Firstly, I am overwhelmed by the response I had on my last post. So many people have reached out to offer to help out my nephew with his traveling bear project. I know it isn’t a contest, but if there is some sort of grade or bragging rights attached to this project, Noah is going to be the winner hands down. Noah the Bear is going to travel the whole world. He’s going to see so many things, all thanks to you guys.

In fact, he has already visited USA Gymnastics and Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis with TMC from Return to Rural.

And then my friend Carri took him around the 49ers facility in Santa Clara, CA. There aren’t any players around because it is the offseason, but he got a tour and got to see the locker room.

Honestly, I cannot thank you guys enough. I am so excited to see all the other places Noah will travel.

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This title is fitting because I’m also overwhelmed by life. It’s many things that are making me feel a bit down, a lot has to do with the weather and some of it has to do with work (that I’m not going to get into here, of course.) But I’m just generally feeling blah and like I could just sleep for days. I think I might be coming down with something since I felt really flushed all day and just didn’t feel right.

Or maybe it is because I am STILL wearing my glasses because my contacts still haven’t come in. I talked to the eye place today and they expect them early next week, so she ordered me one trial pair to tide me over until the shipment arrives. I’m pretty sure this is the longest I’ve gone with wearing my glasses since I was in eight grade and not allowed to wear contacts. And since these glasses are about four years old, I’m pretty sure once I actually start wearing contacts again, regularly, I will probably get really dizzy, vomit and then fall down into a pile of my own puke.

That should only last a few days, hopefully.

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I had to wear my glasses out, in public, at a bar, on Saturday night. We went out to celebrate my friend Jessica’s birthday and I wasn’t going to let my glasses keep me from going. (I originally typed that “me glasses” and I was wondering when Popeye took over writing this blog post.) So to compensate, I wore a dress and knee-high boots to make myself feel like a sexy librarian in my glasses.

I also decided to drink many GLASSES (it’s a theme) of wine and not really remember most of the evening. All I know is that I woke up at 5 AM, still in my dress, most of the lights on in the house, my tights strewn about by the front door and my glasses still on. So it must have been a good night.

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And since I haven’t had a cab story in awhile, I figured that I should tell you about Otus, my cab driver that gave me his number. (I don’t know HOW I got out of giving him mine, but apparently I’m learning.) The funny thing is that I took a cab to and from the bar with my friend Melissa. On both cab rides, I was a chatty Cathy. And at one point Melissa says to me “I see now why you get into the situations you do with cab drivers.”

AH HA!

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And now I’m going to end this lame post because I really don’t need to take up any more of your time. Plus I really need to get to bed. But I needed to do something after Lost ended so I didn’t just sit and stare at my TV with my mouth agape wondering what the fuck just happened.

This blog post is so boring it did just the trick to calm me down and bore me out. You’re welcome!

We started the evening with dinner here. I was a little nervous going into it because all the recent reviews of the place were horrible. And I was hoping for a good meal. Thankfully, we all really enjoyed it. I guess, in talking to other friends, their service is hit or miss so I can see that if you had crappy service, it would be a shitty experience, especially when you’re paying that much.

After dinner, we headed to a bar. A bar that pretty much no one over the age of 22 goes to (unless you’re going to watch sports, then you’ll find more of a mixed crowd.) We had a blast! I didn’t think I would stay long because the idea of partying with a bunch of 21 year olds doesn’t really suit my fancy. Me of the sensible shoes and band-aids in my purse for blister emergencies. And I may have been super hungover from book wine club the night before. But my stepmom and her boyfriend were there, and we had some good conversations (some way too deep for a drunken Friday night) and it was fun to just watch a bunch of 21 year olds go nuts. Ahhhh, remember those days? (And they probably all woke up sans hangover, unlike my 31 year old self. Bitches.)

Alix really enjoyed herself. She made it clear to everyone it was HER day.

We drank and drank and laughed and people watched and drank some more. Or I did. I really made use of the all you could drink special and packed it into the three hours! Alix did shots. (I’m pretty sure she probably vomited before the night was over. She’s clearly a Johnson because she can really toss ‘em back.)

My stepmom’s boyfriend Mike put up with a lot of nonsense from me, Alix and my stepmom, Patty.

I think Alix had a good time, no?

But to me she’ll always be that little girl I babysat, even though I’ve watched her grow up into a phenomenal young lady. Hope you had a wonderful birthday Alix!

Rest of the photos from the evening are here.

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The best part of the evening was my cab ride home. And not because I got a number from a cab driver. Yawn. That is old news. Oh no. This time, I got screamed at by a cab driver.

So on my cab ride home, the guy was kind of a douche. He was driving like a fucking maniac and you could tell he seemed pissed because he had to go so far north. Well guess what, asshole, that means a bigger fare. On top of it, all the windows were open and he was speeding down the freeway and I was FREEZING.

I ignored him as much as possible and Twittered and pretended to be engrossed in my phone, at the same time making sure he was indeed taking me to my house and not to a ditch by the lake. At a stoplight closer to my house, there was some sort of an accident or police activity or something going on. So Douche McCaberson slides open the partition in the cab and points to the police car/car accident and says to me “See?” And I’m thinking “um, see what?” And that’s all I said to him until he needed directions to drop me off at my condo.

So as he rolls up on my building, he says to me, all pissy, “you know, you should really tell people to take Road A here instead of Road B because it is faster. This was ridiculous to go this route.”

(Side note, I tell them this way so I get out as close as possible to my front door and don’t have to cross the street by myself at 2:30 in the morning. I’m not a fucking idiot, douchenozzle. Also, I’m lazy.)

So then I pay my fare and give him close to exact change and say “if you were not such a douche, you would have gotten a bigger tip. GOOD DAY, SIR! I said GOOD DAY!” And then I get out of my cab.

And then Douche McCaberson decided to SCREAM out his window at me. He’s yelling “YOU ARE A FUCKING BITCH! SUCK MY DICK! FUCKING BITCH!” And probably a whole host of other things I blocked out because I just wanted to get into my building.

I was totally freaked out. So much so, I was afraid to take a cab home Saturday night, after helping my friend Melissa celebrate her 30th birthday. (It was a Birthdaypalooza this weekend!) But my good cab driver mojo is back and I told this cab driver the whole sordid tale and he was very pissed on my behalf. And said that should never happen and a driver is supposed to take you whatever way you tell them. Which made me feel 100 times better because I drink a lot. I need to be able to take cabs in the city.

And thankfully this nice cab driver didn’t ask for my number. Because I would have totally given it to him because he didn’t call me a fucking bitch. I’m so easy.

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Edited to add: My dad is dead. He passed away in 2002 or 2003, I never remember, which should clue you in to our relationship. So my stepmom has a boyfriend that she’s been dating for quite a few years. The end.

My brother and his neighbor were going to be at the game too. So we made plans to meet before the game for a few beers and then hang out afterwards and drink more beers. Because what else do you do at baseball games in Wrigleyville? NOTHING, I TELL YOU!

I had a great time! I love my brother and it is always fun when I get to hang out with him sans kids. I’m so happy that we’re so close and have a good relationship.

So after the game we were out and had quite a few beers. We chatted and determined that my brother has very limited knowledge of music and if it isn’t played on this one station in Chicago, he’s probably never heard it. Which is fine because at least he’s still listening to pop music and not classical, like the old man he is.

At a little after 10, he and his neighbor Rick left to catch their train back up to the ‘burbs. Since it was late, I took a cab. I’m not that far from Wrigley, but I don’t like to take the EL later at night, especially when drunk, because that’s just asking for trouble. And I didn’t want anyone trying to steal my new purse.

So I took a cab. I’m pretty sure we all know where this is going.

For those of you new here, I seem to have some sort of connection with cab drivers. And it isn’t just in Chicago. Ask her and her, who had the pleasure of witnessing my drunken interactions with a cab driver in San Francisco last year. A cab driver that I told to take me on a date to Burger King so we could dine and dash through the drive-thru while I offered him Cheetos that I stole from a party. I’m nothing if not KLASSY, people.

Anyway, cab drivers love me for some reason. It’s like I’m the Patron Saint of Cabbies, or something. Usually it ends with them asking for my phone number, and me giving it to them, only to ignore their calls later. One time it ended with a guy asking me for a huggy-huggy. I don’t count the time I got a bump on my head when my cab driver got into an accident with me in the car. The cabbie got my number that time, but not for any good reason.

So back to Saturday. I’m feeling good, I’ve been drinking for about 9 hours and of course I’m chatty. So I start talking to this cab driver. I should point out, I never go into a situation in a cab expecting him to ask for my number. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. I’m always SHOCKED when they do. Even though IT KEEPS HAPPENING! I just am chatty, especially when I’m drunk. And once you’ve passed the 10 beer point, it’s not like you’re checking Twitter on your phone on a bumpy car trip. Unless you want to be puking in the back of said cab.

The funny thing is that my cabbie mojo has been way off lately. I’ve taken plenty of cab rides in the past few months and nothing. I talked to a nice man once, but there was no asking of the phone number. I was beginning to think I lost my luster. Thankfully, after Saturday, all is right with the world. The cab drivers of Chicago are once again in love with me. Huzzah!

I don’t remember much of the conversation with the cabbie on Saturday. I am pretty sure his name was Adnan. It was probably Adam, but I want to be like Britney and have an Adnan. We chatted about something. It’s not a long conversation. I live like 4-5 miles from Wrigley. The ride probably took 10 minutes. I’m sure I was my charming, funny self, which makes it hard for anyone not to fall in love with me.

I remembered we talked about how we were neighbors (not really. He lives close-ish to me). I think we talked about where he was from (not the US and no, I don’t remember where). I remember that I laughed, he laughed. It was a grand old time. And once he pulled up to my place, I was ready to pay my fare and be on my merry way to eating string cheese and passing out in my Cubs jersey. A typical Saturday night in Kristabellikstan.

But then he asked for my phone number. And I tried to play it off while I got my money together to pay him, joking “why would you want my number?” And then he’s all “blah, blah, you’re cute and funny, blah, blah.” So then I give him my number. BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING IDIOT!

This time I learned a little. I gave him my land line number. The one I never answer. But of course as soon as I gave him my number, he’s all “OK, I’m going to call it.” And because I AM A FUCKING IDIOT, I’m all “oh, hahahahaha, that’s my house phone.” So he says “well take my number then.” And instead of being smart and just throwing my money at him and leaving, I’m all OK! And then I reach in my purse and I remember that my phone is dead! I’m SAVED! Huzzah!

Until he says “write it down. Do you have a pen and paper?” And AGAIN, because I AM A FUCKING IDIOT, I’m all “yep! Right here! What’s your number?” And he told me and I wrote it down. Well I thought I wrote it down. Upon looking at it the next day, it’s just like three numbers and a bunch of scribbles. It looks like Skyler got a hold of my pen and wrote a soliloquy in my little notebook.

And of course Adnan called on Sunday. It figures when you meet a guy you like, you can’t get the guy to call for shit. But meet a cabbie and stupidly give him your number and he breaks all the rules and calls the next day. It’s a good thing I don’t answer my home phone. Because hopefully Adnan will give up.

I Twittered yesterday about him calling. And I wondered aloud why I am UNABLE to lie to cab drivers. Why can’t I just say “oh, I’m flattered, but I have a boyfriend”? Or “I’m sorry, I’m married”. Or “thank you, but I’m not interested”. Or “I have two cats”. Why do I feel the need to be so honest with cab drivers? I mean it is nice to be hit on, even by some weird dude named Adnan. But that shouldn’t preclude me from telling a small white lie. Should it? WHY AM I SO NICE?

And what is it with cabbies hitting on very drunk chicks? I mean, unless you take us out right then, how often are we going to wake up and think “oh, right, giving my phone number to the cab driver was GENIUS! We will be married in two weeks! Two words – SOUL MATES.”

One of these times, I’m going to get a repeat offender. That should be interesting. I’m hoping for the huggy-huggy guy. Because he didn’t ask for my number. And who doesn’t love hugs from strange cab drivers?

Now who wants to take a ride in a cab with me? Anyone?