A Beautiful Sight!

A bike ride along the lake on a hot summer day. A posse of skater boys slogging up the hill on their boards. I am coasting down with the wind in my hair. I pass 30 or so hot faced fellas skating in a band under the glaring summer sun. That’s a lot of skaters to see in one place. An assault of the senses, they continue to go by. 50 red cheeked dudes, ages 10 to 35, pushing down the trail, their collective wheels roaring loudly. 200 guys with long, hair and dirty jeans, propelling themselves onward on all sorts of boards and wheels. 500 men and boys, with their hair glued to their faces with sweat, skating together.

Ten minutes and over 2 miles later, the skater procession keeps coming. All in all, a parade of nearly a thousand boys on skateboards. All unseeingly unaware of the power in their numbers, most unassuming youth.

It’s a scene from a movie. A seventies movie, its film has faded with time, too much cyan and magenta. Its stars all raw and pure, a mix of innocence and corruption. Salty, sweaty air, the wind and their wheels a loud howl in my ears, the sun searing my skin and broiling my blood. A spectacle to behold! I am giddy with delight. My 14 year old self would have been blushing.

The Lost Sock

When I was transferring my laundry from washing machine to dryer, I discovered that a tiny baby sock accidentally had been washed in my load. It must have been separated from the washer’s previous batch. (I pictured a baby doing his own laundry. Imagine a baby sized washer and dryer! It’s too much to bear.)

I decided I would dry the little sock and leave it on the counter for its owner to claim. My heart melted into a puddle when I felt its thick white cotton in my hand. Imagine teensy toes nestled inside the sock. My ovaries twitched.

When it came time to pull my warm dry clothes from the dryer, I inspected the sock once more. It was so warm and soft and fuzzy and it smelled so clean and fresh. I pictured it laying unclaimed on the soap-sticky laundry room counter. Surely the building supervisor would sweep it into the trash after too long. I couldn’t bear that thought. So I did a very emotional and perhaps inappropriate thing: I kept the sock.

When I got up to my room, I felt happy with my decision. It is unlikely that the owner would have realized that the sock was missing until it was too late. My apartment (albeit babyless) is the best home for this little lost sock. My satisfaction was cemented when I found that it fit perfectly on the paw of Asta, my wire fox terrier stuffed animal with the name “Asta” embroidered on the colorful kerchief around his neck. I’ve always loved to hold onto Asta’s front paw, I derive a lot of comfort in that. Now it is especially warm, soft and squishy when squeezed.

My Dark Secret

I have a dark secret: I stalk my neighbor’s dog. His name is Toby and he’s a wire fox terrier. The dog, that is, not my neighbor. My neighbor is a nice elderly man named Mark. I know this because when I first introduced myself to Toby, Mark offered his name and address. Mark is married to Anna who is equally warm to strangers such as me.

Toby is a good dog. He has curly white hair with caramel and grey spots and a cute black nose that wriggles and sniffs. He has a little clipped tail nub that wags when he’s petted. He likes to walk on a leash, bark at squirrels, walk over to groups of people to see what all the fuss is about, but mostly he can be found patiently watching his parents as they stop to talk with other neighbors. On the rare occasion when Mark and Anna are taking a walk without him, he likes to sit in their front window and watch them to make sure they're okay. His two front paws will be rested on the windowsill and his little nose will be fogging up the glass. He can barely reach the window. That is my favorite glimpse of Toby and the scene I watch. I've been known to ask my sweetie, Chris, “What goes on in that house?” prompting him to reply, "Toby lives there." Maybe, I do that every single time I pass his house? What's wrong with that?

Mark doesn’t know that I am infatuated with his dog. Sure, I’ll stop him on the street every time I see him. I’ll admit, to get Toby’s attention, I often make high pitched squeals that only a dog can hear. All right, I spy on him out of my 4th floor window and run down the stairs to the street, where I’ll coolly walk by him as if I’m going about my business and just happened upon his company. But Mark doesn’t know all of that.

Of course, I’ve told Mark and Anna, on numerous occasions, that I love wire fox terriers and have loved them ever since I saw the famous movie dog, Asta, in the 30’s screwball comedy, The Thin Man. But they are both aging and do not remember my stories, thus. I’m casual during my encounters; When Mark points to his apartment and tells me to stop by anytime for the name of Toby’s breeder, I crane my neck and ask, “Now, where do you live again?” as if I haven’t figured out this information on my own and pass by his window daily to spy on his pup. To be safe, I'm sure to lament that I’m not allowed to have pets in my apartment. Nor do I have the time to care for a puppy, I'll say sadly, hoping he'll offer to let me come by and play with Toby.

But, Toby knows that I love him. Although he doesn’t think I know he knows. I can see a twinkle in his eye every time I see him. When I walk past him, he nonchalantly sniffs my leg. His tail perks up and his head cocks to the left when I’m within his eyeshot and, on occasion, he’s even looked up to my fourth floor apartment window.

I mean, really, does it count as stalking if the Stalked is also in love with the Stalker??! No offense to sweet Mark and Anna, but Toby and I are meant for one another and we both know it. He just doesn’t know how to say it yet. But he will. Oh, he will.

For Sale: Luxury High Rise Condominiums

For the couple of weeks, construction crews have been dismantling one of my favorite buildings in Chicago. I haven’t been able to tell if anyone has lived in the building for the last 2 years that I've lived nearby. Although it seemed to be okay structurally, boards went up over the lower floors’ windows about a year ago. I would walk past the house and fantasize about the al fresco dinners I could have on one of its terraces and dream of the vintage ports I could savor inside in its sitting room.

It was a very stately brick building, probably built in the 1950s. While it had the air of a single-family home, its grandness led me to believe it was comprised of several luxury units. The building’s log spanned two streets so that it had two entrances; one on my street and another on the next street over. It was nestled that way between two towering apartment buildings, Charleston-style, so that the side of the building, with its shuttered windows and porticos, was actually the front of the building. The walls that faced the street, although stacked upon one another at different stair step levels, were relatively unornamented as though they were actually the sides of the building.

Earlier this year, I noticed two tall pylons had been erected on the street side of the building. I grew excited. Obviously, someone who saw in that building the same potential that I had seen was going to fix it up so that I may one day inhabit it. But a week later, a mammoth advertisement was slug between them. “For Sale: Luxury High Rise Condominiums.” I drooped when I first walked past it. Chicago doesn’t need anymore luxury high rise condos. What we need is more quirky, but stately buildings like the one on its deathbed behind that ugly sign.

The building remained untouched for several months. I was relieved when the sign was knocked down in a windy storm. It was never replaced on my street side. I hoped that the investors had backed out or the building was saved by folks as caring as me. It wasn’t until I was riding past the next street over that I noticed that the sign had been re-built at the building’s second entrance. That street has more traffic. More traffic meant more money.

Then, about a month ago, the construction crews came. Every morning, I heard their destruction from my room while I was getting ready to go to work. Loud and ugly sounds. Scraping and tearing and banging. I couldn’t stand to think about my future beautiful terraces being smashed to the ground.

On my way to work I surveyed the damage and my sadness was replaced by awe. It is rare to get to see a literal cross section of a building. As each day came and went, new treasures were uncovered. A powder blue tiled bathroom with a crystal chandelier; Scarlet velvet covered bedroom walls that conjured Rosemary’s Baby-esque images; Mahogany kitchens fit for a chef; interior windows acting as portals to other rooms. Everyday, I stopped and read these stories of past-tenants lives. Each room was every bit as quirky as the building’s exterior and told a very particular tale of its inhabitants’ existence; a story of which I wanted to be a part.

I kept telling myself that I was going to take photographs of these rooms. I imagined that my photographs would reveal mysterious “mists” in each room, the ghosts of residents’ past. But I never got around to taking those photographs. In some way, I think that is appropriate to the life and death of that building.

Then last week, on my way home from the bus, I saw that the building was completely gone. All that is left is a flat, barren and dusty lot. And an ugly sign that says, “For Sale: Luxury High Rise Condominiums.”

Lost Dialogue

. . .

GLENN: I used to go muddin’ in my daddy’s pickup without his permission when I was 17. ... As mayor I believe we should help those in our community who may have alcohol or drug problems or mental illness. We should help them to get better, we shouldn’t lock them up. Unless they’re drunk or bothering other people with their illness. I had a father--

LORI BETH: Awww. Bless your heart.

GLENN: (Confused.) Thank you. (Back to the matter at hand.) I had a father who had dementia, which can be a mental illness. He would sometimes believe that people were in his house with guns and were about to kidnap him.

LORI BETH: (Matter-of-factly) I was kidnapped once.

GLENN: When was this?

LORI BETH: Two weeks ago. But enough about me. You know what sounds like dementia? Paprika. (Sprinkles Paprika on biscuits they are making.)

LORI BETH: (Awed) Are those your real eyes?

GLENN: (Pause) Oh! You mean my colored contacts. Without them, my eyes are a dull gray. Certainly not swimming-pool-blue like Paul Newman’s.

LORI BETH: (Alarmed) He was in a swimming pool?

GLENN: At some point I’m sure he was. He probably even has a pool. But I was referring to his eyes.

LORI BETH: I love Henley.

GLENN: (good-naturedly) Well, as mayor I bet I love it more.

LORI BETH: (laughing) No, I love it more.

GLENN: (laughing) No, I disagree. I love it more.

LORI BETH: (still laughing) No, I love it more!!!

GLENN: Well, then ... I guess we’re at a stalemate.

LORI BETH: What’s a stalemate?

GLENN: Well, it’s when two people ... you know what? You win. You love Henley more.


. . .

(Written by Carrie Barrett and Robert Cass)

Selling Out

I dislike the term “sellout”. It doesn't really mean anything to me. Its a blurry, shady area that is almost impossible to define because we can never truly know the motivation of others. Likewise, it is difficult to uncover the real driving force behind our own actions. Only rarely does time allow us the genuine objectivity needed to expose the truth behind our own reasons for making any given decision. Or maybe I'm just terrified of being a sellout. I definitely have it in me.

Over a year ago I wrote this email to my Sweetie:

Last night, I was researching old Chicago night spots when I recalled that one of these old haunts still remains intact in the basement of my old dwelling on Astor Street. As you may remember, The Astor Tower was once an extension of the famous Ambassador East Hotel. It was alike in its chic, but it was reserved for long-term guests – many of them entertainers with longer Chicago engagements. It was the stage for the major Beatles press conference wherein John apologized for declaring that the Beatles were bigger than Christ. It has a history of its own.

When I lived on Astor Street, I was fascinated by this old basement haunt. Its only entrance was through the back doors of the building, from which I only exited once – when I was escorting my mother’s friend, Robyn, to the car. I only caught a shadowy glimpse of its entrance. The bright red carpet in the entryway was only a tiny indication to the rest of the restaurant, but it spoke volumes of another era - one filled with a lively and elite set of Chicago’s finest. Robyn told me that it was an exact replica of Maxim’s de Paris, a very famous restaurant in, you guessed it, Paris. She also mentioned that it was only used for private events.

During the year and a half that I lived there, I only recollect Maxim’s being used twice. One of these times, I was stared down by a gang of strong men in tailored blue suits. As I walked outside, I saw that the street had been barricaded and there were helicopters flying overhead. Naturally, I was very curious as to what was happening. It was an hour or so later than I got my answer: President Bill Clinton was in town and was being entertained at Maxim’s. If my memory serves me, it was also used months later for a wedding reception.

So I knew that it was still being used, and was nice enough to accommodate the President on one of his rare visits. But, I didn’t know the full story behind it until last night, when I came across this website:

http://www.cityofchicago.org/CulturalAffairs/Maxims/

Now, as you can imagine, I am fully obsessed with it.

I am getting married in Maxim's in November.

Please call me Henri

I am eating what I believe to be Old Frenchman's Lunch. Two thin slices of dense rye bread, bits of cheese, green olives, a mini cucumber and yellow melon. I think its the best lunch I've ever had. If only I had a glass of red to go with it.

Quitting Is for Quitters; I Am Not a Quitter

Riding one’s bike against 20-30 mile per hour gusts is not as easy as one might think. One might have made the mistake of bicycling downwind on the first leg of one’s journey only to find that the ease that one found on one’s arrival was quickly and painfully diminished upon departure into a now blustery bike trail. If one is not an avid bicyclist (or an avid exercisist, for that matter) one might find that one must downshift to a very low gear so that one’s thighs do not burn in a matter befitting only hell. One who is out of shape might find that a jogger is running alongside one’s bicycle at the same speed yet with much less difficulty and a smile on his face. One might have to set aside one’s pride and health and either endure this slow and painful route or realize that walking one’s bike might prove to be easier. In the case of this one, one persevered with clinched jaw and sweating brow and last night slept like an exhausted baby.

Bubbles!

As I walked down Lake street I was showered soap bubbles falling from the sky. I looked up to see that high above me, hundreds of feet in the air, were 3 harnassed window washers, zipping up and down on their thick soft ropes, surrounded in bubbles.

The Awesome Andersons

Jenni Anderson doesn’t want to spin 14 hula-hoops while standing on top of a chair that is teetering on her jumping father’s forehead. She wants to be getting rides to the mall from her friend Katie’s older brother, Thom. She doesn’t want to juggle freshly sharpened machetes while walking a tightrope held by her brother Russell and Uncle Eugene, who are balancing on huge brightly colored balls. She’d rather be wearing pink a lip gloss to Rec League baseball games to look at cute boys baseball caps. Why is she swallowing a flaming torch while submerged in a tank of sharks when she could be lying by her friend Christina’s pool and eating Fruit Roll-ups and tater tots? Jenni should be doing all of the things her friends instant message her about, but instead she’s stuffed in her family’s cramped RV, touring between waterlogged towns and musty theatres that have seen a better years.

She’s sick of answering awed audience members’ questions about her young age (14) and when she learned how to contort her body into a heart shaped medallion that swings from a cable in the air (She was 3). And if she has to take one more Polaroid with old ladies in green plastic visors and American flag t-shirts she’s going to scream. In the winter, she had to miss her favorite shows to train and now she has to miss reruns to her favorite shows to tour. But how can she stop? It’s what pays for her new Gameboy system, her father reminds her while he sharpens the Machetes, and if she didn’t tour with the family where would she stay?

Besides, her Mother repeats while sitting twisted like a pretzel at the RV kitchen table, everyone knows that she’s the most popular attraction.

Hotmail Haiku

Hotmail is for fucks!
Years of memories erased
All because they suck.

Pluto

The lady on the bus informed us that something was going on with Pluto and secrets now are being revealed. This angered one of the woman with whom she was in accord, just moments earlier, in a jolly rabble rousing exchange about the travesties of modern corporations. The middle section of the bus, all strangers, had struck up a group discussion about Haliburton and Enron when the Pluto comment was made.

“So you’re saying that Kenneth Lay and Jeffrey Skilling did all of that stuff because Pluto told them to?” Her transformation from warm to frigid was easy and immediate. “You’re saying that a rock has feelings?”

“I’m sorry, a rock?”

“Yes! Pluto is a rock! It’s a rock and it doesn’t make people do things! People are in control of their destinies. Not rocks!” Ms Volatile looked away, shaking her head as if she just had seen someone lick a dumpster.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that Pluto made them do it--certainly not--we’re in control of our lives. We all do what we want to. I just meant that the stars are aligned in such a way that those bad guys aren’t getting away with it this time because Pluto won’t let them.”

“That is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard.”

The other conversationalists looked away partly with pity for Ms Pluto and also with fear for Ms Volatile’s unanticipated wrath. Ms Pluto was visibly flustered, but she maintained her original stance.

“Well, we are made of the earth and the earth is made of the stars. The sun and the moon control the tides. And we are made up of nearly 80% water, so of course we’re all connected in some way. But you don’t believe in astrology, so...”

“You’re right. I don’t believe that stuff. I make my own choices.”

After a long awkward silence, Ms Volatile gathered her stuff and moved to a seat at the front where she wouldn’t be bothered. Ms Pluto immediately turned her attention to the window. The streets of Chicago were flocked with sun fed people happily shopping, cycling and otherwise enjoying the beautiful day.

For Real: I Overheard a Guy Walking Down the Street Yelling This into His Phone...

...He was all the way across the street, but I heard every word. He was carrying leftovers.

"I had my first slump buster last week. Brutal. She looked like Chewbacca. She had to be the ugliest fucking girl in Chicago. I busted a nut, but when I looked down there was blood. She was on the rag. Dan was busting my chops for days about it. It was so brutal. She was so fucking ugly. If she had been skinny, it wouldn't have been so bad, but she was fuckin fat."

Seriously.

The TV

When I was young, my parents had a very peculiar old TV in their bedroom. While it wasn't so old that it had its own built-in hutch, it was old enough to be a relic. It was given to my parents by my grandparents and, since the early 1970’s, had remained perched atop a rickety TV stand at the foot of their bed.

In his working days, my mother's father was a successful home builder with his own construction company and is, to this day, known for being a very kind and generous man. When his friend, the owner of a competing company, fell ill and lay dying in the hospital alone with no family to care for him, my grandfather was there to comfort him. He would get his sick friend anything he needed, my grandfather. He wanted a color TV, his friend.

Despite the fact that the sick friend was bleeding rich and could afford about 100 TV’s with enough chump change left over to buy a fast car, my grandfather granted his request by buying him the best TV he could find, a very state of the art color TV with remote control, and installed it next to his bed in his private hospital room. Sadly, the TV didn’t get much of a workout, as the friend passed away shortly after the TV’s introduction. The TV was given to my parents, still a young couple.

The TV was peculiar because it was a color TV in a black and white TV’s shell, in that it couldn’t hold a signal, was blue around the edges, was just as archaic as any old black and white. It was heavy, made of metal and plastic, with a column of big silver dials. The remote was a big black plastic box with one big white button on it that, when pressed, would make a loud clicking noise that would turn the top channel dial. It would turn the TV on, cycle through all 12 channels, and then once the rotation was complete it would turn the TV off and so forth. A sound activated remote—the Clapper’s predecessor.

After a while, the TV started to fall apart. The antenna broke off, in its place went a metal wire dry cleaner hanger propped up against the door molding. And the knobs eventually fell off exposing a scary metal shaft that would only turn with the aid of my father’s strong hands and a wrench. So often, when I wanted to watch TV in my parents’ room in myself, I would need to get creative. By this time, the cover of the remote had also broken, exposing a metal coil that would make that loud clicking noise to which the TV would respond. After a few years of manually clicking the TV on and off, the coil came out and was lost.

This presented a problem; the TV could not be turned on and off unless my father volunteered to stop his hard-earned maxing and relaxing and come up to be my TV slave. “Yeah. Right.” So I did what any normal TV-grubbing child would do and I reached into my dad’s big glass jug filled with spare change and I shook the hell out of it until it made the same frequency of noise that remote made and the TV would spring to life.

I would like to say that I am the genius who discovered this, but alas, I am not. It was discovered by accident; whenever my father would shake the jar to add up his change, the TV would pop on.

Watching TV in my parents’ room took a lot of practice as the channels would erratically change at seemingly arbitrary moments when the many coins were clanging around. The worst was trying to turn it off. Sometimes, the shaking would mean that it would click off, and then on again, because it is hard to shake a jug of coins with precision. But by the time I got to middle school, I had perfected the art of channel “changing.” (Pun totally intended.) I discovered that you could get more control if you put a piled a bunch of change on the floor and dropped several quarters at a time into the pile. That seemed to do the trick just fine. But it took many frustrating attempts at watching Wheel of Fortune to get to that point.

The TV remained a fixture in my parents’ bedroom until the early 1990s, when my father and mother got a divorce and much of the house was dismantled and re-decorated as the households shifted. The old curtains went down, new ones went up and new furniture was brought in to fill in the gaps left by the old half leaving. The old TV was put out to pasture, along with other childhood relics; green plastic tubs filled with Lego blocks, baby dolls and tea party sets. But there is still a place in my heart for that damn TV.

Recurring Dream

I used to have this very scary recurring dream. I haven’t had it in years. In fact, when I think of it, I see it through the eyes of my seven-year-old self, which is to say that I don’t remember the details of it. I remember the color red. And black. And a huge mass—perhaps a rubber band ball—that is twirling and turning and wrapping around something. Although I can see it from a bird’s eye view, that something it's enveloping feels like me. I am in the middle of this vice as it is clamping down on me in slow motion. Meanwhile, I hear a cacophony of sounds, tinny sounds that are slightly louder and faster and higher in pitch than they are in reality. I simultaneously hear people talking, dogs barking, music playing, ambient noise; all jumbled together like an excerpt of Revolution #9. And when I’d wake up, startled having sweat through my nightgown, I’d not be able to shake that horrible feeling--that I was slowly being suffocated while the dissonant sounds of the world whizzed around me.

Naturally, I would run to my parents’ room to ask for comfort. “I had a bad dream,” I would tell my mother. “What was it about?” she sleepily would reply. Not knowing how to describe what I had just experienced, I would tell her I had a dream wherein I was in a car that was rolling down a hill and I couldn’t make it stop.

Clever, you are thinking, that I could improvise on the spot such a realistic alternative dream. Not really. As it were, my mother had mentioned to me that she had a recurring dream as a child. In this dream, she was trapped in a car with another little girl unable to apply the breaks while the car was rolling backwards. In her dream, her father could be seen on the horizon clutching his stomach, doubled over in pain. I thought that telling her that we shared the same recurring dream would make her sympathize with my pain. For the most part, I was right. Upon hearing the story, she would often let me sleep in the bed with her, whereas she’d usually turn me away when I woke her for other reasons.

The more interesting part in regards to my mother’s recurring dream is that, after 5 or so years of having this dream and explaining it to her mother, it came to life. When she was about 11 years old, her parents moved into a house on the hill. By this time, she had 2 sisters. One of them, Lynne, was in playing with her in their father’s station wagon, parked on the circular driveway in front of the house. Something happened, my mother pulled the emergency brake or shifted gears, and the car started rolling backwards. Both girls were screaming, my mother yelling, “My dream! My dream!” The car rolled down the driveway and into the street, where it slowly came to a halt. Thank God there were no oncoming cars speeding around the bend. Upon hearing the story, my grandmother immediately recognized the similarities between the dream (as told to her by my mother) and the real-life event. That night, my grandfather had to be hospitalized with what turned out to be a bleeding ulcer, making the reenactment of my mother’s dream complete.

Her fingernails

While he was cleaning up his desk, he came across a sliver of her fingernail. It had been flung across the desk by the force of clamping clippers. She used to absentmindedly groom herself—trim her fingernails and toenails and pick her nose and pimples-while sitting in front of the computer. It was cute. But today, the site of the yellowed fingernail made his stomach lurch. He ran to the bathroom and vomited into the sink. Was it or wasn’t it a myth that one’s fingernails keep growing after death?

What a drip!

Me, that is. I’m the drip. I’ve spent the better half of my morning fervently reading “Guide to Grammar and Style” by Jack Lynch.

Juicier than any issue of USWeekly, the Guide has pretty much everything you’d need to know about the proper use, or, as Mr Lynch would prefer, the widely accepted use of English language. Too bad my memory is such that next month I’ll be back to bugging my copyeditor with non-work related grammar questions. I love to see the look on her face when, thinking that my questions are in regards to work, she asks, “Now, who wants to know the definition of an antecedent?”

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.