"Sweetie, I think your cousin is somewhere in the airport," I explained over the phone from the bathroom stall. I had been taking a dump in terminal 2 when I came across this Facebook status update:

Laura just ran a mile across O'Hare to watch her flight drive away without her.

It went on to explain that she's stuck at the airport for a few hours. By chance, we had quite a bit of time before our flight boards. It would be nice to see Laura; she couldn't make it to the Galesburg Thanksgiving.

Several minutes later we were all three sitting by our gate, catching up on stuff. It's kinda neat what you can accomplish from the a public stall these days.

I'd like someone to explain this slim-fit trend that's all the rage right now. I looked all over for a decent pair of boot-cut cords and could not find one. Even the Levi's store didn't have 'em. But almost every clerk—AHEMfashionista—could point me to a surplus of slim-fit options, though I don't even wear jeans.

Perhaps I'm just too fat or too old for these places in Bucktown and Wicker Park, because I don't think these pants look good—nor look right—especially for someone with a butt and a pair of quads like mine.

We exchanged presents with Tammie's folks since we wouldn't be seeing each other during Christmas. Everyone got at least one pair of customary Smartwool socks. And we got the usual Starbucks mega-gift card. We also received the Seinfeld—Scene It? game. Ironically, we got the very same game for my in-laws.

The turkey took all of the previous evening and half of the day. It was my first time making a turkey and my step-dad's recipe was rather intricate: it involved brining, home-made stock, stuffing, and brandied gravy. I skipped the cognac reduction because... I mean... c'mon.

Halfway through this mess, we decided to add a smaller turkey to the mix just in case the fifteen-pounder was insufficient. They both turned out well, though quite different as the second bird wasn't brined.

I was falling asleep dead-tired as we tried to play Apples to Apples. I couldn't tell if it was due to the cooking, the over-eating, or the turkey itself.

We missed our train by one minute. One minute, no kidding. For a while I was pretty pissed—there was no reason to have left the apartment so late; we simply lost track of time.

But it wasn't too bad. We got seats on the next train, the Illinois Zephyr, at no charge. And with the extra couple of hours I took some pictures of Union Station, bought a Chicago Cubs keychain, and satisfied a Chicago Dog craving at Gold Coast (though not nearly as good as Al's Beef).

Cafe Iberico—I was left with the responsibility of ordering for a group of sixteen but kept getting distracted by conversation; it was a while before the tapas started rolling in.

When the food eventually came, it was delicious. Though the Tamster wouldn't know, she was chatting so much she didn't get to eat.

I may have had a little too much fun that night. At the end of the night my voice was gone and and was trying to finish off everyone's sangria.

····

Those ice-cream burritos were good.

I was going through a quart of Ben & Jerry's, picking out chunks of cookie dough, when I figured out why Tammie has such a romantic notion of Vermont even though she's never been there.

The 24 "2-Hour Event" that we were so excited for was more like a preview of the upcoming season than a TV movie. It wasn't quite as riveting or involved as a regular season episode, but then what did you expect? They had to do in two hours what they used to do in twenty-four.

Having never followed a season of 24 as it was broadcast over the air—we had Netflixed the past seasons—I got a sense of what to expect in January. That is, the show is a lot easier to watch when commercial breaks let you catch your breath. You don't get that kind of relief on DVD; it's like stress concentrate.

While emptying our bag of REI spoils, the Tamster realized she bought the wrong pair of winter cycling gloves. I guess she had two pairs in her hand—the right pair and the wrong pair—and she bought the wrong pair.

"What do you wanna do? You wanna go back?" I asked though I knew the answer, she needs it for tomorrow's ride.

So we went back. She exchanged the gloves and I exchanged a pair of medium socks for a pair in large; I'm on the cusp and decided to err on the side of shrinkage.

"It's funny. That couple has been here since the first time we were here," Tammie remarked as we walked out of the store.

I thought about it and then wondered if the couple was thinking something similar, "It's funny. That couple left about an hour ago."

I thought I was just nauseous from drinking too much coffee and spending the day unproductive, but it turns out I'm down with the flu. Thermometer confirms it.

Should've gotten a flu shot like my mom suggested.

So, uhm... I guess I'll work on my citizenship; 'cuz I've got nothing better to do.

I remember the last time I took a practice citizenship test. It was multiple choice and one of the questions asked who the United States' enemies are. The only combination that made any sense was Germany, Italy, and Japan.

It was correct. But the question was supposed to be pertinent to current events, and it was what? 2003?

Have you seen marlboro.com? Not one cowboy; not one instance of red. In fact, the domain deflects to some brand-neutral support site.

Obviously, one of the most recognizable labels in the world doesn't need to be throwing their weight around. But they seem to be doing just the opposite; I haven't seen an TV spot or a magazine ad in quite a while (nor have I paid attention). It's like they're using ninja-style marketing.

I am missing something, yes? Like an advertising ban of some sort or at least legal hurdle.

····

$26 to fill up our gas-guzzling four-wheel drive. I am loving this recession.

The dog was so excited to go for a run, she fell down the stairs. And yet, as she tumbled from the very top to the very bottom, her legs never stopped trying to propel herself downwards. Strange dog.

While browsing through Cafe Iberico's site in search of their phone number (to make reservations), I found a review claiming the restaurant serves the best Hispanic food in Chicago. I was like "Uhm, whatever... every one knows that tapas is Spanish," but then thought better of it. Hispanic sounded awfully similar to Españish, so I looked into it further.

E-findings from my e-research: in the States, Hispanic and Latino are used interchangeably. Latino (technically just Latin) is shorthand for Latino-Americano. But Hispanic has a broader definition; the term refers to any culture influenced by the Spanish. I've always noted a cultural kinship (or parallel) between the Philippines and Mexico. Now I have the word that goes with it.

In fact, the Internet lists the Philippines and Guam as Hispanic countries in the Asian Pacific. Wikipedia: check it. So technically, I'm Hispanic. And the custodian of SteakTaco.com.

Typical.

Marriage is: using your wife's migraine as a motivation to not go out for a cold, cold ride.

I had been eyeing the right-side rear tire for a couple of weeks by the time I stopped for some air. It looked low and I was worried about getting a pinch flat—I have yet to fix a flat on a car.

On paper it's simple enough: use the jack to suspend the wheel, unbolt the bolts, remove the wheel, slip in the doughnut, rebolt the bolts, and move on. But having fixed enough bicycle flats, I'm sure I'll run into something real good.

I was a bit alarmed with the reading from the pressure gauge; 7 psi while the other wheels were at 35. Well... at least now I know what 7 psi looks like.

Remember what it was like to browse through the snack aisle while stoned and cursed with the munchies? I was like that today. First at Dick's, then at Office Depot, and finally at Target. I totally got lost at Target.

····

Where have I been? DVD players now average $40? Cripes I remember when they cost $300. Come to think of it, I remember when VHS players were $300. And forget Discman; my first Walkman cost me $250 and was paid for with a wad of busboy tips.

My, how it flies.

Crap Crap Crap.

Steaktaco.com dropped in ranking from #2 to #54 in Google results. I'm sure it's because of the redesign; the GoogleBot doesn't like it.

At least Steaktaco.blogspot.com is hanging on at #7.

····

I found evidence. Evidence of mice.

Our marriage certificate came in the mail. It's disappointingly plain; no embellishments, no character whatsoever. Quite a contrast to our wedding.

I guess I just didn't expect it to come looking like an eBay invoice.

I was sitting on the counter, playing Tap Tap Revenge while waiting for the espresso machine to heat up, when something grey and furry scurried from underneath the oven.

"Please God no," I begged out loud. Maybe it's just a trapped baby pigeon. Anything but mice again. Please.

Nostalgic for our time in Chicago, we found ourselves looking back on the lakefront rides, old teammates, and our friend Jeff. And whenever we think of the lake front path and our friend Jeff together, this exchange comes to mind:

"What's your heart rate at?" Jeff asked.

I looked at my computer and replied, "6:51 pm."

Tammie still cracks up thinking about that.

"If we could see the future, we'd never get out of bed."

-Barbara Fordham, August: Osage County

I just figured out the most direct way home from the 9th street lot in Chinatown. That is, after parking there regularly for over a year.

From the W in Times Square we walked up Hell's Kitchen, through Central Park, around the Upper East Side, and back down Madison Avenue; then cabbed it to Washington Square where we walked more until we had lunch at an East Village Mexican restaurant. All this walking was in lieu of cycling or running, but it was enough: the meal was delicious.

While we ate, the owner was at the bar naming off Almodovar movies to a wine salesman. She got stuck at the one before Talk to Her; the one where Penelope Cruz played a pregnant nun. It was at the tip of my tongue. I would've IMDb'd it but that would be stalky.

····

We agreed that New York seems like a great place to live but just an okay place to visit. I've been there years before and felt the same way then.

It really says more about us than it does about the city. We're just not much of destination tourists; we're not interested enough in sightseeing as an activity. We're much more interested in an awesome city backdrop as we run errands, walk the dog, or get some exercise.

It's the same way I feel about taking pictures: I don't set out with shooting in mind, I just do it as I go along. Same with art: I enjoy being surrounded by tasteful designs, decor, and architecture, but have no interest in going to museums or galleries.

I would've included visiting animals in zoos in my argument; but I'm not really keen on being around tigers and snakes and bears. I have enough issues with mice.

New York City: We felt antsy most of the afternoon. And maybe even slightly nauseous (at least I was). It's really hard to indulge in decadence when you haven't burned 2,000 Calories. And believe you me, we indulged.

At the end of the night we decided: no more vacations without bikes. Or at the very least running shoes.

"You're the strangest person I ever met," she said and he said, "You too," and they decided they'd know each other a long time.

I saw them standing there pretending to be just friends, when all the time in the world could not pry them apart. They came to sit and dangle their feet off the edge of the world, and after a while they forgot everything but the good and true things they would do someday.

There are things you do because they feel right and they may make no sense and they may make no money, and it may be the real reason we are here—to love each other and to eat each other's cooking and say it was good.

And in the end, they were sitting on the bed talking and wondering where the time had gone.

—Brian Andreas, title unknown

We had our rehearsal dinner at Hokka Hokka. We went mostly to satisfy a craving for green tea (Tammie) and red bean (Carlos) ice cream; there really isn't a need to rehearse for an elopement ceremony.

We spent a good deal of the evening keeping track of the score on a silent, close-captioned TV. Besides us, the place was empty. I should've asked the waiter to turn up the volume.

Tomorrow should be a national holiday.

Sit.
Down.
Sit.
Down.
Sit.
Down.
Sit.
Down.

That's how we do doggie push-ups.

The ride was plagued with noticeable balance checks. This was partly due to the fact that I haven't been on the road much; I started trainer sessions a little prematurely because of last weeks rain and chill. But mostly it was because I couldn't stop looking at trees.

Pennsylvania is ridiculous in the fall.

We walked through Morris Arboretum to stake out a little corner for our elopement ceremony. It's a beautiful park but we had difficulty settling on a spot; what looked perfect from a distance turned out to be bland up-close.

Besides being too critical of the scenery, it was a pleasant walk—70 degrees, with the foliage in full Autumn attire. It's such a fleeting, unpredictable season; we're fortunate our ceremony will be adorned with these delicate hues.

I've never thought of it this way before, but Autumn is definitely one of my four favorite seasons.