I used to sprint the two blocks to her house with the speed of an Olympic athlete—even if it was just to sit on the giant house-length front porch to wait for her to finish eating dinner. Then, once we were together, we were off for an adventure. And it was a different one every day. One without computers, tablets or smartphones. The only technology involved was the kind our imaginations could invent--far superior to anything Silicon Valley can offer today. I wrote about Caro

When your bootcamp gym bestows its highest honor upon you: naming you "Ninja of the Month" there's only one thing to do:

As I've written before , sports has never been my thing. Team sports, especially. But as an adult, I did something to conquer that fear: I stopped playing them! It wasn't until I was training at Second City that I learned the metaphor of team sports (situations where other people rely on you for success) in a way that was meaningful to me. I thought it had demystified it for me. Performing improv was much higher pressure than playing sports...right? But it all came crashing

My house never feels more like a home than when it's brimming with people I love. Recently, my A-List (Retta, Kathy, Alan and Tina) had the opportunity to get together--for the first time in five years! And it was magical (as usual). I've written about this beloved motley crew before.They are--each one of them individually and all of them together--a piece of my heart. Just the possibility of the five of us getting together set my pulse racing for weeks. But once our LA gir

Back in the days of only three broadcast networks, no one was in as big a rush as they are today. Commercials seemed epically long and some of them were like mini serials. Remember the Taster's Choice saga with Anthony Head? Clearly, coffee was as valuable as crude oil, inundating us with each's own message: Drink me. But the coffee commercial I was obsessed with this time of year was the Folger's ad where Peter comes home fresh from college in his letter jacket and surpris

As my knees buckled, and my body careened to the hard cement at the top of the steps, I could hear the kid next to me saying, "Don't lock your knees." How do you stand for hours in the hot sun and not do that? As I lay crumpled on the scorching June concrete, I heard the kid say to the adult rushing to my pathetic rescue: "He locked his knees." It had been an intense week, and all I remember about the photo I standing for before losing consciousness was the irritation in my

One day in sixth grade, my classmate Dusty asked, "Ronnie, do you know what the strongest geometric shape is?" Though out of the blue, he seemed pretty confident about this topic--and the answer. I had no idea what he was talking about. I hated geometry and preferred spending time in my head thinking about important topics like recent storylines on "Battlestar Galactica" or “Charlie’s Angels." But he was my friend, so I indulged him. "No," I replied. "A triangle," he said

Dear Universe, It's been a while since my last letter . I was thinking about you the other day; trying to understand the mixed-bag-that-is-you as I sometimes attempt to do. You're so unpredictable and formidable, and sometimes so cruel. Being kind-of-a-bitch is your thing. I get it, though I must admit I struggle with accepting you as you are. I want to change you. I would bet most people you know want to change you. Take a hint? In fact, you're becoming quite the cliché.  

I published my  previous post  without thinking that I still wanted to write about 2014. But I'm a sucker for the statistical fireworks show Wordpress.com puts on for me. So, we're a few days into 2015. I rang in the new year in bed. Not because of any tragic reason—though I am a those who subscribe to leaving amateur night to amateurs. To be honest, I was kind of sad to see 2014 go. It was a good year; one fraught with exciting firsts for me. Becoming a homeowner was the b

While channel surfing the other day I caught an old interview Oprah was conducting with Steven Spielberg at his Indiana-Jones-themed Amblin Studios. I thought for a moment about my one week temping there when Ken and I moved to Los Angeles in the early 2000s. We both daringly quit our jobs in Chicago, though Ken got a different job with same company within the first two weeks of arriving. I, on the other had, had quit my administrative job and was having a bitch of a time fi

When I met my nephew Jack he was 5, the older of Ken's two nephews via his brother and sister-in-law. This past weekend he graduated from high school--an emotional event on its own. But packed an added punch knowing Ken wasn't watching next to me, beaming as I know he would have been. I'd prepared as I much for it as I could. I knew he was there in all of our hearts and minds. When all else failed, I reminded myself what a gift it was to come together as a family to celebrate

He kept itching his nose--under his left nostril--intermittently until he tilted his head back so I could practically see up and into his brain. "Is it bleeding?" he asked. "What? Your Cerebellum?" I thought. But "no" is what I actually said. Nothing I could see was bleeding. At my breakfast. Where I was eating food. Food I wanted to eat blood-free. "See? I told you," he said finally, holding out the finger he'd been using to pick away at the scab under his nose. "Blood.

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog. Here's an excerpt: A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 5,800 times in 2013. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 5 trips to carry that many people. Click here to see the complete report.

I can't believe it's only been three years I've been pouring my heart out into the ether of the internet. It seems like I've always been blogging. It certainly saved my sanity during the insanity of the last few years. But it also has served as a venue for sharing my brand of humor. I've linked a couple of my favorite blogs below to mark the occasion. The Dime Store of Broken Dreams If You Build It, They Will Come (like it or not) The Unflattering History of Sports (and me)

Sharing this again from last year.

My ticket to living in Chicago was Blockbuster Video. I'd always dreamed of living here, and when I found myself working at a franchise in my college town after graduating (and having no real idea what I wanted to be when I grew up), I asked the owners if they knew of any openings in Chicago. Turns out, they did. And so I began working in a store in the northwest suburb of Hoffman Estates in the summer 1992. Being summer, kids were out of school and video rentals were up. So

In the fourth grade our teacher, Mrs. Fisher--with her flaming orange hair and clown red lipstick applied liberally outside the lines of her lips would say things like "whatever rattles your cage" and warned a dim classmate to stop pulling out his own hair otherwise he'd be "bald as a billiard ball." (Like any of us knew what billiards were.) She was like a small town version of Lucille Ball--but scarier. My best friend Carol and I were having an imaginary pie throwing fight

I was minding my own business, singing my lungs out along with Pandora on the way home from dropping off my friend Mindy at O'Hare when I saw the oncoming Nissan SUV swerve into my lane, clipping the back of the Jeep in front of me. "Certainly, she'll correct her trajectory since she has already hit another car," I thought rationally as she continued further into my lane, slamming into the front quarter panel of my car, scraping all the way down the driver's side. Holy shit.

My first attempt at sports left a bad taste in my mouth. The briny taste of tears, in fact. I was five or six and was "encouraged" to sign up for little league baseball like all the other little boys were eagerly doing--probably of their own volition. My parents--along with my Old World Polish grandpa--took me to the town ball park to sign up one Saturday afternoon. It was probably around the bicentennial (1976 for those of you too young to remember) because my dad had bought

Today's date is significant for me. It's the third anniversary of Ken's hemipelvectomy. (You can read more about it in  last year's blog  if you'd like.) Because of this anniversary--like so many that have come and gone, Ken has been heavily on my mind this week. More so than usual. And I think it would be fitting to hear his voice--in a manner of speaking. (If you want to hear his actual voice, head over to the  Poop Song .) What I would like to try doing today--and on any