Archive for the ‘boqueen’ tag

My future wife, the hot mess

“Nothing good happens after midnight” is a maxim that is commonly embraced by parents and other elderly types.

This old adage is meant to convey the benefits of retiring to bed at an early hour. The phrase is often used by parents who worry that the twilight hours will expose their children to the unsavory aspects of life, such as premarital sex, alcohol, drugs and Mexicans.

I thoroughly reject the notion that “nothing good happens after midnight,” as I am a nocturnal being. Every morning, I begrudgingly peel myself out of bed for work, spending the first part of the day in a semiconscious haze. I am a staunch proponent of early evening naps, and I am most productive late at night.

My girlfriend, boqueen, is also a night owl. However, I do not know if she also disagrees with the statement “nothing good happens after midnight,” as she has a tendency to get drunk and black out in the early morning hours. It is difficult to assess the quality of what occurs after midnight when one has no recollection of the events in question.

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Introducing new, blunt-smoking douchebag neighbors

I write this post from the Heart of Italy.

Gondolas are nowhere in sight.  The Vatican is thousands of miles away.  And I cannot recall the last time a mustachioed man walked by carrying a paper bag with baguettes poking out of the top.

I am at my apartment in Chicago.

In late October, I moved into a new apartment located in the Pilsen neighborhood on Chicago’s near south side.  My particular borough is known as “The Heart of Italy.”  The small community is known for a stretch of Italian restaurants along Oakley Avenue, and was once a popular destination for Italian immigrants.

(Many of my friends and coworkers view my move to the south side as quite fitting.  In fact, many acquaintances have guessed that I am from the south side, due to my thick Chicago accent.  One of my college teachers even asked if I was from Bridgeport, home of Mayor Richard Daley.  In addition, I am a White Sox fan who spent the better part of my life among Cubs Kool-Aid drinkers on the north side.   In many ways, moving south of Madison Avenue was a foregone conclusion.)

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Ode to bokeen

Last week, the world celebrated the anniversary of my birth. 

If you were not aware, my birthday is kind of a Big Deal.  All across America, flags flew in front of suburban houses.  Mail wasn’t delivered and doves cried.  Snoop Dogg lit a celebratory blunt.  President Obama declared a moment of silence at 1:46 AM Central, the precise moment of my birth.  Shaquille O’Neal and Ashton Kutcher tweeted about it.  You probably missed it all because you were asleep. 

At the stroke of midnight on my birthday, boqueen unveiled her gift for me.  She had assembled a scrapbook containing several photos of me, her and my friends, along with excerpts from her private journal written when we started dating.  There were also several quotes from my friends.  boqueen had sent out emails to my closest chums, in hope that they would share their favorite memory of me.

I hate to admit it, but I teared up like little bitch as I read through the book. And so, without further ado, I present some of my favorite excerpts.  Consider this a series of testimonials to the life-changing experience of knowing bokeen. 

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No Doubt I’m too old for this shit

While I am a self-proclaimed douchebag, I am a pretty good boyfriend.

For boqueen’s birthday, I bought tickets to see her favorite band, No Doubt, play in Tinley Park. boqueen was born in late May, so it was a gift of delayed gratification.  After weeks of anticipation, the show finally arrived on Saturday. 

As a bloke in my late 20s, concertgoing is not a regular experience for me.  When I was a younger lad, concerts were a regular part of my summertime experience.  As I grew older, I became farther removed from radio play and popular music.  I feel like an old man: I cannot recognize, nor enjoy, the vast majority of music that is played on the radio today. 

Pop in a Sublime, Michael Jackson, Ice Cube or even a Beatles record, and I am good.  Tune in to a Top 40 radio station, and I am lost.  This is precisely why boqueen, who is several years younger than me, refers to me as “Captain Greyballs.” 

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Farewell, Dyketha. See you in hell.

Sometimes, the End of the Road is far less depressing than the Boyz II Men song. 

Dyketha (pronounced DIKE-uh-thuh) has been boqueen’s roommate for over a year.  Today, Dyketha finished packing her scattered mess of belongings and rode off into the sunset, never to be seen again.  Tomorrow, boqueen will have a new, far less contemptible roommate. 

I have been eagerly anticipating the moment that she would be permanently banished from boqueen’s palace.

Like all humans, Dyketha is a creature of habit.  However, her habit of “living in squalor and refusing to contribute to the household” had become the bane of boqueen’s existence.

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Diagnois: Hispanophobia

“I don’t see many white people around here.”

The remark didn’t carry a tinge of spite or racism; it was simply an honest observation.

As I waited for my cheeseburger in a fast food restaurant, I struck up a conversation with a Mexican girl who appeared to be in her early 20s. I was in Chicago’s Little Village neighborhood – a short walk away from boqueen’s palace.

Little Village is a predominately Mexican neighborhood. Census records indicate that 83% of residents are Hispanic and nearly 13% are black. White people are an anomaly, comprising less than four percent of population of the borough.

I laughed at the girl’s comment, acknowledging my unusual status as a minority. I explained that I was spending the weekend at my girlfriend’s apartment. As she awkwardly chuckled in response, it became clear that she was slightly disappointed. Apparently, the girl was attempting to flirt with me – and I can’t blame her.

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Scenes From a Moroccan Restaurant

Bottle of red, bottles of Lite…

Last week, boqueen and I met up with four of her friends for dinner at a Moroccan restaurant.  I was delighted to find out about the restaurant’s “BYO” policy, which means that we would be allowed to bring our own booze of choice.  As an ardent alcoholic, I realized that we’d potentially save hundreds of dollars on drinks. 

The restaurant was located in the Lakeview neighborhood, an area rife with yuppies.  I briefly considered trying to blend in by getting dressed up and bringing import beer.  But I am a simple man, comfortable sipping cheap domestic beer while lounging in a black t-shirt and Chuck Taylors.  I decided to keep it classy by eschewing my preference of cans of Miller Lite in favor of bottles of Miller Lite. 

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The Hospital of the Living Dead and why Universal Health Care is bullshit

boqueen was in pain.

Not “ouch that hurts” pain, but “I am too goddamn young to confront my own mortality” pain. What started as minor abdominal discomfort had become debilitating agony.

boqueen decided to go to the emergency room. Like 630 billion other Americans, she is uninsured. And like any uninsured Chicagoan, she sought care at John H. Stroger Hospital, the city’s largest public hospital.

We traded text messages as she sat in a waiting room with hundreds of other patients, waiting to have her number called. Nervous and concerned, I offered to come to the hospital and wait with her. She repeatedly declined, assuring me that she would be seen soon.

We both knew better. Stroger Hospital is notorious for exceptionally long waiting times.

After four hours, her number had been called. Her blood pressure had been taken and she was asked to return to the waiting room to be called again.

boqueen considered transferring to another more efficient hospital. I got in my truck and headed out to Stroger Hospital, with the intentions of taking her to an ER that takes a fleeting interest in actually treating patients.

As I drove to the hospital, boqueen’s name was called. We both knew the waiting game was far from over.

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boqueen, the unwilling Baha’i.

I find that one of the most enjoyable parts of the average week is a lazy, hung over Saturday afternoon spent at my girlfriend boqueen’s apartment.  While we have developed a regular routine, Saturday mornings are devoid of the tedium of monotony. After I caffeinate myself and suck down a few cigarettes, we shield our bleary eyes with dark sunglasses and pick up lunch.  When we are done with our meal, we clean up any stray beer cans from the prior evening, and spend a few hours at our laptops, usually writing for our respective blogs.

A few weeks ago, as we ventured out to pick up lunch, I noticed a large piece of mail at the entrance of her palace.  The hefty envelope was addressed to boqueen, and the return address indicated that it had been sent by the Chicago Baha’i Center.

The Baha’i faith is the youngest of the major religions and is spreading quite rapidly.  Baha’is can be found in countries and territories across the globe, second to only Christianity.  The Baha’i faith emphasizes the unity of humanity and all religions.

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Ode to Dooce

Thursday night, I went to Borders in Oakbrook for Heather B. Armstrong’s book signing. Armstrong writes under the pseudonym “Dooce.” If you haven’t heard of either, I must ask: have you ever heard of “blogging?” Dooce is a fucking legend amongst bloggers. Read her shit. Hilarious. I want to be her, except for the whole “having a vagina” part.

If you are unfamiliar with her work, I will summarize: Dooce.com popped off in February 2001. She was canned from her job as a graphic designer due to the content of her blog: she wrote rather unflattering things about her boss. Since then, she has risen to the cream of the blogging crop. Dooce has written about the experience of her first pregnancy, her battle with postpartum depression, family life and poop. The results have incredibly entertaining.

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