A short treatise on the word “Frond”

Frond. Unless you are a botanist, I don't see a need to use this word. Of course, I think choosing the right word is important. It just seems to me that this word is used only in conjunction with romanticizing an event.

"We had a little picnic under a palm frond."
or
"Oh, the party was gorgeous! Each table was set with Waterford and fern fronds. A real top-shelf event!"
or
"Hark! To hell my broken heart goes flying with wings of tree fronds.”

Its not that I am irritated by the sound of this word, such as the case of “Swab” and “Hoist” and “Adhere.” It makes a rather pleasing shape with the mouth as it rolls off the tongue. Frond. Fronds. I’ll admit, yes, its nice. And I like fronds as objects. I spend hours in conservatories, digging the hell out of both fern and palm. What city dweller hasn’t enjoyed a surprise encounter with a beautiful green frond? Show me who, and I’ll show you a cold-hearted bastard.

My dislike of the word is simply a tragedy of associating it with type of people who would use this word in casual conversation. You know who I’m talking about: Girls in gauzy dresses who are always casting nasty looks and writing in their leather-bound journals; Beige-suited meeting planners who pride themselves as “animal lovers” “well traveled” and “friends with homosexuals” although they don’t own an animal, have never stamped their passport and the only homosexual they know is their hairdresser or temporary co-worker; Creepy men who stalk their ex-girlfriends; Murders; Rapists; and Baby Torturers.

It’s sort of like the name "Mandy." I've had a handful of bad experiences with different persons of this name--excepting, of course, Mandy Patinkin who is great in Princess Bride and Crestor commercials alike. But, alas, I just cannot come to love that name. I shudder to think I was almost named Mandy.

To you, if you are a user of this word, may I suggest a few synonyms (as gathered from Roget’s Thesaurus): blade, bract, flag, foliole, frond, leaflet, needle, pad, petal, petiole, scale, stalk, stipule. I would give special consideration to using “foliole,” “petiole,” and “stipule.”

“I cannot see through all those folioles!”
or
“I’m happy to have the shade from these petioles!”
or
“Damnit! That stipule just poked me in the eye!”

Muuuuuuuch better, indeed.

“I have a long stride, so I have to wear pleated skirts,”

...said the woman on the phone who called me mistaking my work line for a Pharmaceutical Drug Assistance Program Hotline. She has always lived within her means, always cooks at home, never buys prepared foods and never dines out. She sews all of her clothes (she has a long stride, so she has to wear pleated skirts) and always hangs them dry. Sometimes that’s tricky—when her clothes are still wet and she’s got to go to work. But it saves money. Since the age of 14, she has worked, most recently in Manhattan at her son’s jewelry store. She wouldn’t be working there, but her daughter-in-law “got a bleeding brain” so she’s helping out. Its all okay, though. God has graced her with a beautiful family. Every day she counts her blessings. She does not want to do anything illegal or lie or cheat but if it’s on the straight and narrow, she’d like to find out more about this drug assistance program. Her doctor ensures her that she’s doing the right thing in calling, because she needs these drugs, but she feels really nervous about it. Its not something she’s comfortable with—taking handouts.

The Urban Witch

The Urban Witch walks about the streets of Chicago, waiting for mothers to turn their backs on their children. The Urban Witch has hair the color of raw steel that sweeps her waist. Taking utmost pride in it, she is sure to tangle it 100 times before bedtime. Her skin is draped about her face like tanned leather over skull. Taking utmost pride in it, she is sure to dry it out in front of a smoldering radiator for at least 2 hours a day. Her nails are yellowed and clubbed and caked with grime. Taking utmost pride in them, she is sure to gnaw at her cuticles upon waking every morning.

When she walks the sound of a tuba waltz echoes off the skyscrapers. Little ones look up from their ice-cream cones and lollipops to see the source of this music. Is there a circus in town? The wind kicks up in salute, disguising itself as a cold artic gust off the shores of Lake Michigan. The sun fearfully ducks behind a cloud. Birds, perched in rustling trees above, hush their song uneasily to watch her pick her next prey. The Urban Witch’s icy blue eyes are alert, darting from side to side, and waiting. Her pointed ears are listening for sounds of laughter. Her sharp cliff of a nose is worming and twisting to the scent of fresh-washed ears and baby powder wafting in the breeze.

Just as Mom turns around to ensure that her mocha will be served “sans whip,” the Urban Witch will briskly snatch her little apple cheeked darlings and take them back to her Urban Witchhole, her studio apartment in Uptown. Her little Hate Nest smells like cat pee and coffee and cigarettes and grapefruit and steak and is cluttered with a jungle of plants in macramé holders that have been trying their damndest, for over 15 years, to end their own misery. She will deposit each screaming toddler in his own antique curio cabinet, where they will stay until there are no longer cute. Then she will chop them up and eat them in a stew.

The Sage

My friend, Robert, wrote me to tell me that while packing for an upcoming move, he came across a book about Photography that I loaned him over a year ago. Apparently, during a subsequent conversation about borrowing and returning objects, I had said that I wasn’t any rush to get it back, but that he shouldn’t move with it.

I was surprised to hear that I had specifically advised against that. Although its sound advice, it’s not something that might come to my mind these days. But then again, I’m not surprised that I gave that recommendation I do love to give advice, suggestions, alternatives, etc. about pretty much anything.

“Always make the bed with hospital corners.”
“You should try putting cumin and nutmeg in your spinach.”
“You have a headache, eh. Are you dehydrated? Maybe you should try drinking water.”
“Here’s a great shortcut to the theatre.”
“A good iron and ironing board is a great investment.”
“I have the payroll clerk wire money into my savings account before I see it. That way I don’t miss it.”
“You should watch The Wire. It’s the best kept secret on the boob tube.”

Not only is this surely annoying, but also it often results with me having to put my foot in my mouth. More than once have I been caught red handed by friends who tell me that I once recommended a certain course of action, despite the fact that I myself have never done things said way.

“Practice what you preach.”

I certainly don’t follow that one. Case in Point #1

Carrie: Why are you putting the pillow cases on the pillows in that odd fashion?
Fiancé: Because you told me to do it that way.
Carrie: Really? When?
Fiancé: Last year. When we first moved in.
Carrie: Oh, that's smart. I'll have to start doing it that way.

Case in Point #2

Friend: I think of you every time I put on my mascara.
Carrie: Oh yeah? How come?
Friend: Because in high school, when you were doing my make-up, you told me that you should always put mascara on both sides of your top lash line.
That way, when you blink or look down your lashes are dark on both sides. And they look thicker.
Carrie: Really? I’ve seen that done before, but I haven’t done that in a while. I should start trying that!

(It really works, by the way.)

It’s no surprise that I’ve turned out like this. I’ve always been bossy. “A Leader” as my gifted specialist mother would say. And I have always been fascinated with “How To”. Saturday morning cartoons were for babies; I watched Bob Villa’s “This Old House”, Bob Ross’s “Joy of Painting” and “Quilting” by that lady who talked like she had had a stroke. Afterwards, I used to hole myself up in my bedroom for hours, pretending I was on a DIY television show about any number of activities:

How to Clean up Your Room
How to Decorate Your Wicker Trunk as if it were on the Cover of a Holiday Card
How to Write Carbon Copies of Things Like That Secretary in Granddaddy’s Office.

Put me in the kitchen and I was a regular TV chef:

How to Scoop Mashed Potatoes with an Ice Cream Scoop Like They Do at School
How to Put Spices in Little Bowls Like They Do in Cooking Shows
How to Cut Cucumbers Like You Learned From Your Aunt

And it didn’t stop in the bathroom:

How To Wash Your Hair Correctly
How To Make Tonics Out of Things in Your Mom’s Medicine Cabinet
Bathroom Safety: How To.

So I am not to blame, you see. It was my upbringing. For as long as I can remember, giving advice has been programmed in my brain.

“Don’t make excuses for yourself. Just own up to your faults.”

Yeah. Right.

Your Wedding

You would meet at a dance. He was from the north. A Yankee stationed near your hometown. He thought you were pretty. He made you laugh. You might go out for drinks. If you lived in a big city--or if you were from a small town and came from a bad home--you might spend the night together. Dancing or walking and sitting on a park bench together, you would fall in love. You would write love letters to one another. You would gaze into each others eyes.

When the timing was right, after a few months or a year, he might write you a letter. Or he might propose while visiting you after the war. Would you be his bride? He’d present you with an engraved wristwatch. Or a ring. Or he’d offer a promise for a better future. Accepting that wristwatch, you would say yes. In your return letter, you would make arrangements. You would write a letter to your mother to tell her that you were engaged.

A month or two would pass. You were anxiously awaiting the ceremony. You might get married in your family church. Or you would have a small ceremony in a courtroom or in the country by a babbling brook. You’d wear a new suit with fresh stockings. Or an invory dress with a white hat. Afterward, your sister would have arranged a luncheon for you. Or you’d adjourn to the Fellowship Hall to have punch and cake. The cake would be wonderful. Smooth, white icing with ribbons and roses made of frosting. You would be too excited to finish your lunch. You’d spend most of it referring to your husband and laughing and hugging your friends and relatives. You were married.

A Proud Moment

Today is a big day for me. A day wherein I did something of which I am tremendously proud: I ate spoiled cottage cheese.

Gone are the days of yore when I would anxiously throw out milk the night before its expiration date. I’ve said good-bye to wasting Perfectly Good Food on the trash can for fear of food poisioning. After today, I can no longer say I’m a freak about Possibly Tainted Food. Because I’m not; Today, I ate suspect cottage cheese.

The expiration date had yet to come, but I wasn’t sure when the package was opened. My old self, I called Chris to confirm that date. He said it was it was opened about 5 days ago. We buy the organic kind. Real Food spoils rapidly, you know. I suscpiciously eyed the little hand-dipped tub of tiny curds, trying to discern whether or not it was trustworthy. Cottage cheese is my friend, I told myself. He would never hurt you. And despite the fact that it was questionably old and had been sitting at room temperature for 2 hours, I ate it. And I enjoyed it. And, for once, I wouldn’t let myself be nervous about it.

The 5 hours that followed were blissful, peaceful hours. Sunny skies and smooth sailing. But shortly after lunch, just as the cold and dampness settled on the city and large back thunderclouds blackened the skies above my office, my stomach started gurgling. And burbling. And bubbling. And Sloshing. And all of those other unpleasant things that one’s GI tract does to tell one that Something Is Rotten in Demark, were Denmark one’s bowels and that Something cottage cheese.

I will spare you the sordid details and simply say that I had one hell of an afternoon. Thanks to the power of adrenaline, my discomfort subsided long enough to audition for a Comedy Central pilot about an automotive body shop. (The irony being that I’m the one who needs the tune up.)

For as much as I my insides are now grieving and as largely the thought of food currently makes me want to vomit--a thought that would normally send me on a tailspin, as any one of my 2 consistent readers/friends would know—I am proud of myself for taking that risk. Because the cottage cheese tasted real good and the product is that I feel empowered (if not empty and lightheaded).

This isn’t so bad after all. I survived today, I can survive tomorrow. With that having been said, the first thing I'm going to do when I get home is to throw out the rest of the offending cottage cheese.

The Sidewalk Astronomer

After my show last night, on the way to the bar, the castmates and I came across a man standing on the sidewalk next to a large telescope on a sturdy tripod. Initially, I gave little more than a smile to this man and his telescope. I was distracted by the barking beagle tied with a rope to the parking meter next to the telescope. The beagle was in a staring match with a tall, leathery homeless man who appeared to be in his 50s and who was standing across the sidewalk next to the entrance to the theatre. It seemed as if these two were communicating with one another: the man, telling the beagle to scram and the beagle barking his reply that he was here first.

But when we walked past the man with the telescope, on the way to the bar, my friend and castmate, Jeff, craned his neck up into the sky to look at the moon. It was slightly obscured by the 5 story building we just exited. Joe, another friend and castmate, stopped to talk with the man with the telescope. It wasn’t until I looked back at him that I saw a brown boxboard sign hanging from the front of the telescope. It read, “Sidewalk Astronomy Club: Look at the Moon” with the word, “FREE” written in mad scientist handwriting at the bottom.

The Sidewalk Astronomer was professorial, with a silver beard and unkempt hair. He has a starry twinkle in his eye. He was wearing a khaki safari vest with various pens and papers stuffed in its many pockets.

“Wow! Is that a waxing gibbous?” my friend Joe asked, still peering into the telescope.

“Yes, it is! You know about the moon!” The Sidewalk Astronomer replied smiling. Joe is a science teacher at an alternative high school in Chicago. They began to talk.

While Joe was talking with The Sidewalk Astronomer about the moon, Jeff and I spent some quality time petting his beagle. The homeless man had left defeated in his staring match. His sweet old eyes looked like his owner’s. He was comfortable with strangers. I imagined many evenings outside spent tied to various light posts and street signs while his over tried to catch glimpses of activity in the starless Chicago sky.

After Joe finished, I took my turn behind the telescope.

The moon was breathtaking. It was bright white and with perfectly crisp edges against the black sky. A small sliver of darkness crept up on the left horizon. There were hundreds of craters. Each crater was sharply outlined in shades of blue-gray. One ridge was especially deep. The sidewalk Astrologer informed me that it was the largest mountain range on the moon.

I have seen many photos of the moon. I have spent many nights on the beach, or in my front yard, or in my car, gazing at the moon. I have seen it through the telescope that my brother had gotten from Santa for Christmas ’86. I have seen photos taken from space. But this was different. It was one of the first mild nights we’d had since winter. A clear, warm night is a May novelty. No wonder The Sidewalk astrologer decided to take to the street. Seeing the moon in this city, surrounded by concrete and car fumes and a scary homeless man with a crazy look in his eye, was a singularly beautiful experience.

“Can you believe it is a quarter of a million miles away? Tonight it looks like you could reach out and touch it,” The Sidewalk Astronomer said while I was taking in its magnificence.

A moth flew in front of it. Amplified by the telescope’s enormous lens, it looked like a bird.

The Sidewalk Astronomer gave us a piece of paper with various star charts on it “These diagrams are pretty up-to-date, although you can’t see any of these constellations in the city.”

We thanked him. He smiled, thanked us and told us to have a good night.

As we walked away, on the way to the bar, I noticed there was a cardboard box between the legs of the telescope’s tripod. I could see that there were a few crinkled dollar bills and some loose change in it, but they were mostly obscured by a few books and papers on astrology that were set on top of the box. I did a mental inventory of my wallet. I didn’t have any small change on me. I didn’t want to make an awkward scene about it.

Later that night, on the way home from that bar, with my belly filled with beer and humus, I walked past the area where he had set up. He and his beagle were gone. I regretted that I didn’t make change to give to The Sidewalk Astronomer. He provided one of the loveliest memories I’ve had in the six years I’ve lived in Chicago.

Mamma Doesn't Always Know

She didn’t know that the free Lysol Sanitizing wipes were provided for customers to wipe off their carts and cart handles. Fox News says that there are more germs on your cart than in your toilet. So her neighborhood grocery store (in conjunction with Lysol) started providing two free containers of Lysol Sanitizing Wipes (in Citrus and Spring Waterfall). By 5pm, they are usually all gone, but she was lucky. There was one left and it was dripping wet with a mixture of Dimethyl Benzyl Ammonium Chloride. She did not see “Not Intended for Personal Hygiene” and “Do Not Use on Food Surfaces” written in bold on the container. She could not read English. So she grabbed her son’s hands and hastily wiped them clean. And then she scrubbed his face with the wipe. He started to cry. His face grew red and blotchy. She admonished him in her native language. He continued crying. She wiped away his tears, threw out the used wipe and left the store. Her son screamed all the way to the car.

Look Man, No Cavities!

In the last year, I have gone through not one, but TWO spools of dental floss.

At work.

That's right. I floss my teeth at work. Unwaxed or waxed, mint or regular. My grill looks good. Ask my dentist. He's also my husband.*



*Not really.

Don't Cha wish the Pussycat Dolls would Bite The Dust? I'm soooo Witu on that.

From L-R: What’s Cool About Re-enacting Child Porn?, Hangs Out With the Older Men In the 7-11 Parking Lot, No Amount of Bleach Will Disinfect That Shit, Being A Bitch Is So Not Cool, Yikes!!!, and Honey I Shrunk My Hoodie!

Shave That Shit!

That thicket of hair growing like black mold on your chin, it needs to be shaved. That small hairy patch that nestles your lower lip and lounges to the bottom of your chin, leaving your upper lip smooth as a baby’s bottom, it does not love you. It is too lazy to be a full goatee, but still proof that you are a man. Or so you think. I’m sorry to say that so much care should never have been taken in shaving around it.

Tomorrow morning, when you are shaving your upper lip, cheeks and neck, please swipe your razor over your chin and erase it. You will feel liberated. After all, it was the only thing holding you back from being cool.

Hair doesn’t have feelings. Lying in a pile in your trashcan, that hair will never know what came over it. Think of the fun it will have fun swimming in your shower water! What adventures it will have away from your face! You don’t need it. It was weighing you down. You thought you loved it. You thought it separated you from the other starched businessmen in your office. But it didn’t.

Its time to say goodbye.

Forward Colonials!

Remember that time that Price Williams was received those black roses after The Colonials beat the Blue Devils on the road to Regionals? Dead dogs were discovered on high school football players’ doorways and Mothers and Fathers were being woken up in the middle of the night to scratchy, muffled voices telling them to “Watch Your Step.” And the toilet paper. Toilet paper everywhere. You couldn’t drive a block without seeing toilet paper clad trees like flapping in the fall breezes like giant ghosts.

That one teen was stabbed at the championship game. Stabbed! I was over near the concession stand right before it happened. Chowing down on Pixie Sticks and Sugar Daddies. The victim was okay. Or so I heard. My mom quickly herded us to the car and drove us home before the fourth quarter. It was a violent act culminating a terrifying week.

And really what mattered was the trophy. The Colonials beat The Blue Devils on the road to Regionals. For the first and last time since.

Price is probably fat and balding now. But we still relive his stories.

It was awesome.

10 Gruesome Office Injuries

(in no particular order)

1. Stabbing yourself with the scissors that you're delivering to your boss borrow because he's too lazy to walk to the supply closet (Is this what you went to college for?)

2. Lodging a staple in your eye while replacing staples in the automatic stapler in the copy room (You're the only one who replaces them.)

3. Absentmindedly swallowing a thumbtack while eating Kettle Corn style popcorn while you're working at your desk fixing your boss's spreadsheet that won't print correctly (Apparently you're IT.)

4. Hyper extending your knees while trying to move a huge file cabinet filled with 1997 account records that the person who had your job before you should have had stored in Central Filing (What's new?)

5. Crushing your ribs when the rickety supply shelves fall on your while you're trying to move messily opened boxes of file folders to their correct place in the supply closet. (Apparently you're the Office Manager.)

6. Choking on the stringy cheese that's in your Lean Cuisine French Bread Pizza (They were on sale 5 for $9.99.)

7. Amputating your hand while trying to change the over-filled bin in the paper shredder (You're the only one who changes it.)

8. Decapitating yourself while trying to stop a closing elevator door (That bitch inside obviously hit the "CLOSE" button when she saw you.)

9. Electrocuting yourself while trying to un-jam D3, D5, and D7 of the copying machine (You're the only one who un-jams the machine.)

10. Waking up every morning with the realization that your post-college dreams grow more and more faint every day you go into work. (You're not the only one.)

The Writing on the Wall: Real Life Bathroom Graffiti in the Women's Restroom at the Melrose Diner

Fuck those bitches...
Fuck those hoes...
And while you're at it
Fuck those ogres.

Going Out With a Bang: A Real-life Goodbye Email from an Angry Employee

Well, I have just been informed that I am not welcome to come in tomorrow so I wanted to send a goodbye and kudos right now. I wanted to thank [Manager X] and [Manager Y] for the way they have treated me when I declined the [Big Account] offer. Because of this treatment and [Manager X's] treatment of countless other employees I have decided to pursue an interest that I will actually enjoy. Good luck and good ridiance [sic].

Oh and if you want job security I'd leave [Big Account].

Hands

Every day, I see hundreds of people shoveling food into their mouths with their grubby little hands. Subway hands, dirty diaper hands, masturbation hands. Hands that have scraped gooey bubble gum off the bottom of high heeled pumps. Hands that have wiped crusty snot away from pink noses. Hands that are visibly dirty with auto grease. Hands that are invisibly dirty with their co-worker’s stomach virus.

These hands belong to liberated people, people with naturally strong immune systems, people who just don’t give a fuck where there hands have been.

But me? I am not those people. I cannot bring myself to eat without first washing my hands. I say to myself, “You are crazy. This is life. You will be okay.” But I cannot do it. I will not do it. I need clean hands to eat my food.

I give a fuck. I am uptight.

This Morning

When I was younger, I took for granted that all people could change. But as I grow older, I've come to accept that people do not change--cannot change--who they are. Our only hope in this regard is that we will learn to accept who we really are. Its the things we do when we try to deny who we truly are that get us into trouble.

Not-Kris

As far as I know, my landlord doesn’t live in our building. At least, we mail our rent checks to a residential address in a suburb of Chicago. But from time to time, he will stay in the “Office” on the first floor of my building. I don’t know what that office looks like, but I like to imagine it’s a dimly lit room with a cot, a sink and a hotplate. Sort of like the “Cold Water Flats” I’ve read about in books about New Yorkers in the 1920’s.

The only way I know he stays in this office is because every once in a while, when I’m waiting for the elevator late at night after a night of festivities, I’ve seen him peeping out of the blinds of the interior window. Presumably, to see who is coming in so late. When I turn to see him looking, he quickly moves away from the window. I’ve also noticed steam on that same interior window. Probably a result of cooking beans on the hotplate.

My landlord is a nice guy. This makes me a lucky tenant. I’ve had my fair share of questionable landlords. Like that seemingly nice, responsible couple who failed to repair the lock on our mailbox—even after months of my complaining. My roommate at the time had her identity stolen as a result of one enterprising thief who noticed that our lock was broken and started stealing our mail. They finally fixed the lock—2 weeks after we threatened legal action. And it took them a week to repair our 1 and only toilet. Needless to say, that wasn’t the most hygienic week. I am lucky that my landlord knows how to fix things himself. Like my leaky sink last year. And that he takes pride in the fact that he takes great care of our building.

I get the feeling that my landlord is married with children. At least, all of our notices come signed from “Andy and Kris”. I am directed to call Kris with all lease questions. She is a very nice woman with a thick Polish accent—just like Andy.

Recently, my landlord has been staying in the Office quite regularly—every night to be exact. And he’s been seen around our building with a mysterious blonde woman. She is an attractive woman, middle-aged. A sharp dresser, she is always wearing lots of gold jewelry. I have overheard them speaking Polish in the laundry room.

I don’t know if this is Kris or not. From the way this woman looks at the floor and stealthily sneaks around the building, I’m beginning to think that it is not. Also, this woman has distaste for me. At least, whenever I see her she will quickly turn any smile on her face to a full-fledged scowl. And then she’ll look at the floor, scowl still intact. Kris would never do that.

I have made up a scenario in my mind wherein Andy is cheating on his wife and brings this Not-Kris to his little “office” love nest. He cooks Beefaroni for her on his hotplate and they spend their nights cuddled up on his twin cot. She is happy with him, but insanely jealous and fearful that she will loose him. Hence the scowl on her face whenever she sees me. Not-Kris thinks Andy is cheating on her with me. She doesn’t know that I’m engaged and live with my boyfriend. She thinks that I am just some little harlot with a penchant for sweet Polish sausage cooked on my landlord’s hotplate. I try to flash my ring to Not-Kris. As an assurance that I’m happy with my American Hot Dog, but I don’t think she buys it.

Lunch Today

I walked a half a mile to my favorite lunchery to buy a specific kind of Belgium dark chocolate that they sell. Sure, 65 cents is a lot to pay for .31 ounces of chocolate, but it is beautiful chocolate. Each little piece, in its thick paper wrapping, is a treat to the eyes. Crisp and dry, and perfect. Each delicate rectangle seamlessly molded and striped in an art deco pattern. And the taste—so delicious, rich and earthy. Besides, it is nice out and it gave me an excuse to go for a little walk. It was a wonderful outing, even though chocolate gives me heartburn.

Ten Food Truths

(In No Particular Order)

--All foods are better when “drizzled” with something (olive oil, sauce, chocolate).

--Mottled mint is pretty damn sexy.

--Food tastes better when eaten with heavy silverware (or chopsticks).

--Water tastes better when it is served in a pretty glass/bottle.

--Brownies taste better when served at social functions.

--Ceviche is really sexy.

--Coffee tastes better if it has been prepared by a man/woman with tattoos (and/or piercings).

-- Kraft Macaroni and Cheese is not food.

--A “Crusty Bread” is ideal.

--Heirloom fruits are the sexiest food in the world.

Sloshed

You guys, I’m sorry if I seem like I’m pissed or something. Its just that I can’t believe its 10 o’clock on a Friday night and I’m not drunk. I mean, I should be BLITZED right now. I have nothin else I should be doin. I mean, dinner with Sara, Katie and Jen was okay--I had 3 Jack and Diets. But I’m totally sober right now and its my girrl Jen’s birthday and we should be PARTYIN. Whatevs. She’s engaged and works at StarCom. But that SOOO doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be SLOSHED right now. 26 only comes once in your lifetime!

I mean, I could totes understand it if I was packing for a trip and doing laundry or if I was at home watching The Notebook with Emily. (SO SAD!~) Ya know, a low-key girls-night-in kind of thang. But as it is, its 10:07 on a Friday night and I’m more sober than a pope on Sunday. And ya know, we’d probably be drinking a Yellow Tail Chard with our movie and actually, Sara and I made up this AWESUM laundry drinking game when we were at Iowa. (WUTTUP HAWKEYES!?!) Every time the machines change cycle you gotta take a shot. OH MY GOD, Adam got so shitfaced he peed in my bed that night. GROSS! But totally hilarious. HAHAHA!

But seriously, people. All my friends are WAY to serious for me now. I’ve GOTTA find some fun peeps who can partay til the dawn (Heeeeeeey!) cause I’m SOOO sick of sittin home by myself. For the past few nights I’ve been hangin with the busboys from Wildfire. They totes know how to kick it, but Hose keeps trying to feel me up. At first I was like, “Could I date a Mexican? He’s kind of cute.” but now I’m like, “No means no in espanol, Hose. Get a grip!” But he’s a dawg so he don’t’ care.

I’m so confused over Adam anyway. Fuck him. Its like, when he comes in town he’s ALL over me. But then he’s got some ugly ho in Cincinnati. That bitch is SOO not as hot as I am. I'm a TOTAL hottie!!!! Right!?? He's SOOO GROSS. But I love him.

Seriously, people. WHAT IS UP!?? Where the party at? Why are we not having FUN? There is no reason for that. AT ALL.

I’m so fucking pissed right now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I miss college.

Skyscrapers

Trump International Hotel & Tower is coming along nicely, you’ll be happy to hear. This groundbreaking structure will combine both a hotel AND a tower into one structure. I love towers, and don’t even get me started on hotels—they’re great! Did I ever think they would be combined? No. But these is modern times we’re living in. Anything is possible. Especially if you’re Mr. Trump.

I work on Wacker Drive, near Michigan Avenue, so I’ve witnessed the construction of this controversial 92-story building from its humble beginnings. And I mean humble. Mr Trump bought the crotchety old Chicago Sun-Times building and dismantled it floor by floor to make way for a behemoth glass structure that will slightly obscure Mr. Van Der Rohe’s famous IBM building. Sure the Sun-Times building was an rusty, crumbling eyesore to the glittery skyline of Chicago, but it was OUR eyesore, Chicago’s eyesore. And even though the use of typewriters went out with the 90’s and most people now get their news online or on tv, you could look at the building and easily imagine the old newspaper newsrooms of the past. No mas.

Seeing a new structure slowly climb to the sky is nothing new to us Chicagoans. All over Chicago (and other major American cities) there is a major influx of new construction, thanks to the interest rate situation. Old buildings are being knocked down to make way for snazzy new condos and skyscrapers.

Sure, I love architecture—good architecture. And I’m not one of those people who throws around the word “new-fangled” a lot. But seeing this phenomenon brings to mind the future: Besides the fact that filling these enormous buildings with people is going to bring a huge glut of people into the city, thus an overcrowding beyond which we already know--that is, if they can fill them at all--what is going to happen to all of these skyscrapers when they are out of date? What’s going to transpire when/if they fail and we have to spend millions of dollars to repair leaky piping or an inefficient air system? Or we grow bored of them? Or we want to replace it with another, more dazzling building?

It is one thing to raze a 100 year old “skyscraper”, as we might do these days. After all, turn-of –the-century skyscrapers were only 15 floors max. But, one can’t just put a wrecking ball to a 100 floor skyscraper. I needn’t bring up 9/11 to prove how dangerous a falling building can be. I can only imagine that any building within a population must be dismantled floor by floor, as in the case of The Sun-Times Building. Otherwise, you’re exposing the city to a host of environmental pollutants, not to mention the danger of something as harmless as a carpenter’s pencil falling from 1353 feet in the sky. How long would it take to dismantle a building as large as The Sears Tower? Surely, years. And millions of dollars.

Perhaps this problem will challenge how we currently live. Perhaps our love of money and instant gratification will force us to make-do with what we have and we will stop knocking down old buildings to erect new ones. Or, perhaps we’ll slow down and realize the consequences of our actions. Or perhaps we’ll just move farther and farther outside of current city limits and keep building new skyscrapers while our old ones lie in wasteland.

I don’t know and, ultimately, does it matter? We are all so blinded by Mr. Trump’s new 1,131 foot penis to give two poops about what happens to us in the future.

Goo-goo, gaa-gaa. Building so pretty and big!

My First Kiss

My first Real Kiss was in 10th grade. I was the president of The Drama Club. He was attending a Virginia High School Theatre Conference, which was being held at our school.

The first time I saw him, he was outside the Special Ed classroom waiting for a workshop on God-knows-what topic. Probably stage combat. He was wearing a sage green t-shirt with a huge photo of Kermit the Frog's face on the front. I thought that was pretty cool. I loved frogs. Especially singing ones.

After a few moments of spastic conversation about the few tendrils of hair that I had dyed bright colors and clipped with many plastic baby doll clips, I learned that he was not only an actor, but also a surfer from Virginia Beach. Truthfully, I don’t know if he was really a surfer, but all I needed to hear was “beach” and I was off in a distant, sunny land of spontaneous beach bonfires with guitar playing surfers. Beach boys were the coolest—even cooler than skater kids.

He had red chin-length hair. I was saving my first kiss for a boy with long hair. For a year and a half, I was hoping it would be with that one kid at my school who looked like Kurt Cobain. I had even got his number from the school pot dealer and randomly cold called him to tell him (and I quote) “You are intriguing to me.” But we had developed nothing more than a friendship and at 15 years old, I had never kissed a boy. I mean Really Kissed a boy.

It’s funny how time goes when you’re in high school. When I think back to this conference, it feels like it was at least a week long. But in all reality, it was 2 days – Friday and Saturday. But by the 3rd day (Friday night) we were buddies. He and his friends had me laughing my teen angst away. They knew all the best Star Wars quotes! And I don’t even get me started with they’re knowledge of comic books! Of course, I didn’t know anything about Star Wars and comic books, but boys who liked these things were cool in my book.

And by the end of the week (Saturday) we were joined at the hip. I signed up for all of the workshops he was in and he saved me a seat at the special presentation of “Stage Door.” When we walked outside to watch the Hacky-Sackers in action, he put his hand on the small of my back! I had never had a boy put his hand on the small of my back! It sent shivers up my spine.

By that Saturday night—the night of the conference social dance in the school cafeteria—I was pooped and running only on adrenaline and Sam’s Choice Cola. I had spent the previous night laying in bed, awake and thinking about my new friend, gazing at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling and listening to The Sundays. But that wasn’t going to stop me from enjoying the night. I was going to stay up, have fun and have that long haired surfer boy in the novelty tees put his hand on the small of my back again! The night was coming to a close and the DJ put on a few slow songs for the various couples that had paired off during the week (two days). He asked me to dance.

We danced. And we danced and we danced. For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to have a boy put his arms around my waist. It was so magical; in his arms I started to drift past the warm sun to a quiet place in the depths of the universe. And when I woke up, his tongue was in my mouth, which startled me and I pulled away confused.

That’s right. I had fallen asleep during my first Real Kiss. I was so tired and worn down from being a girlfriend that I had fallen asleep standing up, in his arms, kissing him. By the time I realized what had happened, the glaring fluorescent lights of the school cafeteria came on, signaling that the evening (and my relationship with my carrot topped surfer boy) was over.

Today’s Lunch at Sephora:

(In no particular order)

--1 makeup brush holder
--1 Stila 4-pan compact
--1 Stila eyeshadow pan (in "Nude")
--1 Stila blush pan (in "Cream")
--1 Sephora lip gloss (in "Gold and Glow')
--1 Sephora slim eye pencil (in “Bronze”)
--1 Paula Dorf "Transformer" (Will convert any eye shadow into waterproof liquid eyeliner)

Everything was delicious, the service was impeccable, but the bill gave me heartburn.

"Sorry. Maybe Next Time."

I just found the game piece inside my Pepperidge Farm ® Brand Goldfish ® Baked Snack Crackers! To be honest, I wasn’t patient--I rummaged around the bag with my hand. It is for the “Rock the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards ‘06” promotion. (No purchase necessary.) 1 Grand Prize includes round-trip airfare and tickets for four to the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards (“Or you could win 1 of 5,000 Kids’ Choice CD’s”)

My sweetie was just talking about the Kids’ Choice Awards. There are pictures of Jack Black getting slimed all over the celebrity gossip magazines.

“Why do they need their own awards show?” he said.

I argued with him that kids love that sort of stuff. At least I did. When I was a kid, I was really into grown-up stuff. I especially loved having kid versions of grown-up stuff.

“I wanted to be old, too,” he said. “So I watched the adult versions and dreamt of having a moustache.”

I understand his point, though. And I agree. Kids are being treated less and less like kids these days. They are being kept on structured schedules: Ballet lesson at 3:30pm, Bugle Horn at 5:00, and French tutoring at 7:00pm. That leaves little room for good-old-fashioned play. And kids have easy access to all kinds of adult media through the internet. There is probably a 7 year old reading this now, tsking at my improper grammar.

In my day, The Kids Choice awards were novel. Now it’s expected. But in all the years between my childhood and now, when all of these changes have occurred, one thing hasn’t changed: The excitement of finding that tiny cardboard game piece, wrapped in a little plastic sleeve to protect it from snack grease.

I just can’t wait to open it.

An Adorable Phone Message from My Mom

"Hi Carrie. Its Mom. I was just sitting down here, watching the sunset and thinking abou--by the way, your outgoing message is so cute! Its chipper and sincere and you sound do cute, yet grown up. Anyway, I was just thinking about you and about your dad and you and I wanted to call and say hi."

O Happy Day!

A lot of people are overjoyed with the news that I am going to be married! They have come in drones to applaud me on my recent engagement. I have received emails wishing me happiness, phone calls overflowing with best wishes for this magical day and colorful letters eager to be the first to congratulate my fiancée and me! Yes, a lot of people are rooting for my upcoming marriage—caterers, florists, wedding planners and photographers.

I am so touched by their sincerity.

Barf.

Pansy

"Pansy" is a friend of mine. Not a great friend, but a good enough friend that it wouldn't be out of the question for me to call her up to invite her to the movies. But the fact is, I would never invite Pansy to sit next to me for the duration of a movie, because, plainly put, Pansy smells.

It’s bad. Her tang is a stifling bouquet of old cigarettes and warm gym shoes with a hint of gas stop latrine. And while we’re on the subject of Pansy, I should also mention that her nails are black with dirt, her clothes are often wrinkled and soiled with food stains, and her hair looks as though it is wet—when it is dry.

Naturally, all of this would be fine if she were an artist, a poet or a hippy. But she is not. Pansy is a career woman and a go-getter. She comes from a moneyed family and contrary to outward appearances, she subscribes to all of Society’s conventions. She is really into girly stuff—hair and make-up and clothes and boys. I’ve never seen someone with so many clothes before! Every time I see her, it seems as though she is wearing something new and expensive. She is so put together, right down to coordinating makeup, jewelry, handbags (and jelly stains!).

Pansy is “cute as a button,” and “a smart girl,” and “she helps out at church.” All of those qualities that a grandmother would look for in her grandson’s future wife. But I have a hard time with her hygiene. It is tough to have a conversation with her when I’m trying not to gag on the strong odor wafting from her person. It is difficult to want to shake her hand or give her a hug when I am wondering what microbes are taking an afternoon dip in the brown sludge beneath her nail bed. It is difficult to look her in the eye, when I’m blinded by her oily patina.

Of course, I am exaggerating for comedic effect. Really, I like Pansy for all of her dirtied hosiery and smudged eyeliner. She is funny and sweet and a good person. I just wish she and her clothes would take a bath. I wish there was some way to let her in on the way people perceive her. I am not usually one to give into The People’s opinions, but in this case and for someone like Pansy, I believe her outward appearance, the way she maintains herself, is a hindrance to her being taken seriously.

I’ve heard about services—kind, compassionate and sincere services—that will email or call the co-worker with halitosis or the uncle with B.O. and convey the news with warm finesse. But I still don’t have the heart. I am not a good enough friend to deliver that blow. And in reality, there is no way to break it to her gently.

I feel like her mother needs to tell her. And I wish she would. Stat!

Gimme a Head with Hair...

Skirt hems may rise and fall and shirt sleeves may bell and taper in perfect rhythm with pant legs. But I have a feeling that it will be a long time before frizzy hair is acceptable again.

This makes me sad. There is nothing more glorious than a head of long curly hair that has been swept 100 times with a boar bristle brush and left to be one with Nature.

Don’t be afraid, People! Say bye-bye to overly-scented pomade and hello to God’s Intent!

My Top 3 Favorite Things the Drunk College Kid Said to Alexandra and Me

(In chronological order)

“I don’t like blondes. No offense, I just think they’re ugly. I like your brunette friend better. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

“One time I was licking this girl’s vagina and there were bumps everywhere. So I licked the bumps.”

“I want to knock your teeth out with my dick.”

Ugh.

I just had an awful audition.

I thought awful auditions were behind me. I expect to have a lackluster audition every once in a while. Even a bad one. But awful?

I'm a hack.

Mr. Staresalot

That man—the one who picks his nose with extraordinary enthusiasm—he is staring at me.

This is not wayward glancing. This is not darty peeping. This is full-frontal, unabashed ogling. Not a lustful gazing. Not a lecherous gaping. But a good, old-fashioned, turn-around-in-your-bus-seat-and-stare-at-the-girl-4-rows-behind-you gawping.

As if I were a car crash.

Bathroom Break

If I am in a toilet stall and I hear someone run into the bathroom, I quickly put my fingers in my ears in case they are running in the restroom to throw up. This has never actually happened. I have never been in the bathroom when someone is throwing up. But I live in fear of it.

You’d be surprised to find out how many times a week I hear someone running into the bathroom.

Sleeping Beauty

I have absolutely no reasonable thinking skills when I'm asleep in bed. All logicical and rational thinking mysteriously disappears. While I do have fabulous dreams, this makes for one nasty habit: I am always late in the mornings. To work, to rehearsals, to meet up with friends. It doesn't matter. Usually, I am only late by 15 minutes max. I am late, nevertheless.

In my sleepy stupor, I have actually considered, "I can get ready in 5 minutes." or "It doesn't matter if I skip this final exam." or "They'll hold the plane for me."

It is not one of my strong points. I am not proud of this fact. Every day I say that I will change. Every day I wake up late. I even have had periods of improvement, (usually around the start of a new job or the turn of the New Year), but, for the most part, it is my biggest vice. I don't smoke, I don't binge drink, I don't smoke crack and I am not addicted to having sex with Halle Barry. I am late.

Britty Got a Black Eye

I have Googled a lot of things.

Yesterday, I Googled "black eye" to see what surfaced from the Internet ether. I was going to write a clever little piece about how black eyes have different contexts on women and men and include pictures of different people, of different ages and genders. Below each picture I was going to write a shrewd and cutting caption that, in a nutshell, referenced the fact that a black eye on a woman always implies domestic abuse. Having now seen that in writing, I am glad to have been sidetracked. During my research I came across some interesting photos, including a photo of a dog with a black spot around his eye sitting next to a boy with a black eye. But, to me the most interesting photo was of “Britty,” a smiling blonde-haired teenager with a black eye.

“Britty got a black eye” was the caption. And, from the looks of it, she was proud of it.

I was curious to know if my split second assessment of Britty was going to hold up, so I clicked on the image source, and “stumbled upon” her online photo album. Actually, I “stumbled upon” her 20 or so online photo albums. There were over 1000 snapshots of Britty and her high school friends.

A less curious person would have looked at one or two and moved on to yahoo games or Google news. But I am Curious Carrie. Or, at least that’s what my sweetie calls me. Curious Carrie looked through 800ish of the Britty’s snapshots. Had I the time and a more comfy chair, I would have knocked them all down.

What I saw in those 800 photos of this stranger told the story of Britty’s freshman through junior years in suburban New York. From the looks of her photo albums, Britty is a popular girl with the kind of high school experience that makes marketing teams squeal with delight. Britty and her friends, all beautiful and perfectly groomed, are all poster children for the “average teen.” Or at least the “average teen” for whom they sell the luxury of the choice between 8 different “botanically inspired” versions of deodorant.

I saw gangly guys with perfectly thick and shaggy hair and tiny tan girls with blue-white teeth and black eyeliner. I saw dads with red faces from golfing with clients and moms with chunky stackable rings and nails lacquered the color of ballet slippers. I saw a blue sea of Cougar pride at the Homecoming game and cheerleading competitions. I saw kitchen islands, cluttered with snacks for an impromptu co-ed after school party. I saw plenty of messy ponytails and truckers caps. And numerous photos of piles of candy on a bedroom floor—sleepover booty—next to tired girls in 70’s style logo gym shorts and their boyfriend’s hooded sweatshirts.

Britty took hundreds of photos of her friends, her various boyfriends, her prom manicures and updos, her Herbal Essences dye jobs, her homecoming dresses, her friend’s parties and, of course, there were about 15 photos of her modeling a black eye.

It looks like Britty has had some fun. And I have to admit, after spending an hour or two with Britty’s memories, I got a little teary eyed, nostalgic for her experience.

In a general sense, I look back on my own high school experience with fond memories, although when closely examined they were awkward and filled with tremendous angst and sadness. The events of high school were filled with hope and excitement and a certain uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that I could easily recreate were I to listen to Bad Religion’s Stranger Than Fiction CD or to whiff a waft of The Body Shop’s white musk.

I have always had this corny awareness of memories before they even happen. Even before high school started, I looked wistfully upon my upcoming years. I found myself thinking, “Wow, this is going to be a great memory one day.” The moment I arrived at my Prom, my first kiss, during sleepovers, I thought that.

Maybe I owe this to my theatrical nature. I tend to see experiences as scenes from plays or movies, complete with soundtracks. But I think I should credit the media and the way they sanctify these sorts of teenage experiences. Nowadays, all the media has to do to drum up a tear in its audiences is play a Coldplay song during a photo slideshow. There are more and more advertisements that prey on our memories of these experiences to sell products. We are a culture that lives more and more for the promises of the future than the reality of the now. Our world is increasingly disposable. We get rid of our past in hopes of building something bigger and better in the future. Trends and styles change with the wind and we’re much more likely to spend $9.99 on 3 “toilet wands” that we can throw away rather than $3.99 on a toilet brush that we keep next to our toilet. Meanwhile, the everyday American is given (through the purchase of a video camera or digital camera) the means to preserve themselves and their loved ones for eternity (or until your hard drive crashes and you lose all of your media). With everything else being tossed out, I think we’re holding on more and more to our memories as a way to preserve a piece of our past. We don’t want our legacy to pass on when we kick the bucket, so we take photos of ourselves for our survivors to remember us by.

I wonder if Britty’s high school years have been as fantastic as they seem. Or if there have been blemished by what is outside of the camera’s frame.
I wonder if she’ll go on to live a happy life, or if she hereafter will live her life through these thousands of photos. But most importantly, I wonder how “Britty got a black eye.”

After all this time, I still don’t know.

Hiatus

I'm still here! More to come soon!

I'm lazy and I'm bored.

I am sitting at my desk waiting for the next 10 minutes to pass so I can get on with my life. From far across Cube Land there is a loud sound, cutting through the white noise. It sounds like an unbalanced load. An old washing machine, filled with tennis shoes, in the middle of its spin cycle. I want to know what is causing the sound, I can't imagine what it is. But its winter and I'm in a dark mood and I feel lazy and bored. So I decide to keep sitting here and wondering. Mystery is more dramatic. Or I'm lazy and I'm bored. Yeah, that's probably it. Blah.

The Eyewitness

Her apartment smells of soup, from many pots past. Every Wednesday she precariously carries an enormous cast iron stew pot to the fellowship hall at the Jackson Avenue Baptist Church, just three blocks away. Her soup is a favorite among “The Poor People.”

Every day at 8 am, she likes to gaze out the living room window and drink her coffee. She often stands there for hours, drinking her coffee, watching the gulls rummage through the dumpster near the parking lot.

Sometimes it takes her up to 6 days to get through a pot of coffee. She makes a pot and then saves the rest in the refrigerator. She reheats the coffee on the stovetop and fills her blue coffee cup half full. The cup is then topped off with milk (Carnation Condensed) and 6 teaspoons of sugar. Really, it is an au lait, but she doesn’t know what that means.

The braided rug beneath her feet used to be her mother’s. A wedding gift from Sears, bought from a catalog and delivered by a friend, James, who worked there. It is faded blue and yellow and green and brown and almost worn through in one place from hours of standing in front of the widow in her living room. She herself was married once, at sixteen, but she hasn’t seen her husband for many years. “Don’t mean nothin’.” She picked up the phrase during the Vietnam War.

Today, while staring out the window and drinking her coffee, she sees two boys, roughly 10 and 14 years old, and a man, an aging toothless junkie she often sees hanging around the parking lot, approach the dumpster. They are talking. Suddenly and without warning, one of the boys, the oldest and tallest, grabs the man and starts punching him in the face. The oldest then holds the old man down while the youngest repeatedly hits him with his fist. The youngest reaches into his sweatshirt and pulls out a knife and stabs him in the gut. The oldest then retrieves something from the man’s pocket and spits on the man’s face. Both of the boys run away.

The man lies there bloody. His chest continues to rise and fall with breath. His eyes are open and blinking. He is alive, but doesn’t move.

The man sees her staring at him. He doesn’t say a word. He just stares back, occasionally blinking. She and he remain there for at least 30 minutes, staring at one another. She doesn’t take one sip from her cup and he doesn’t move from his slumped position.

She wants to help him. She considers picking up the telephone and dialing 911. But she doesn’t. She knows what happens to people who run to the police. They fall down cement staircases while they’re taking out the trash. Their apartments catch on fire in the middle of the night. They get hit by cars while they’re walking Brunswick Stew to church.

If that were to happen to her, who would feed The Poor People?

Eep! I can’t take it! Too...much...cute!

I have just discovered that my Asian baby post is not novel. Turns out that the folks over at The Daily Asian Babe http://asianbabyaday.blogspot.com/ have discovered way before I have that Asian babies are the cutest. Unbeknownst to me until today, that photo I used is from their fine website.

Whenever the clouds are gray and the thunder is loud and scary, drop by their blog and drool over the Asian baby of the day. But be careful, this website has been known to induce the immediate need to bite a baby's toes or cheeks.

Deal with it.

I don't care what anyone says, Asian babies are the cutest. Call me racist. Call me un-PC. Call me Angelina Jolie. I don't care. Asian babies are the cutest. I'm sure that 1 in every 100,000 Asian babies is born ugly. I'm sure there's an Asian baby out there who would make me want to vomit. But I'd say that, overall, the odds are not in favor of a butt ugly Asian baby. Whether the baby is from Thailand, The Philippians, Tibet, China or Japan, I'd bet my bottom dollar that it's cuter than your baby if you're a Caucasian. (It’s the Cauc before the Asian that makes them ugly.) Hands down. Without a doubt. Undeniably. Asian babies are the cutest.

A Conversation Overheard in a Japanese Restaurant

"Things aren't so good between us. He basically thinks I'm a crazy stalker bitch. I've tried to call him to ask him what I did wrong, but he won't return my calls. I just don't get it. We had something special, but he won't admit it. He's labled and shunned me."

"Oh, Nat, I'm sorry. I can't believe he labeled and shunned you like that."

"I know. I never would have thought that Matt was the type of guy to label and shun. So, now he's hanging out with Leslie all the time. Its gross. I mean, I introduced them."

"Are you still friends with her? Does she know that he labeled and shunned you."

"Yeah, we're friends. But I don't have the heart to tell her."

"You should tell her. He's an asshole."

Me No Tengo Metra, the Premier Commuter Rail System Serving Northeast Illinois, Monthly Train Pass

Yesterday, in front of a nail salon in my office building’s concourse, I came upon a man giving what appeared to be a presentation. He was positioned before a window sign that diagrams the locations of pressure points in one’s feet and hands. At first, I thought he was a nail technician, giving a talk explaining the ancient art of Reflexology.

"Um, train. Me no tengo train pass! Um, monthly pass. I do not have. Lost, please. Stolen. Stolen train...Choo-choo! Choo-choo! ...monthly pass, um, lost. Um, Me no tengo train pass..."

His words, heavily accented, echoed through the rather desolate marble hallway with a piercing staccato lilt. The lecturer had only 3 teeth and donned with a well-kept dandy mustache. He was dressed in a white ski jacked with a large “Polo Sport” logo embroidered across the back. He gestured wildly with every word that exited his mouth.

His audience, presumably a group of Asian tourists with their cameras, backpacks and overabundance of shopping bags, was listening politely and attentively to his speech. As confusing as the oration was, they were focused on their host, patiently listening to every word of his faltering speech. The few instances he was able to construct a full sentence they nodded encouragingly and in unison.

It was a beautiful site--a panhandler’s dream--an audience who listened, no matter what was said or the method of delivery.

I wanted to tell his spectators that this man was trying to con them into giving him money, but I didn’t have the heart. Despite the underlying dishonesty of the scenario, to witness that level of kindness on the part of the tourists was to catch a glimpse into something so rare and wholesome, it must, instead, be relished.

Alouicious

The first time I saw Alouicious, he was running across the busy street in a fine black suit, pressed white shirt, full length black overcoat, and first-rate black fedora. In a flash of black, white and the red of his face, he looked like a track star, lithely jumping cars instead of hurdles.

The second time I saw Alouicious, only split second later, he was standing on my bus. It was only then that I noticed that he was old—possibly 80 years in age—and his clothes were a little too big, seemingly tailored to a body that once was. His face was the color of a Red Delicious apple and his old skin was smooth and pulled taut over his skull. Between the thinness of his neck, the velvetiness of his skin and the soft curve of his chin, his head looked like a penis poking out from the spacious starched collar of his white dress shirt. A penis in a gentleman’s cap-- how wonderful! I turned away to make room for another passenger and with a flick of the bony wrist on the stop chord, a site which I caught out of the corner of my eye, he disappeared from the bus as quickly as he arrived.

I hope that’s not the last I see of Alouicious.

Three weeks on a cattle car...

Those are the details you never hear about. How they lugged those wounded men from the battlefield. How they heaved their injured bodies onto the back of a jeep, or horse, or carriage, or whatever mode the soldiers in WWI used as transport. How they had to let them lie, waiting for the train for hours, in bloodied uniform, on the platform, while the sun beat down on their fair European skin. Stretchers, made from scrap Muslin, carrying the injured, loaded into cattle cars for the grueling three week journey to the nearest hospital.

Not because they had to, but because they wanted to live. All in the name of survival.

War is still gruesome, but thank the Lord for helicopters and army tents.

Three Random and Fictitious Quotes

Supply your own context:

"I had forgotten all about that, until I remembered it again and then I realized that I didn't forget it anymore."

"So he poured some whiskey on [my pustular cyst] and then I poured some whiskey in me. Lots of it, I guess, 'cause when I woke up from it I was half married to a beautiful woman."

"Always get a professional to perm your hair, or come by my kitchen on Thursdays and I'll do it for you half off my in-shop price."

Attention: Sculptors

Yesterday, while riding on the bus, I got to thinking about sculptures of little children. Now, now--this is not as creepy as you may first think--my thoughts were inspired by the sculpture of playing children that sits in the little park next to Children's Memorial Hospital at Halsted and Fullerton. Contrary to what I can assume is the artist's intent, that sculpture has never failed to put a chill up my spine in a sensation often referred to as "The Heebie-Jeebies".

The sculpture evokes the nightmare of a meteor, made up of molten bronze, that crashed to the earth and fell on the very grassy knoll where a group of small children were playing Ring Around the Rosie, thus freezing them in mid-play. I haven’t actually examined this sculpture in detail, for fear of being possessed by the ghosts of these children, angry that they couldn’t grow up to be the doctors, nurses and electronic engineers that they wished, but I can only imagine that their eyeballs are still glowing red with the fiery radioactivity that the comet once possessed.

Or maybe, I considered, they were playing Ring Around the Rosie and ironically fell prey to the very Black Plague about which they were singing.

Either way, the sculpture creeped me out and I was relieved that the bus lingered near the sculpture no longer than necessary to pick up a few passengers at the stop nearby. Although I wasn’t subjected to the blank gaze of these bronze zombies for more than a few moments, I spent the rest of the bus ride assembling an inventory of all the sculpture, public and private, I remember having seen. Out of a subsequent sub list, which I entitled “Child Sculpture,” (and, which, I beg not to be confused with “Sculpture by Children,” which is adorable), I came to the conclusion that I’ve never seen a sculpture of a child that I liked. Make that, I have never seen a sculpture of a child that didn’t startle me, scare me, make my skin crawl and give me night terrors.

I came to the conclusion that most Child Sculpture is usually publicly owned or at least publicly displayed rather than kept in a gallery or museum. It seems that the only people who want to recreate The Essence of The Child are the people who are in the business of Children’s Essences and want you to know it, such as a children's hospital in the case of the Ring Around the Rosie art. All of the examples I could come up with supported this thesis: the eerie swinging children sculpture in that one day care facility playground in Springfield, Illinois; the ghostlike reaching children in the Arthur Ashe monument in Richmond, Virginia; and the demon children that Harry Caray is wading through in his sculpture that sits in front of Wrigley Field, to name a few of the most spine-chilling.

To be honest, I’m not so sure that the latter sculpture actually incorporates children. Those little people at Mr. Caray’s feet may be Cubs fans beaten down to half-size by many brutal losses and disappointments, but either way, you get my point: children should never be cast in bronze (or made of plaster, steel, glass or Silly Putty, for that matter).

The only sculpture I can think to discredit this argument is Degas’ Little Dancer, Aged Fourteen. I grew up passionate about dance and this lovely sculpture always struck a chord with my little girl heart. As a child, I had the opportunity to see it in person and it has forever made an impression on me. The Little Dancer is so delicate and graceful and warm, owing largely to the real aging white crinoline the artist used for the dancers skirt. But I have decided to omit this example from my earlier examination, reasoning that the sculpture more effectively depicts a dancer’s elegance than a child’s heart. And besides, is a fourteen year old girl really still a child? If she were jewish, she'd already have had her Bat Mitzvah.

So, let’s face it, sculptors: excluding that one Degas piece, there is no reason for you to believe that you can recreate, through any tangible means available to you, the spirit of a child. That which makes a child a Child is not concrete. At the risk of sounding like a diaper commercial or an Oprah speech, I’ll say that a child is a sparkle, an energy, a way of thinking that is, by any possible description, fundamentally light and airy. And, from my vantage point, it is impossible to create something as concrete as a representative sculpture out of something so something so quick and elusive.

I am happy to be proven otherwise.

A Bitter Day

In the summer time, when this city is blooming with scenery, the Chicago River sparkles like a milky emerald, its color the effects of mineral deposits. When struck by the warm-weather loveliness of the river, it is hard for me to imagine how contaminated its waters are. But today, on a cold gray day, the Chicago River looks sick and angry, inky black and oil-like, it’s shiny surface mirroring steely skyscrapers and rippling with the whipping wind. I shudder to see it looking like this.

For thousands of years, the river meandered through the marshes that were once on this stretch of Lake Michigan. According to historical documentation, its waters were often muddy and blue-gray, the result of the fertile silt that made up the river bed. And until 1900, when engineers reversed the flow of the river in order to preserve Lake Michigan--or rather, to preserve human’s ability to continue to enjoy and benefit from Lake Michigan without hosting another Cholera epidemic--the river ran where it pleased, where nature led it. I would have liked to have seen it, reflecting only the expanse of the sky.

Nowadays, the river is escorted through our city by vast concrete banks and an elaborate system of locks. And the sludge below its weary waters is a toxic cross-section of the industrialization of man.

But contrary to appearance, the old river is fighting and full of life. On this otherwise lifeless day today, it is churned up and dark and its icy waters are seeking revenge on the concrete containing it. Slowly but surely, it laps its icy fingers on the concrete and freezes, prying open tiny fissures in its barriers. Bits of the concrete crumble and fall to a watery burial. The Chicago River expands another inch, celebrating another tiny victory and I can’t help but be happy about it.

A Sad Story about Charity Powers

When I was in 6th grade, Charity Powers went missing. The blonde hair blue eyed Charity was a classmate, but had recently transferred to a neighboring school in town. Naturally, the story of her "abduction" spread like wild fire around my Sleepy Virginia town: her mom dropped her off at Chester Skateland but forgot to pick her up and the last anyone saw of her was at a nearby Hardee's Restaurant. As one story had it, when Charity asked a sassy Hardee's employee for the time, the woman answered, "Time for you to be in bed."

Normally, when something like that happens at a school, grief counselors are brought in to help students deal with it. When another classmate died that year of Leukemia, an official announcement was made and our teachers asked us if we wanted to talk about it. And years later, when a popular senior at my high school died in a car crash, almost everyone was allowed to stay home and mourn.

But when Charity Powers disappeared, none of that happened. It wasn't talked about in an official way. Even the rumors were discussed very casually, as if we were gossiping about a cheerleading scandal or new gym class policy. We weren't given a "Don't Talk to Strangers" lessons or asked what we would do if our parents never showed up to pick us up. And I don't remember being scared. As it was, my town was largely middle class family town, and Charity was from "the wrong side of the tracks". Her mom had a different last name as Charity. Sadly, most of the adults in my town thought her abduction didn't apply to their children. Whenever it was discussed, there was always a tone of "That could never happen to you, dear, your mom wouldn't forget to pick you up."

While that may be true--my mom always did come through for me--I wasn't struck by how sad and regrettable the whole affair was until later, in my college years, when I realized the implications of that attitude. I was reminded of it again, this past fall, when Hurricaine Katrina devastated Mississippi and Lousiana and the people who were left stranded those who didn’t have the resources to leave, were initially forgotten and dismissed.

Within a few weeks of her disappearance, the chatter about Charity subsided. Months passed and Charity was never found. What seemed like a year later, her body was found in the back yard of a man who lived near the Skateland.

Recently, curious to know the truth, I researched her death on the internet and discovered the facts: Charity’s mom had arranged for a family friend to pick her up, but the friend fell asleep. Later that evening, Charity’s mom came home and discovered that she was missing. Charity was indeed last seen at a Hardee’s restaurant, and so was Everett Lee Mueller, according to 4 teenage eye-witnesses who had also been at the skating rink. When the police searched Mueller’s backyard, four months later, they found Charity buried in a shallow grave. Mueller later confessed on video tape to taking her home, having sex with her and strangling her. He testified that he was drunk at the time and thought that the 10 year old Charity was 19 years old. The next morning he thought the whole episode was a dream until he came across her body. He proceeded to burn her clothes and jewelry and bury with a shovel. Autopsy reports say that Charity’s throat was also cut and also indicated that she was also stabbed repeatedly. Mueller was tried by jury and sentenced to death for 2 counts of capital murder, but petitioned clemency by saying that he found the girl's body while walking through the woods behind his home. His petition was denied and Everett Lee Mueller was executed on September 19, 1999 by lethal injection, the 573rd American to be executed.

In my research, I came across a picture of Charity. It was interesting to compare the picture in my mind to the real picture. She looks like a normal, happy 10 year old.

When I was in sixth grade, I was told her mother was to blame—that Charity’s fate would have been different had her mother been a good mom. But what if I were at the Skateland and my mother was in a car crash and failed to show up? That creep still would have been on the prowl and the outcome probably would have been the same. And what about all of the others involved? What about the owners of the skating rink? Why hadn’t they noticed that a 10 year old girl was stranded? What about the teenagers who knew Charity? Why didn’t they offer to help her? What about the Hardee’s employees? Weren’t they worried about this little girl, who was there unattended late at night? Maybe it was unwise for the mother to leave her daughter in the care of someone irresponsible enough to fall asleep and forget her. Maybe her mother should not have left a 10 year old girl unsupervised at a skating rink, despite the fact that she was familiar with the staff.

Ultimately, the community didn’t protect her. We didn’t protect her life when she was stranded, we didn’t protect her honor when she was abducted and we didn’t protect her memory when she died.

Personality of the Week

When I look back at my old yearbooks, I am surprised to discover that the 1985-86 school year was no longer than average. You could have fooled me. I thought it was at least triple the length. It seemed to last forever thanks to the Personality of the Week program that was run by my school’s guidance counselor’s office.

Every week, this program would profile a different student from each of the 4 first-grade classrooms. Being The Personality of the Week had many advantages, including, but not limited to:

--Having your name written in fancy script on a glittery star hung with the three other Personalities’ names in a prominent hallway in school;

--Having your name written in a non-glittery star and hung alone outside your classroom door;

--Receiving a voucher for free ice cream on Friday, the last day of The Week;

and, in my humble six-year-old opinion, the best perk of this wonderful program:

--Enjoying the rare and privileged opportunity to sit on a throne (actually Mrs. Barnes’ cushy office chair with streamers tied to it for the occasion), with your classmates huddled at your royal feet interviewing you with serious and important biographical questions such as “What is your favorite candy?” and “Who is your favorite Strawberry Shortcake friend?” while the teacher wrote the answers in a noble publication entitled, “[Your Name]: Personality of the Week”

My six-year old life was lived for occasions such as these--occasions where I could show the world how lovely and talented and amazing a six-year old could be and surprise and astonish my fellow human beings with the realization of my many marvelous and remarkable traits and talents. Surely the moment my classmates read my name on the star, I would be catapulted into a glamorous celebrity world and have throngs of adoring elementary-school-aged fans throwing their bodies at my feet in hopes of having my greatness rub off on them. I was a six year old diamond in the rough, just waiting to be mined.

From the moment the program was announced, I would hold my breath every Friday when they proclaimed the name of the new Personality of the Week. But week after week, my name was not called. Perhaps they forgot me. Or, even worse, perhaps I was wrong about my greatness; perhaps I had no Personality of which to put before The Week. It was an agonizing wait. After all, I didn’t learn the phrase, “Save the Best for last" until Mrs. Shelton’s 2nd grade class.

But, save me for last they did. The only remaining day that I could be picked, after every single other first grader had already had their moment to shine, my name was announced. And although I was happy to finally be able to breathe, I was sad that I wouldn’t have the entire school year to gloat in my success. I would only have one measly week to remind everyone about my amazing term as Personality of the Week. I would have to make those 7 scrawny days count by giving the interview of a lifetime; the longest interview in the history of the Personality of the Week program; the most charming, most mind-blowing, most awe-inspiring interview known the Tussing Elementary.

In all reality, I’m sure no one else remembered my interview. In fact, I, myself, had forgotten all about it until a few years ago while I was rifling through the contents of a wicker chest that I used to keep at the foot of my bed, I came across the glittery star on which my name was written in fancy script and hung in a prominent hallway in school, and the non-glittery star on which my name was written in fancy script and hung outside the classroom door and the 24”x36” blue lined tablet paper on which was written the noble publication entitled, “Carrie Barrett: Personality of the Week”.

It read:

Carrie Barrett is 6 years old. Her favorite color is black. Liver and onions are her favorite food. Her favorite animals are spiders and snakes...

...and so forth and so on.

I would list it in its entirety if I had it in my possession, but I think you still get the gist. That bio gave every possible controversial answer that my first grade mind could think of. Seeing my first grade teachers’ handwriting on those 6 pages of yellowed paper made the memory flood back to me: sitting on that “throne,” being interviewed by my classmates and listening to them groan at my answers, making them ooh and ahh at my exotic choices, blowing their minds with my complex Personality.

I chuckled to myself with the recognition that I have not changed at all. As much as I hate to admit it, I am that exact same Carrie I was back then. I still crave the spotlight; Even now I am a sucker for recognition; I am the same little girl, thriving on strong reactions from people.

And, let’s be honest, I deserve Personality of the Millennium.

A Labor of Love

His nose is his oyster and his fingers are explorers searching for a pearl. The risks are great, but the fruits of labor are sweet and plentiful. And with a crew of five fingers helping him out, anything is possible. Nothing's going to come between him and his booty.

He starts with his thumb, the big strong burly thumb, guaranteed tough. In a moment of urgency, it charges toward the cave-like opening, its massive power mashing the nostril shut, unable to penetrate a hole as small as that. After several failed attempts, he decides to go for the wingman, the pointer finger. The finger is able to nominally break into the dark hollow, but due to its size and shape is unable to wiggle a precious nugget from the grotto. For a moment, it gets stick, but the thumb comes to the rescue with help for the pointer finger. After several pinching gestures, they both return empty handed. This is not the moment to panic. There’s always the middle finger--the longest and nimblest finger of them all! It uses its length and strength to jimmy its way into the opening but after several prying motions, it comes back tired and defeated. The ring finger is too weak and sluggish; he doesn’t even consider it.

If only, there was a way to penetrate that gnarly bush of nose hair! If only there was a finger small enough to excavate that cave! These gems need to be mined and they need to be mined now! Then it comes to him in a flash: what about the pinky? That small, underappreciated baby of a finger! Sure it’s small and weak, but what it lacks in power, it makes up in spunk. Without faltering, the pinkey takes his cue and gracefully dashes into the nostril, a perfect fit! It wriggles and writhes, thrashes and flays, freeing a crop of beautiful pearls from the cavernous nostril.

O happy day! He is a rich man at last!

No Biggie

When I was in fourth grade, Candace Cameron came to my school for a day. Her brother, Kirk dropped her off in his electric blue IROC convertible, lowered his black Ray-Ban sunglasses to shouted to me, “Hey, Carrie! Take care of my sis!”

Take care of her I did. I showed her all of my favorite places in the school: The cement tunnels in the playground where I had first kissed Robbie Briggs as part of a dare, the art room bulletin board where my Picasso inspired Cubist crayon drawing was hanging and the secret nook where the mimeograph and laminating machines were (I had used them).

Over lunch we traded dessert and fashion secrets. She was wearing an oversized turquoise sweater with a bunch of bright red and yellow balloons decorating the front, a matching turquoise miniskirt and three pairs of coordinating red, yellow and turquoise tube socks. Coincidentally, I was wearing an oversized yellow sweater with a bunch of bright red and turquoise balloons decorating the front, a matching yellow miniskirt and three pairs of coordinating red, yellow and turquoise tube socks. I traded my Hostess Cupcake for her JELL-O Pudding Cup.

Lunch was tough. My friends were fighting to sit next to her, and in the process knocked over her Capri Sun. Good thing I had an extra one to give to her. And every time we started to talk about how hot Corey Haim was, we were interrupted by some adoring fan. Candace was pretty annoyed by it all, because she was having such a good time with me and we had so much in common, but she graciously signed autographs and answered questions about DJ Tanner and we would be back on track with our meaningful discussion.

When it came to gym class, naturally she picked me to be her stretching partner. We won the shuttle race and got to sit out on the bleachers and make up hand claps to the lyrics of UB40’s “Red, Red, Wine” while everyone else did pull ups.

At the end of the day, Kirk gave us a ride to my house. He was invited to dinner, but had to run off for a Growing Pains shoot. He promised to make it up to me by taking me to see “Who Framed Roger Rabbit.” Candi stuck around for dinner and couldn’t stop raving about my mom’s Hungarian Stroganoff. After dinner, we ate Nerds and Gobstoppers, did each other’s makeup and traded secrets during the night during our School Night Sleepover.

When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. A week later I got a note that said, “Thanks for teaching me how to be cool.” Of course, it was no biggie. Stuff like that happened to me all the time.

To Ms. Zzzzz:

Renee Zellweger, I'm sure you're a nice girl. Then again, I'm not so sure. I just don't want you to take any of what I say personally, although I kind of also hope you will. I just want what's best for you. Then again I don't want you to have what's best—that’s been done. You see, you make me conflicted. I feel sorry for you and that makes me mad because no one should feel sorry for those who have power over them.

I am over that you’re “so honored” to kept in the company you keep. I’ve had it with your generous and thoughtful nods upon announcing who won Best Picture or “Best Actress is a Western/Cop Show”. I cannot swallow another practiced glance into the camera.

It’s not just your affected, overly gracious way of speech and starving, nutrient ridden body that I can't stand. It is your face, too. Your face looks like you just ate a bucket of greasy chicken that's been battered and fried in the stuff they use to make Sour Patch Kids. I know you can't help that, exactly. And you're not an ugly girl. Not at all. Its just that overly affected way you keep your face. I just wish you'd let your face be your face and not try to make it Nicole Kidman’s face. Your face is so tired of having to work so hard. Please, for the love of God, give your face a rest.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate you. When I first saw you in Empire Records, I liked you. After Jerry Maguire, I thought you were adorable. But somewhere during your life’s ride between “Me, Myself and Irene” and “Chicago” you got lost, and subsequently, you lost me. You became a shell of everything that used to be adorable and individual. I am guessing you snorted all that stuff up your nose.

You are a poster child of what celebrity starts to do to people. You, Tom Cruise, Whitney Houston, Leif Garrett, in that order, are a backwards celebrity version of that Evolution of Man drawing. Leif, of course, is the celebrity ape of the group. (Don’t ever put your kids in show business.) You’re not yet a monkey, Renee. Get out now while you can. I suggest a Jodie Foster style retreat. It would do you a big heap of good. Savor the fact that you’re quirky. Stop trying to hide that you’re a total weirdo. Stop doing cocaine. I for one would appreciate it. I’m getting rather sick of not sleeping through the night.

Don't Let Them Win!

Just because there's been a terrorist attack does not mean that your mouth stops watering for tasty home cooked vittles. Forcing yourself to eat saltines and water while you wait out the attacks means THEY WIN! I'm going to share with you 3 very easy recipes to feed your family or church group with just a few ingredients that everyone keeps around in their fallout shelter or underground bunker.

First, we're going to make a warm and homey Vienna sausage Casserole. This will be great for those dark and cold days when the smoke and ash is blocking the sunlight:

For this you'll need
12 cans of Vienna Sausages
1 can of Potted Meat (for the flavor)
1 small jar of pimentos
1 cup of dry milk
1/2 cup water
3 tablespoons of French's Yellow mustard
4 table spoons of jalapeño relish
Salt and pepper to taste
French Fried Onions for toppers

Cook in a casserole dish over glowing embers for 12 hours.

Next, you'll win any war on terror with these tasty Vienna sausage fritters!

For this you'll need
9 cans of Vienna Sausages
.5 can of Potted Meat (for the flavor - you can smear the other half on a saltine and top with an olive slice for hors d'oevres)
1 small jar of pimentos
1 cup of dry milk
1/4 cup water
3 tablespoons of French's Yellow mustard
4 table spoons of jalapeño relish
Salt and pepper to taste

Don't be shy with'em. Fry 'em up right in your fry daddy!

Lastly, defend your family from bored taste buds! Try these Battered and Fried Vienna sausages with a Pimento-Jalapeño Mustard and they'll be complimenting you so much you'll think they sniffed nerve gas!

For this you'll need:
9 cans of Vienna Sausages
4 cups French Fried Onions
1 cup of dry milk
1/8 cup water

Dip the Sausages in the milk/water mixture then roll in crushed onions. Fry in the Fry Daddy.

For the Mustard Sauce you'll need:
1 Cup of French's Yellow mustard
1 small jar of pimentos
1/8 cup of jalapeño relish
Salt and pepper to taste

Feel free to double or triple the portions if you're having company over to your bunker. Serve all of these with a cold glass of Tang and you can entertain anyone, regardless of the level of radioactivity outside your cozy fallout shelter!

When You Think No One Cares

Earlier this afternoon, I begrudgingly dialed the number to Dr. Chaor’s office to remind him to mail in his speaking contract. A man answered the line and startled me with a simple, “Hello.” I wasn’t expecting such a concise greeting.

“Is this Dr. Chaor’s office?” I asked, skeptical that I had reached the right number.

“No,” the tired man said, “This is a patient’s room.”

I apologized for disturbing the poor man and I hung up. Since then, I have not been able to get him off my mind.

Why is he in the hospital? What unit is he in? Was it a car crash or another accident? Does he have cancer? Is he undergoing chemotherapy? Did he have elective surgery? Are his friends there? Has his family been by? Are his nurses friendly? Is he being taken care of? Is he eating? What is he eating? What is his favorite flavor of JELL-O? How long has he been there? Is he in pain? Are there flowers in his room? Is he in a private room? Does he have stitches? Did he pull on his stitches when he reached for the phone? Are his stitches dissolvable? Was he expecting a call? Was he sad that I wasn’t calling for him? What is he watching on TV? Where is he from? How old is he? Is he married? What color hair does he have? Does he have a goatee? When was the last time he shaved? Did he know he was going to be in the hospital tonight? Is he sad? What color are the walls of his room? When was the last time he laughed? What is his greatest fear?

Or did I even speak with the patient? Maybe he was visiting and answered the phone for his wife or mother or friend.

Why is he/she in the hospital? What unit is he/she in? Was it a car crash or another accident? Does he/she have cancer...

They say...

When I was younger, I thought They all worked in the same makeshift office. Nomads, They moved to a different American city every week. They were usually holed up in an underground bunker or cave, although, in my imagination, They once worked in the sweaty back room of a Ma and Pa dry cleaning business in Tucson. Wednesdays in New York, Sundays in L.A., Thursdays are split between Atlanta and DeKalb.

They were fashionable. They wore structured suits with shoulder pads and purses with long, skinny straps. They each wore a new pair of leather shoes which made delicious footstep sounds on the shiny black marble floors of their cave offices.

They were doctors and scientists and rock stars and moms, who toiled tirelessly over telegraph machines, spending hours punching blinking buttons and reviewing reels of never-ending data.

They lived in softly illuminated modern quarters, surrounded by the sounds of hushed conversation and electronic beeping in rooms filled with the smell of brewing coffee and leather couches.

They were a covert operation, designed to keep Me in the know. They looked out for me. They wanted for Me to know that my sheets were filled with dust mites. They wanted for Me to be Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board. They lived their lives, devoted to My success and wellbeing.

But now that I am older, I realize that They are not people at all, but flimsy ideas formed in the minds America’s most cocky 21-35 year olds; written in cubicles under glaring fluorescent lights; created for profit under looming deadlines.

Bummer.

5 (of Many) Wedding Ideas that I will NOT use:

(as suggested by bridal magazines, and websites)

1) Release a cage of white doves after the ceremony. Ok, first of all, gross. Second of all, I will not do anything at my wedding that has been done by some crazy lady in a mass of nut cases anxiously congregating outside of a courthouse on behalf of Michael Jackson's acquittal.

2) Likewise, there will not be a live butterfly release either. I will do without “the magical appearance of these majestic fluttering beauties as they emerge from the specially designed release envelopes or baskets.” For real.

3) Wear a pink wedding dress. I don’t care if you call it “blush” or “rose.” I’ll leave that shit for Trista. Enough said.

4) Create a website agonizing over every little wedding/reception decision, including menu font, silverware, and guest book pen selections; share website and weekly updates with friends and family. Zzzzzzzzz…

5) Give out heart shaped measuring spoons with a tag that says, “Love Beyond Measure” in fancy script. Or hand out "Love is in the Air" Car fresheners. Or distribute tiny glass slippers that say, "At Last I Found My Prince". (Can you believe that they have entire websites devoted to Cinderella Themed weddings??? Who are these people??!)

Morning Routine for Lady on the Bus (Whose Name Might be Linda or Cheryl)

5:00 am - Wake up to alluring scents and sounds wafting from Aroma Therapy & Nature Sound Dual Alarm. Slowly slide out from underneath mauve satin sheets with coordinating rose tapestry duvet and put on high heeled purple feather slippers. Remove hair sleep bonnet and un-cover pre-set and styled hair from night before.

5:05 am – 5:20 am - Make bed and arrange 100+ decorative pillows on bed. (Pillows are carefully stored in hand painted chest at foot of bed.)

5:20 am - 6:00 am – Draw bath in Jacuzzi Brand Bathtub. Add entire bottle of Rosewater to the water, swirl it around with hand carved rosewood bath paddle, and place pre-cut cucumber slices over tired eyes while soaking, listing to the sounds of smooth jazz on Light98 FM. Place pre-set and styled hair in shower cap for protection. (Full body laser hair removal has made shaving no longer necessary)

6:00 am – 6:20 am – Decide outfit. Per usual, be sure to select something that will easily transition from day to night with the addition of dressy separates to be packed in work roller board. Hang outfit on hook to steam.

6:20 am – 6:40 am – Pop open can of Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls, bake, and eat in one sitting.

6:40 am – 6:45 am – Brush teeth with Crest Brand Whitening Expressions Lemon Ice Liquid Gel. Apply Crest Whitestrips.

6:45 am – 7:15 am – Apply personalized morning face cleansing ritual from Avon.

7:15 am – 7:40 am – Use Bare Escentuals Brand Makeup to carefully apply foundation makeup. Be sure to select a heavy base that matches level of tanning.

7:40 am – 8:05 am – Using outfit coordinating colors of Bare Escentuals Brand Makeup, carefully apply trio of out-fit coordinating eye shadows and liners.

8:05 am – 8:25 am - Apply and re-apply at least 100 coats of mascara. Keep at least 5 new wands at hand.

8:25 am – 8:45 am – Apply and re-apply at least 100 coats of matching lip-liner and lipstick in a color that exactly matches at least one element of pre-selected outfit. Be sure to line outside of natural lip area to create fuller looking lips.

8:45 am – 8:55 am – Perform part of “Get Fit Fast: Abs” DVD workout. Give up before breaking a sweat.

8:55 am – 9:10 am – Pack work roller board with the following items: Work makeup bag (including 4 lipstick changes, 3 spare mascara wands, and powder), tanning oil (for lunch break tanning session), dressy separates (for seamless evening wardrobe transition), a bottle of outfit-coordinating nail laquer (to be used to paint nails on morning bus commute), a worn and re-read copy of Life’s Little Instruction Book and a fake engagement and wedding ring (to be used in the event of an Old Friend Encounter.)

9:10am – 9:40 am – Dress.

9:40 am – 9:45 am – Shower in 5 minute Calvin Klein Obsession Mist.

9: 45 am – Call work to let them know you’re going to be an hour late, lock up and walk to street to catch the bus.

“DON'T PUT YOUR HAND IN THE ELEVATOR DOOR! It is stupid and you will lose your hand!”

What the lady on the elevator said to me, in a really harsh and condescending tone, as if I was her boring husband, Ron, whom she hasn't had sex with in 3 years and whose voice she cannot stand.

Melting

Lying down on the dirty street as helpless as a beached whale, arms and legs flopping like flippers in slow motion and a wild look in her glassy eyes. The shopkeeper of the liquor store sweeps around her as if she is a fixture. The hot sun beats down on her rocking body making it look like a sweaty frozen chocolate bar that is just starting to melt. In an unknown tongue, she praises Jesus that He has put forth upon her the ability to see the stars on a bright sunny day. She can feel the earth spinning, creating the gravity that pulls her down, but her head is in the clouds and with the birds, soaring high.

Ahoy, Maties!

I have returned from a long and relaxing jaunt around the sunny Virgin Islands where even the clouds are beautiful! Truly heaven on earth. Expect more entries to come as I am dragged back to reality by the dull and lifeless Chicago skies.