Sunday was a day I've been preparing and training for since the summer began - intensively training for for about a month now.

I've been doing everything in my power to increase my cardiovascular strength and lower my blood pressure as much as possible ... running, yoga, mediation - I did it all.

Still, I awoke Sunday morning to what I thought was my weekend houseguest, Stephanie, shaking my bed to wake me up - but turned out to be my heart pounding that hard.  I made myself a big, healthy breakfast - took an anti-anxiety pill, a few deep breaths, and readied myself for the big day.  The whole drive from Chicago to Hartford was spent with hands shaking on the steering wheel, nerves on edge - and by the time the event was about to start, I was an absolute basket case. 

I suited up in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, did a few stretches, some deep lunges, and headed downstairs - the big moment had finally arrived.  

With one last deep breath, I settled down in front of the TV to watch the Packer game.

Packer games are my cardio.  They fit the requirement - my heart rate is significantly elevated for the entirety of the game, which is well over thirty minutes, and usually there is a lot of jumping up from the couch in celebration, jumping up and down with my hands in my pockets during a particularly tense moment, and holding my breath for far longer than I should, while willing the players to hear me while I silently dictate exactly what I think should happen.

This last game, though, could well have killed me, if not for the intensive training I put into it.  It's one thing to watch your team get beat - it's another to watch them get beat by a man who led that team since you were seven.  No fan should have to go through that.  Twice.  In one month.  It's bad on the heart.  Especially when the new quarterback is one that you so badly want to succeed.  I remember thinking once, at the height of Favre's career with the Packers, that I might never be able to watch a Packer game again after he left - because who could possibly fill those cleats?

But the only thought going through my head when Aaron Rodgers first took the field last year was Man, was I wrong.  He's about as likable as Favre ever was - probably even more so, considering Brett's recent career decisions.  He has the same boyish enthusiasm on the field that drew so many people to our last quarterback - just as much determination, etc.  When Brett was with the Jets, I discovered I liked Rodgers just as much as I'd ever liked his predecessor.  When Brett went to the Vikings - I decided I liked Rodgers far more than I liked his predecessor.  That admiration has just continued to grow - for him, as well as so many other members of the team.

Sports team affiliation is probably similar to political affiliation - you root for who you grow up watching, and oftentimes even well after you've left your parents house and moved to a new city or two, your team is still the team you grew up with.  That I can understand.  The two things I cannot understand are, first, how on earth anyone (myself included) becomes so personally invested in that team that you can be moved to tears, whether they win or lose; and second, why any of us continue to watch that team play every weekend.

We call the players by their last name, have dinner-table discussions about just how great (or not great) they are, as if we know them personally - when in reality, we simply watch them do their jobs once a week for a few hours.  Yet here we are acting as though we're best friends.  Then we're all confused when we run into them at the grocery store and they actually act like they don't know who we are.

"Come on," we say.  "I'm your biggest fan.  I'm the one who willed that 53 yard reception of yours.  Don't you remember?  I'm the one that kept screaming at the TV that you should execute that play.  Surely you remember..." 

The Packers, if I'm not mistaken, have won three Superbowls.  That averages out to roughly one Superbowl win every 30 years.  I would guess that's about average for the other teams in the NFL - which means that, for the 29 years in between, team members and fans alike are left disappointed in their season.  I've seen men turn into monsters I don't recognize - I've heard my own voice take on a tone that could easily be mistaken for Sasquatch - and probably started those rumors a few years ago that Sasquatch had been sighted in the Hartford area.  Residents can rest assured that it was probably just me, screaming at the Packers.  Yet there we are, year after year, sitting in front of the TV for that season opener, convinced that this year is our year.

Not only do we put ourselves through it year after year - we make ourselves a part of it - referring to our team as "We" as if we're the ones out there on the field taking hits; assuming we know better than the coaches how to run our particular team; feeling like if we just squint at that screen a little bit harder, somehow our intense focus will cause that turnover or momentum shift "We" so badly need.

And at the end of the season, whether "We" are eliminated from the playoffs, don't even make it to the playoffs, or worst of all, lose the Superbowl - only one team can win it.  Which leaves over 30 teams, along with their loyal fans, crushed.

That's a lot of drama - emotional and physical - for just four months of three hours every Sunday.  So why do we do it?

We do it for that moment, once every three decades, where our team can hoist that SuperBowl trophy in the air - having proven to the nation that night what we've known all along - that they are the best team in the NFL.

No matter who beats the Packers - team or person, I will continue to believe that about the Packers.  And I can't wait for the day that "We" prove it to the country. 

I just hope I live to see it - a few more games like last Sundays could be the death of me.  Luckily, there is no possible scenario I can think of that would result in a more painful loss, so I think I speak for all of "us" when I say at least there's nowhere to go but up.  Right up Brett Favre's.  

{rokintensedebate} 

I saw on the news the other morning that the shortage of the H1N1 vaccine has led to an even greater demand for it than if there was plenty to go around.  I thought I'd take the same approach this week with blog posts - perhaps a shortage of them would lead to a greater demand for one, and bam suddenly I'd have a few hundred avid readers as opposed to the twenty some loyal friends and family members who may or may not be reading these strictly out of obligation.

Or, the alternative is that I've been keeping myself entirely too busy editing Hearts Wide Open, which is now DONE and has been sent to an editor!  Now I can focus on what I love - writing - which includes, today, a blog post reminiscing about last weekend.  

My friends the Raley's were in town, celebrating their 1st anniversary.  Being the kind people they are, they let me tag along to a celebratory dinner, as this may well be the only 1st anniversary I'll ever be a part of.  We went to Nomi, one of my favorite sushi restaurants, and it was immediately recommended by our waiter that we try the Truffle Tartine and the Squab.  Which, as it turned out, were glorified terms for Grilled Cheese and Pigeon.  

I don't even like pigeons on the sidewalk - the last place I wanted one was on my plate, no matter what they called it on the menu - but curiosity got the better of all of us, and we ordered the Squab.  It was served ever so appetizingly: four tiny bites of what turned out to be partially RAW pigeon, completed with an actual claw - Squab claw - draped over the edge of the plate.  To me it tasted exactly what you would expect pigeon to taste like - a little gamey, dirty and homeless.  I may have enjoyed it more if I could have pretended it was chicken, but that was hard to do, with Marie across the table making gentle cooing sounds as I tried to swallow.

The grilled cheese, on the other hand, was truly the best I've ever had - somehow the sourdough was infused with the cheese, and was topped with truffles, my favorite!  In fact I've been thinking of putting a Truffle Sniffing Pig on my Christmas list for this year. 

I warned both Ben and Marie that it will be hard to find a way to celebrate their second anniversary with half as much class and romance as this one had - nothing's quite so fancy as grilled cheese and flying rats, and nothing's quite so romantic as having Melissa Milne as your plus-one, choking on squab across the table as you try to toast the rest of your lives together.  

But they promised that from this day forward, they will judge five-star restaurants based solely on their availability of grilled cheese and pigeon.

So, to help them out, I've compiled a list of ten menu items that I find even grosser than Squab, in case they're looking for a way to top our fabulous meal.

The winners are: 

10. Still Beating Cobra Heart (served with a cobra blood chaser.) YUMMM.

9. Nutria Rat

8. Squirrel Brain

7. Pigs Blood with Eggs

6. Fried Scorpions

5. Moose Bone Soup

4. Fried Sheep Testicles

3. Fish Eyeballs

2. Kim Chee (which I believe is rotted vegetables.)

1. Deep Fried Monkey Toes  

Guys I hope it's alright with you that I won't be joining you for any of those meals - however the next time you decide to celebrate anything with grilled cheese and pigeon, let me know.  Great to see you both, and come back to Chicago soon!

If you don't find me at home, look for me out on the sidewalk.  I'll be the girl running around with a butterfly net, trying to catch some squab.

 {rokintensedebate}  

I have this rule with exes - the minute you stop thinking about them for even a second, they appear.  In your inbox, on your caller ID, it's like they know you've reached a point where you're just about over them - and are intent on keeping that from happening.

It seems to be the same with cops.  I haven't gotten a ticket in over 4-years, and made the mistake of thinking that perhaps I was done getting tickets, when there he was behind me, lights flashing and badge gleaming.

Now I should say here that I really respect the police force, what it stands for and what they do.  Cops, especially those in the city, are some of the bravest people I can imagine, and I don't think they get paid nearly enough.

In fact think it's absolutely ridiculous that a basketball star gets paid multi-millions to run up and down a court for a few hours a week and star in Nike commercials, while the people that protect us, or teach our children - the future of our country, get paid chump change.  But, that's another blog for another day.  

Anyway, what cops do is great.  The way most of them go about it, in my opinion, is not.

I think cops are some of the meanest people you'll ever encounter.  I don't know if the majority of them were picked on in high school and are out for revenge or what, but I've never met a friendly cop. 

Yesterday started out no different.

This particular officer approached my window and without even a "good afternoon," shouted: "TWO TICKETS!  ONE, YOU WERE ON YOUR CELL.  TWO, YOU PAUSED AT THE STOP SIGN."  The decibel he was yelling at attracted the attention of pedestrians on the sidewalk, and one would of thought he was about to wrestle me to the ground for a hit and run.

I apologized - and meant it - both offenses were completely my bad and I took, and take, responsibility for them.  Next he asked for my license and proof of insurance - which I handed over immediately.  "YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME," he continued incredibly loudly.  I quickly scanned my car for some kind of "Hearing Impaired" sign that might be leading him to believe he had to yell this loud.  "Let me ask you this, Ms. Milne.  Do you realize you have a Wisconsin Drivers License?"

I wondered if maybe this was some sort of trick question, and now scanned my car for a "Mentally Handicapped" sign.  What I wanted to say was, Really?!  Is that what the big WISCONSIN on my drivers license means?!  I thought that was just that particular DMV employees favorite state.  Instead I just said, "Yes."

"You're going to follow me into the station," he said.  As he walked away towards his car, my license in hand, he added, "You're going to have to post a cash bond."

"What's that?"  I just wanted clarification is all.

"That's cash," he said.  

Again ... really?  I got the cash part the minute he said 'cash' - what I wanted to know was what a cash bond was and why I was required to post one.

I followed him to the station with some difficulty, as he gunned it through almost all the yellow lights and left me wondering whether following him was more important or obeying traffic signals while a cop is watching you in his rearview mirror was more important.

When we walked into the station, he pointed to a spot in front of his desk where I was to stand, while he filed my paperwork.

There was a female police officer sitting next to him, and as I watched she fielded a phone call.

"YEAH?" she answered, and I began to think that speaking at that volume was part of their job.  "SO LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT.  YOU REPORTED YOUR PLATES STOLEN, AND NOW YOU'RE TELLING ME YOU FOUND THEM?  WELL LET ME TELL YOU WHY I CAN'T DO THIS OVER THE PHONE."

I tuned her out at this point, until she slammed down the phone and made a snide remark to my cop about how stupid civilians can be.  Her phone rang again:

"WHAT.  HI.  NO, YOU PICK THE TICKETS THERE. YES YOU DO.  BECAUSE THAT'S JUST HOW THEY DO IT.  DON'T BE AN IDIOT, DO YOU WANT THEM OR NOT?!?  SERIOUSLY ... USE A LITTLE F*****G COMMON SENSE, YOU DUMB***. OK.  LOVE YOU TOO, MOM, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY.  HAVE FUN AT THE THEATER."  With this she calmly placed the phone back in the cradle and rose to get herself some coffee.

Well, at least I know this isn't a tone she reserves only for hoodlums like myself.

It must have been watching his partner that my cop realized how rude his kind can come off - because suddenly he turned nice.  At one point I even found myself wanting to become friends with this particular police officer.  He asked me about what I did, he told me what kinds of books he likes to read - he even decided not to write me one of the three tickets he'd been threatening - and let me post a signature bond instead of a cash  one.  Then he told me not to worry about my court date - that the judge would most likely throw out one of the two remaining tickets and that I'd really only have to worry about paying one of them.

Then he asked me if my last name was Italian, and I told him no, Scottish.   Does Milne sound Italian to anyone else?  That was a new one for me.  

I don't know what accounted for his sudden change of heart - but it was refreshing and I don't have quite the sour taste in my mouth that I used to have about police officers.

Still, I will be coming to a FULL stop at all future stop signs (I'm sure to the chagrin of all cabbies driving behind me who I have seen, in the past, run through them without even tapping their brakes.)

I will also no longer be talking on my cell phone, definitely not in the car - maybe not ever.  That thing has been nothing but trouble for me.  From now on I can be reached by snail mail or carrier pigeon - or you can come visit me in jail, where it seems they wanted to throw me for a moving traffic violation while throughout Chicago there are real criminals committing far more serious offenses.  Or serving in a public office.

{rokintensedebate} 

Due to the combined factors of having no money and having no desire to spend all my time sitting at home, I've decided to start a segment called "Free Chicago," dedicated to all the things you can do in this expensive city for free.

Today will be focused on walking.  It's one of my favorite things to do, especially this time of year.  Walking is free, fun, and Chicago is a great place for it.

Websites like this one can help you plan your Chicago walk.  

Yet while these types of sites focus on the great aspects of this city you'll see, I'd like to focus not on the landmarks or historical sites, but on the crazy people you're sure to pass if you time it right.

While I try to steer clear of drama in my own life, I do love to watch drama unfolding all around me.  This is why shows like The Hills appeal to me.  It's also why my recommended "Chicago Walk" takes place on Clark street, between Fullerton and Diversey, anytime after 8:00 p.m.

I don't know if there's a crack den in the area, or a brothel, but this seems to be a hot spot for people that seem like they would frequent both.  This is precisely where I witnessed the homeless pie-eating argument, and last night it was where I came close to being a part of something I've always wanted to be a part of.  Well, wanted to be a part of for the last few months, at least.

After one particularly slow afternoon in Wisconsin a few months ago where I watched nothing but COPS for three straight hours with my sister and her boyfriend, I've been dying to see/be part of an arrest in real life.  And last night as I saw a police car approach the sidewalk I was walking on, I made the decision that this was not only something I was not going to miss, it was something I was going to participate in.  I didn't even know where the cop was headed exactly, but began to follow him just the same once he got out of his car.

We approached (I say we, but I don't think he knew I was behind him) a man standing in a doorway with a knapsack sitting on the ground in front of him.

"What's going on here?" The cop asked him.

I waited impatiently for the guy to answer, my arms crossed as I leaned up against the wall of the building we were in front of.  

"My cell phone's in there!" he yelled, shaking the door.  "My girlfriend was getting her haircut inside and I left it..."

I'm not quite sure what was running through his head at that moment, because the door he was standing in front of was not that of a salon, but of an Italian shoe store.

"Well you can't just go breaking in to get it back," the cop said.  "I've had civilians complaining that you were about to break down the door!" His tone was severe, and though I'd been planning on just watching whatever went down, for some reason I decided this would be a good time to open my mouth.

"Yeah, I for one was afraid for my life," I said.  At this point the cop, still unaware that I'd been there, turned around to face me.

"Can I help you with something maam? he asked.

"Oh just watching," I replied.  "Carry on."

Instead of continuing his arrest like I figured he would, the cop started to give me attitude.  "Miss, if you want to file a complaint I can speak to you when I'm done.  Otherwise move along."

All the visions I'd been having of my help in this case being so influential that this cop would ask me to be his partner, we'd go on to solve all the crimes of Chicago, and maybe even have our own syndicated TV show, vanished on the spot. 

"Fine," I muttered as I walked away.  "I'm not the one trying to stage a break-in."

I was a little bummed walking home, but as I knew I would, I passed my favorite homeless man about a block from my apartment.  He can always cheer me up.  He likes to sit on the ground and sing, and no matter what he's singing, I can be assured it will be stuck in my head for a few hours after passing him.  If it's a song I love, I give him some change.  If it's a song I hate, I contemplate ways to steal the change he already has.

Last night it was Beyonce's "Single Ladies," and sure enough, I was whistling it by the time I walked into my apartment.

And this morning as I made breakfast.

And right now as I'm writing this. 

It's the walk that keeps on giving ... and one that you won't find mentioned in any city tour pamphlet.