea...