run jen run

You Are Cordially Invited

2005-02-28T04:55:00.000-08:00

What: Housewarming Party
Why: Run Jen Run has moved
Where: http://www.runjenrun.com
When: Immediately!

Come on over! The party is just getting started…

On Aging: I Loves Me Mammy

2005-02-25T05:11:00.000-08:00

The last time I went to my gynecologist, she told me that I should start getting annual mammograms in the next year or so. At first, I kind of laughed, thinking she was joking, but as she wheeled her stool back and snapped off her latex gloves, there was not even the slightest glimmer of a smile in her face.

“A mammogram? Me? Uh, I’m sorry, maybe you read my age wrong on that chart – that’s a three, not a four.”

“Early detection is the key,” she chided, as she handed me a brochure entitled, Ten Myths About Mammograms. I don’t know about you, but when I curl up in bed to read some myths, I like them to include sons falling in love with their mothers, women with snakes for hair, and people having their livers eaten out each evening by vultures. But tales of breasts being flattened in vices really just don’t spin my wheels. I don’t know, maybe it’s the whole Greek vs. Latin thing.

I guess on some level, I am relieved to know that my breast health will finally be in the hands of a professional, because up until this point, detecting breast cancer was apparently entirely my job. I always dread that question during my annual checkups:

“Now, are you doing your monthly breast exams?”

“Well, I suppose that all depends on how loosely you define the word, ‘exam.’ Maybe a pop quiz, or an open book test every now and then...”

As she sat there stone-faced, I made a mental note to deduct some points from her score due to poor stirrup-side manner. I just feel so darn guilty when she asks me that question. It’s kind of the same feeling I get when the dentist asks me if I floss. My answer is always the same:

“Well, I don’t floss as much as I should… three or four times a week, maybe.”

And what I mean by that is, “I flossed three or four times a week for the two weeks prior to this appointment, and now I will drop back down to flossing only after eating corn on the cob or spinach quiche.”

[On a side note, is it just a strange coincidence that all my gynecologists avert their eyes while doing my breast exam, or is that the industry standard to make women feel more comfortable? I mean, I guess it might be a bit disconcerting if they gazed intently into my eyes during the whole procedure, unless dinner and a movie were involved, of course. But I am paying them good money to make sure I get the full works – oil change, fluid checks, fill the tires, and change the air filter – so a glance down every now and then to make sure things are where they’re supposed to be might not be a bad idea. I’m just saying.]

So I guess when all’s said and done, I should probably be looking forward to my first mammogram, when I can finally relinquish this burdensome responsibility to someone with some medical knowledge that didn’t come from WebMD. Well, in the meantime, I’d better start brushing up on my mythology:

Myth #1: Mammograms are painful.
Fact: Although the procedure may cause slight discomfort, it is very brief and the benefits are great!

Hoo boy, I can see this is going to be a real page-turner…

The Gods Must Be Crazy

2005-02-23T05:01:00.000-08:00

I’m a glass half full kind of gal, I really am. Not in an insipid Pollyanna “Grey skies are gonna clear up” type way, but I just find that I enjoy life more when I’m not playing the victim.

But c’mon, people. I’ve now been unce, tice, fee times a victim. I was taking out some mad cash this weekend, planning on blowing it at the Super Duper 40-Lane Mega Bowling Alley, because as Natasha said, “Bowling is the new karaoke.” When I saw my checking balance, it seemed off, but I’ll readily admit that I’m not the best about balancing my checkbook. So I told myself to make a mental note and check it again on Monday.

So Monday rolls around and I’m out celebrating President’s Day by working, which is obviously NOT what our forefathers had intended. Clearly Abe Lincoln wanted me to be getting 50% off all previously reduced items at Nordstrom’s, but instead, I was one of the working stiffs keeping this country running on Monday. In any case, after enjoying a nice slice of cheese and mushroom pizza at the food court, I moseyed on over to the ATM to check my balance. Now this time I was certain – it was even lower than it was on Friday, so something was up.

Of course, my initial thought was: those sunamabeetch robbers stole some of my checks, and are writing bad checks all over town! So I quickly transferred all my remaining funds over to my savings account, which even at the time I knew would do me no good since I have overdraft protection. But it somehow made me feel less helpless. I probably should’ve just pulled out the maximum amount in cash just to have it on hand, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.

As soon as I got home Monday, I called my bank (and happily, they have a 24/7 customer service desk – even on silly bank holidays!) to get a list of my recent transactions. As I was running through the list, one item in particular jumped out – a $450 check to a certain storage company in Milwaukee that is housing all the stuff I couldn’t fit in my little Chicago apartment. I thought, “Hmm. That’s odd. My monthly bill is only $45. I wonder if the bank made a data entry error.”

Oh, Jenny. Sometimes your naïveté is charming. But not right now. Now it’s just plain tiresome. The customer service rep pulled up the digital check image (I heart digital imaging. So much.), and quickly realized that someone had added a zero to the end of my $45. They didn’t bother to try to change the written part, I guess because it’s a little bit harder to turn “Forty five and 00/100 -------“ into “Four hundred fifty and 00/100-------.”

Now, I don’t have to worry about my $405 that this certain storage company, which I should mention is a Public storage company, ripped off. Because even if they won’t pay me back, my bank will, and then sue their asses to get it back. But I just had a good laugh with that bank customer service rep. We laughed and laughed as we said to each other, “Exactly how stupid are these people? This is a nationwide chain! And they took $405 more of my money than was owed them. It was deposited into their corporate account - did they think I wouldn’t figure it out? Ha ha ha ha!”

Since I like to watch a lot of crime TV, I got all Law & Order and tried to figure out all the different scenarios: was it a dirty bookkeeper? A disgruntled employee who stole $405 in petty cash and wanted to cover it up? A really, really stupid franchise owner? Will we ever know? I can’t be sure, but I am sure that I’ll get my $405 back. And I’m also certain that, if my belongings are actually still there and I haven’t been paying for an empty storage garage for the past two years, I am most certainly not keeping them there any longer than I have to.

But what I am not certain of is this: what cosmic forces did I really piss off to have warranted a robbery, permanent deletion of half of my hard drive at work (long story, but the wounds are still too fresh to discuss), and now check forgery, all in a one month span? And more importantly, do I need to sacrifice a virgin to appease them? Because I’ll start combing the local chess clubs, I swear to you. Just say the word and point me in the direction of the Kraken.

If it weren’t for the fact that these annoying events keep giving me something to write about, I might be a little more upset about them. But let me tell you, if that certain public Storage company doesn’t give me my GD $405, I’ll release a firestorm of my own. I now have several web domains at the ready, in the event that they want to do this the hard way: www.[storage company]sucks.com, www.[storage company]stolemy$405.edu, www.dontdobusinesswith[storage company].net, and of course, www.ihate[storage company].org.

Hell hath no fury like a Sicilian scammed!

On Aging: A Wrinkle in Time

2005-02-21T04:33:00.000-08:00

As children, I'm sure we all remember defiantly laughing and rolling our eyes when our parents would warn us about making funny faces, threatening that they “would stay that way” if we didn’t stop. In my eight-year old naïveté, little did I know that decades later I actually would be paying the price for all my playground-renowned grumpy old man grimaces and tongue-wagging wide grins.

Now, my face – no longer plumped by the elastic collagen of innocence – acts as a form of silly-putty each morning. But instead of replicating brightly colored characters from the funny papers, my face bears the mirror image of my wristwatch, or the seams of my pillow, or my cat’s tail, or whatever unfortunate surface I happened to be laying on overnight. Sometimes I am forced to catch the late train in order to give my skin enough time to finally bounce back to its former shape, lest the local townsfolk think me a deformed freak and revoke my street parking privileges.

Over the past several months, I’ve had three dreams that involved me getting Botox injections. Only one ended badly, with the Botox forming gigantic lumps in my forehead that floated freely beneath the surface of my skin. But still, my wrinkles were gone, so even that dream didn’t turn out all that bad.

This past Christmas, my brother and I were watching TV at our parents’ house and some E! Entertainment special came on about celebrity plastic surgery. I half-jokingly made a comment to my brother like, “Huh. Maybe I should get me some of that Botox,” at which point he looked at me quite seriously and replied, “Yeah, you could probably use a little right there.”

Now, in case this isn’t already clear, let me outline some important points for any of the gentlemen who might be reading this right now. There are a few questions that women ask that should never, under any circumstance, be answered in the affirmative, including, but not limited to:

Does this make me look fat?

Was she prettier than me?

Do you think I should get Botox?

Look, I know this makes me look fat, I’m aware that she’s prettier than me, and yes, I know I should get Botox, but really, how did it benefit you to confirm that for me? Was that a good idea, or a bad idea? It is not a new phenomenon for women to ask questions that can only end in a fight, so you’d think by now people would have learned their lines.

The correct answer to my question is, “What? Don’t be ridiculous! Why on earth would you get Botox? You’re way hotter than any of those plastic-faced anorexic models!”

Okay, wait. The thought of my brother saying that to me just totally skeeved me out, big time. So perhaps the correct answer is to never ask stupid questions like that in the first place, particularly in the presence of the person who used to draw mustaches on your favorite doll (Oh, Red Baby, will you ever forgive me for leaving you in the toy room unattended? I’ll never abandon you again, my sweet transgendered daughter).

As much as I’d like to be able to look you all in the monitor and say that I am appalled at the very idea of injecting botulism bacteria into my face, simply to live up to the beauty standard that Hollywood has set, clearly the fact that I am having recurring pleasant dreams about Botox speaks otherwise. But there’s one thing more powerful than even my feminist ideals that will prevent me from going under the needle anytime soon, and that is the overwhelming fear of a horrific, disfiguring result.

While I don’t consider myself to be someone who constantly yearns for the approval of others in life, for some reason, I have discovered that I strongly seek their approval in death. This is the reason I won’t skydive – truly, it’s not out of any fear of heights, or because I just don’t want to. I think it would be an amazing experience, but not amazing enough to counter my fear of this conversation:

“Oh god. When did it happen? Jenny was so young. Was it a car accident?”

“No, she went skydiving and her parachute got caught up in some electrical wires. It was over quickly.”

“Wait, she was skydiving? Are you kidding me? Why the hell did she go skydiving – she works in marketing!? She’s not even athletic!”

“I… I have no idea. She thought it would be cool, I guess.”

“Cool. Yeah, that’s real cool, all right. I’m sure she looked real cool all tangled up and electrocuted. What an idiot.”

”No kidding. Total moron.”

“You going to the wake?”

“Nah, not for that bonehead.”

“Me neither. Let’s go get a smoothie.”

“Cool.”

When I think about the idea of getting Botox, a similar scenario plays through my head, except this time, instead of dying in some power lines, I imagine my face horrifically scarred beyond recognition. I’m not proud to admit it, but it isn’t some moral, Gloria Steinem-esque outrage against agism that prevents me from juicing up – it’s really the fear of having to explain that my deformity was caused by pure unadulterated vanity.

So for now, I’ll continue to take my Vitamin E tablets, drink eight glasses of water a day, and get plenty of rest each night. Oh, and I’m going to see if I can start sleeping on my back from now on, too. Those wristwatch lines are murder on the complexion.

On Aging: Seeing Spots

2005-02-18T04:36:00.000-08:00

As another birthday looms near, I find myself approaching my mid-thirties, which, according to my friends, is the time when we finally stop focusing so much on the things we want out of life, and begin convincing ourselves that we never really wanted them in the first place. But for me, each new birthday signals a changing of the guard, of sorts. A time for me to try to pass on something I have learned to a younger generation, so that they might benefit from my squandered youth.

With that in mind, I launch my new feature, On Aging – a series of brief observations on what it means to watch your body fall apart before your very eyes. Enjoy.

Along with an uncontrollable urge to cry at any sports-related movie – even though I hate sports-related movies – my thirtieth year also gave me the gift of vision. Before I turned thirty, I never looked for physical signs of aging, which I suppose is partly because there weren’t all that many to be concerned with.

But magically, as though given the sight of the Oracles, the day after my thirtieth birthday, I looked into the mirror and saw through the mist of youth, revealing colors and lines in my face I had never before witnessed. Recently, I was discussing this phenomenon of self-observation with my friend, Vivian:

“So, this is weird – I thought I found liver spots on the back of my right hand yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But then I licked them and realized it was just some melted chocolate.”

“Jenny, why in god’s name would you lick something you suspected to be a liver spot?”

“On the outside chance that it might be chocolate.”

Bad Influence

2005-02-16T05:35:00.000-08:00

Last week Natasha and I were out at a karaoke bar, preparing our set list for the evening’s theme, which was “Fire.” Seamus takes his karaoke very seriously, so he likes to mandate themes, which must be strictly adhered to each week.

“How about We Didn’t Start the Fire?”

“Oooh – good one! I think I’m gonna do Hot Stuff and Ring of Fire.”

“Nice.”

The bartender came over to get our drink order – I asked for my usual scotch and soda, and Natasha ordered… a ginger ale.

Huh?

This was a bit out of character for Nat, since her tastes typically lean toward vodka tonics or Cosmopolitans. Concerned for her well-being, I chimed in: “Hey? What gives? We come to a bar and you order a ginger ale? You sick or something?”

Nat dug around in her purse looking for her wallet, and said, “I need to stop drinking for a while. I’m getting a little out of control.”

“What are you talking about? How are you out of control?”

“Jen – ever since you moved to Chicago, my health has been suffering. I used to cook at home more often, work out more, take vitamins…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Surely you aren’t blaming me for your vitamin intake?! Nat – no one is more concerned with your iron levels than I am, and you know it!”

“No, no. You’re right. I’m just saying that lately when you and I hang out, things tend to get a little crazy.”

“Crazy? Look – who helped mend the fences between you and Seamus so we could all hang out together? Who started the Roll the Die Tuesday Night Supper Club and logged all our restaurant reviews into my Sony Clié PDA, which was subsequently stolen in the robbery? So we indulge in the fire water and take Lambada lessons every now and then. We’re all having fun, no one’s been thrown in jail, so what’s the big deal?”

“Jenny, need I remind you of the spectacle we made of ourselves last weekend?”

“I’m certain that I have no idea what you are talking about, Natasha.”

“The leather bar? Furry G-string? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Oddly, it did ring a bell. A soft and distant bell, that with each passing moment became louder and louder. And the longer I reminisced, the more that bell started to sound like the booming bass and pounding dance rhythms of DJ Warden spinning at The Penitentiary, one of Chicago’s oldest leather bars.

Here’s how it all started: Natasha’s boyfriend, Farnsworth, invited us to see his friend’s band play at a local bar. Nat told me it was some sort of benefit performance for the Tsunami victims – and if there’s anything I like more than live music, it’s live music with a cause.

As Nat told me about this philanthropic event, she smirked a bit and said, “But I just want to give you a heads-up. The band is playing at a leather bar.”

“Oh, okay. So, are we talking the biker kind of leather bar, or the gay kind of leather bar?”

“The gay kind. Or maybe gay bikers, I’m not exactly clear on the details.”

“That’s cool, but am I going to get thrown out if I wear my Gap jeans and a turtleneck?”

“No, it’ll be totally cool. Farnsworth says it’s a really inclusive type of a bar. I’m sure it will be a diverse crowd.”

“Will I see men in buttless chaps?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I have since learned not to trust Natasha’s judgment on such matters of fashion.

Nat and I pushed the doors open like a couple of gunslingers walking into a saloon, and were met with a veritable sea of black leather. The place smelled like a chummy mix of new car, cigarette smoke, and Red Bull. I hadn’t seen so many studded leather sailor hats since Seamus took 2nd Place in that Village People impersonator contest a few years ago.

As soon as the band stepped on stage, everyone went wild. The crowd sang along to the old classics: Everybody Loves a Muscle Boi and There’s a Porn Star Shining Down on Me. The bass was booming, people were jumping, the scotch was flowing freely, leather was crunching. And best of all, I knew I was helping make a difference to people halfway across the world.

Natasha had to shake my shoulder to snap me out of this smoky stroll down memory lane.

“I don’t know what the big deal is, Nat. We all had a good time. Everyone was dancing, and drinking, and laughing. What’s so bad about that?”

“Jenny, I realize you had a bit to drink that night, so this may be a little foggy in your memory, but perhaps you blocked out the part where you kept stuffing dollar bills into a man’s fur-covered G-string.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy. I know what I did – it was only two dollar bills, and it was for a good cause.”

“And what cause might that be?”

“Hello? The Tsunami victims?!”

“Uh, Jenny. The cover charge went to the charity. That man had nothing to do with the Tsunami victims. He came there in that fur G-string.”

[reflective pause]

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“But… he was on stage. With the band…”

“Uh, yeah. That’s because he was a stripper, Jenny. And you stuffed dollar bills into his fur G-string.”

“Well… what do you know?”

[another reflective pause]

“Uh, bartender? Cancel that scotch – can you make mine a ginger ale, too?”

I Love VD

2005-02-14T04:37:00.000-08:00

On this glorious holiday, when we celebrate all that we love, I want to bring the mood down a little and get serious for once. I may joke about the flowers and chocolates, but Valentine’s Day is a very important holiday that should be celebrated with all the honor and respect that Mr. Hallmark intended when he came up with it in his marketing boardroom. Oh wait, that was Sweetest Day – scratch that last part.

It’s funny, but Valentine’s Day always makes me think of my grandfather, because he had a charming way of speaking his mind and pointing out what was most important in life. Every Valentine’s Day, he would send me a little card with a hand-written note – just a sentence or two – that would bring a smile to my face and make me feel like the most special girl in the world. I kept them all in a little satin covered box that once contained an Easter bonnet he bought my grandmother when he was courting her.

All of the cards would begin with, "Dear Jenny, always remember this:" Some of the notes that stuck with me are:

Enjoy life’s sweet surprises.

Inspire the life of a child.

Sleep late, dream more.

If I could, I’d bathe in chocolate.

Wait a minute – okay, so maybe my grandfather didn’t really write these. Maybe instead of hand-written notes, these might be the wrappers from the bag of dark chocolate Dove Promises I just ate. And maybe instead of a satin covered hat box, I just dug them out of the trash.

But the sentiment is still the same.

My point – if I must have one – is this: it is important to recognize and honor the ones we love, whether it is triggered by some greeting card holiday, or by the fabricated memory of a relative. Too often, we take our loved ones for granted, and forget to tell them how we feel. So with that in mind, I’m going to do us all an enormous favor by telling everyone we love that we love them, en masse, right here and right now:

Husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, parents, brothers, sisters, children, second cousins, friends, co-workers, mail carriers, teachers, bus drivers – we all love you. We just wanted you to know that we love you a lot, even though sometimes we don’t say it enough. I mean, we love you so deeply that sometimes we just get a little crazy, you know? It’s like, we love you so much that we don’t want anyone else to love you. Not the way that we love you.

So I guess what we're trying to say is... please come back to us. Please? We promise we won’t do those things that drove you away in the first place. We told you that we’re getting help for that, so why won’t you believe us? You know, we would love you a lot more if you weren’t such a frickin' nag. No wait, we didn’t mean that. Just please say you’ll take us back. We know you love us, too. Oh god, we love you so much.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

The Way We Were

2005-02-11T16:58:00.000-08:00

Don’t be that way.

We knew it couldn’t last.

I mean, it was bound to happen.

All good things must come to an end.

So dawn goes down to day, nothing gold can stay.

I’ve been thinking about it for some time now. I like it here, but I just need a change of scenery. Staring at the same thing day after day after day starts to bring you down, you know?

So I’m doing it – I’m moving away.

No, not from Chicago, sillies! From this little blue and green and tan home at Blogger that has served me so well over these many months.

I just feel like we need a bigger place now. You deserve something pretty. So with that in mind, in the next week or so, I will be relocating to a new home at a new address.

Now, based on personal experience, I know that accepting change takes time, which is why I wanted to give you some advance notice of my move. I want to give you time to let it sink in so you can consider how this change will affect you, and how we can work together to make it a successful transition.

But, trust me on this one – you’re going to love our new place! It has a better school system, it’s way bigger than this place, and has a much better view. My new home is gonna be so cool – it will have stock tips, a recipe board, a word jumble, Classic Asteroids®, free virus patches, and a live feed into the Big Brother house!

Then, in Version 2.0 (to be released in late July), I’m going to develop an online dating service strictly for bloggers called blotch.com. You don’t get to pick who you date – I just randomly pair up two people in my blogroll. So maybe you’re already married, or maybe you live in New York and she lives in Dallas – I need you to just trust me on this one. Bubbe knows best.

Oh, shoot – can you hang on a sec? My cell phone’s ringing.

Talk to me. What? But I thought you said… Yeah, but when I signed the contract we… No, I know we talked about the recipe board… How much? Uh, no, just try it again – I’m sure it will clear this time. No, it must be some mix up at the bank. Let me make a few calls. Yeah, okay. Later.

Okay, due to an apparent miscommunication, my design team has just informed me that actually none of those things will be on my new site. But wouldn’t that be awesome?!

So that’s the good news, but here’s what breaks my tender heart – with this new change of address, all your old comments will be wiped out, blown away into the infinite blogoverse. This pains me to no end because I’ve so enjoyed reading all the funny, intelligent, and downright bizarre comments you have kindly left over the past several months.

I contemplated asking you to all remember precisely what you said each week, and in which order, and then recreate those comments exactly on the new site, but then I thought that might be a little too time consuming to orchestrate.

So instead, I’m just going to encourage you to do what I’m doing: take a walk down memory lane. Thanks so much for hanging out with me here, and I do hope to see you at my housewarming party. Please bring a dish to pass and RSVP, regrets only.

Cupid Is As Cupid Does

2005-02-09T05:11:00.000-08:00

When I walked into my office building yesterday, my path to the elevators was blocked by an enormous red and white sign near the security desk that said:

“Win a free dozen roses and a box of chocolates from ExecuCorp Properties! Drop off your business card today at the security desk to be entered into the drawing! Flowers and chocolates will be delivered to your office on Valentine’s Day!”

Now, I’ve done some lonely things in my day, like ordering a birthday cake with my name on it when it’s not really my birthday, or eating a pint of cookie dough ice cream while watching Love Story with my cats, but sending myself roses and chocolates on Valentine’s Day? That’s just plain sad.

While I found this contest to be a bit bizarre, I’ve learned that sometimes my judgment is off, so I consulted the best resource I knew – my friend, Hap. Hap is an expert when it comes to all things Valentinian because he works for a singing telegram company. This is his busiest season of the year, as you might imagine.

I called up Hap so he could weigh in on this great debate: registering for free roses – pathetic or not?

“I would never use the term pathetic.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Desperate and sad, maybe, but never pathetic.”

“But how lame is that? I mean, that’s almost as bad as sending a singing telegram to myself.”

Hap’s eyes lit up: “I could get you a discount if you don’t mind a Barbershop Trio. Our baritone has strep.”

“Hap! You’re missing the point! Is it, or is it not, a sad state of affairs that my building is already anticipating that no one will send me a Valentine this year? I know this contest is about me – someone must have told them! I mean, can you just imagine the humiliation if I actually won?”

[Cue dream sequence]

Our main character, Jenny, is sitting at her desk, feverishly typing away on a marketing proposal that is due in two hours. In her trash can, we see a banana peel, a Cheetos wrapper, and an empty Starbucks cup. Suddenly, we hear a commotion coming from the front of the office – people chatting, desk drawers slamming shut, chairs swiveling, necks craning – a handsome delivery man enters the office carrying one dozen perfect red roses and an enormous heart-shaped box of chocolates wrapped in a delicate pink bow.

“Delivery for Miss Jenny!” says the man in the brown suit, a smile stretched across his face.

“For, m- me? But, I… oh my goodness!” squeals our blushing heroine.

Her co-workers curiously gather around her desk, anxious to share in the excitement that unexpected gifts bring.

“Who’s it from? Who’s it from, Jenny?” screams one woman.

“I don’t remember you mentioning anyone special in your life! Oooh, you’re so secretive!” giggles another.

“Oh, they’re just lovely! Someone must really love you!” titters a third.

Exhilarated by all this sudden attention, Jenny coughs a bit, then sheepishly mumbles, “Well, I… we just started dating recently. This, this is really all so unexpected.”

“Let us see the card! What does the card say?”

“Um, it just says…”

“Read it to us! What does it say?”

Realizing she is now deep into the deception, Jenny wipes her brow, and then says, “It says, Dearest Jenny, I adore you…”

Jenny nervously looks up at her colleagues, searching for reassurance, and feels a swell of pride as they all eagerly nod, hanging on her every word.

She continues, “Dearest Jenny, I adore you. And think you’re beautiful. And very smart. And funny. And each moment I spend with you is like an eternity in Paradise.”

At this last line, Jenny closes her eyes and presses the card to her chest. Just then, a male co-worker snatches the card out of Jenny’s hand and reads it aloud: “Happy Valentine’s Day from… ExecuCorp Properties! We value your business!”

The card drops from his hand and flutters in slow motion to the ground.

Jaws drop, and an initial hush passes over the crowd, followed by machine-gun bursts of hysterical laughter. Jenny’s co-workers all point at her as they double over, tears streaming down their faces.

A blonde woman from sales pries the box of chocolates from Jenny’s hands, throws it to the ground, and starts stomping on it. A skewer of butter cremes collects on her stilettos. The new billing clerk grabs the flowers off Jenny’s desk and passes them around the crowd. Her co-workers rip the heads off the roses with their teeth, and spit them out at Jenny’s head. They are oblivious to the thorns, as thin streams of blood trickle down their chins.

The ghoulish visages of her colleagues spin around her like blurry merry-go-round faces, their teeth stained crimson with blood and rose petals.

She feels she is going mad.

“Jenny loves the building! Jenny loves the building! Jenny and ExecuCorp, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

Hap yelled into the phone, “Jenny! Jenny! Hey – where’d you go there? Look, I gotta get going soon – telegrams to deliver, and all.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I just wanted the opinion of an expert. I mean, sending yourself candy and roses. Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Yeah, totally stupid.”

“See, that’s what I thought.”

“So… how many cards did you drop in?”

“Four.”

“Good girl.”

Jenny Eats Crow. On a Stick.

2005-02-08T05:40:00.000-08:00

I found this in my inbox when I got home today. Note to self: Do not play literary chicken with talented poets.

Dear Jenny,

I usually unkindly judge poets who, after a few pints, jot poems on bar napkins and rush to make them public. Alas, I felt a certain challenge by your entry this morning to dash off an ode to a stick. So, without ado and with the rush of irish ale, here it tis.

Enjoy!

Love,

Vivian

STICK

wild wind breaks branch
carries all weak things
to new rest against fences
plastic bags paper wrappers stick
this stick finger thick
memory of a hand
a wave in all that's left
no stones.

Another Day, Another Dollar

2005-02-07T04:37:00.000-08:00

As much as I enjoy writing these entries, occasionally I’ll suffer from what is commonly referred to as writer’s block. Or as it’s known among my friends, “Jenny hasn’t been robbed in over two weeks.”

During those trying times, I often look to my friends for help, comfort, and advice. Most of them just give me the vaguely supportive suggestions like:

Change your environment!
Try mood altering medication!
Move your computer into the dining room!
Hold a brainstorming session!
Plagiarize!

But not Vivian. No, Vivian’s advice is much more concrete. In fact, she often comes to me with lists of things I should write about. Sometimes, they’re not even things that happened to me: “So this one friend of mine is really allergic to cats, and he started dating this girl with a bunch of cats, but he was too embarrassed to tell her he was allergic, so he rifled through her medicine cabinets looking for Benadryl because his throat was closing, and she caught him, and thought he was creepy, so they broke up!”

“But Viv – I don’t know either of those people, and none of that happened to me. I can’t write about that!”

“Oh, well, I admire your integrity. Good luck coming up with an entry.”

The last time I saw her, we were in a coffee shop getting some lattés, and I casually mentioned that I didn’t have anything in mind for the upcoming week’s entries. After she got done paying for her coffee, she handed me a tattered dollar bill that had one of those web addresses on it that lets you track who has had that dollar before you. You know the one – where’s george dot com?

Without even looking up from her wallet, she just shoved the bill at me and said, “Here. That should be good for at least an entry or two.”

A dollar bill? I’m seriously going to write an entire blog entry – or two – about some ratty dollar bill that she handed me? Yeah, that’s riveting stuff. Maybe I can do a whole series on Things I Dug out of Vivian’s Pockets:

Monday: Blue and White Lint
Tuesday: Cough Drop
Wednesday: Crumpled Kleenex
Thursday: Two Nickels and a Dime
Friday: Old MetroCard

Boy, that will make for quite the literary event – I might want to save it for sweeps week, though, to drive the ratings up. The interesting thing is that Vivian is a writer, herself. A poet, to be exact. Since inspiration apparently comes in such mundane forms, the next time I see Vivian, I’m going to see if this same theory works for her as well:

“Oh hey, Vivian. Look! Here’s a stick. Why don’t you quick write a poem about it?”

Or

”Hey – that’s neat! Here’s a bottle cap that’s been run over by some cars. I’m sure this will inspire you to craft a few sonnets, right?”

Or even

“What do you know? I found a ring from the milk carton on my kitchen floor. Then my cat knocked it into the dining room. Viv – you could do an epic poem about that, in the tradition of Homer’s, The Odyssey, don’t you think?”

Brother. Some people have a lot of gall. Like it’s just that easy to write a blog. “Write about this dollar bill,” she says. How on earth does she think I’d be able to write an entire entry about a silly dollar bill?

Ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

The Middle of the End: It's Your Move

2005-02-04T04:48:00.000-08:00

Hey, Seattle, it’s Jenny. Are you screening? Pick up. Hello? Okay, I guess you’re not home. Anyway, I just wanted to call to say hi. Hope things are going okay wi- Oh hey! You’re home! I’m sorry, did I wake you?

I’m sorry, yeah, I know it’s early out by you. I just… I needed to hear your voice.

I know – it’s been a while. How have you been?

No, I’m okay, but things are really messed up with Orangehat and me right now. I’m ending it, Sea. I’m going to ask him for a divorce.

Why would you even say that? You know I’m not getting a divorce because of you. I told you that things were bad long before I met you.

Because it’s the truth! You’re the one I love, Seattle! I was so stupid with Orangehat – trying to hang onto something that hadn’t been working for ages. Looking back, I’m not even sure it ever worked. I rushed into marriage with him before we really got to know each other. I mean, do you have any idea what it feels like to think you’re in love with someone, but then suddenly wake up and realize you’re sitting next to a complete stranger? It’s the loneliest feeling in the world, Sea.

I deserve to be with someone who loves me as much as I love him. Isn’t that what we all want?

I know – I feel the same way about you. I just wish you lived closer to me – I never thought that having a clandestine long distance marriage to a city in the Pacific Northwest would be so hard.

I know you don’t like it when I bring this up, but I really wish you would consider moving out here. Illinois is a great state.

Well, Washington doesn’t recognize our marriage either, so what’s the diff-

We are a blue state!

Well, yeah, but we have Lake Michigan.

No, you can’t really eat the fish out of there, but it’s way bigger than Lake Washington.

Mmm, I think almost three million, but it doesn’t feel that big.

I don’t know, fairly temperate, I guess. About 84˚ in the summer, 21˚ in the winter…

Average monthly precipitation? How the hell… look, I’m not the Census Bureau. All I know is that my marriage to Orangehat is over, and you and I can finally be together all the time now.

I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve tried to get you out of my head, but everything keeps reminding me of you. I mean, I walk past about 15 Starbucks every day, I eat salmon at least once a week, and last night VH1 had a Behind the Music about Pearl Jam. This can’t all be one huge coincidence!

Honey, don’t. I can’t have this conversation again. You know I can’t move out there – my job is here, my family is here. Won’t you at least consider it?

What do you mean, how? You just pack up your things and move, like everybody else.

Yes, babe, I realize that you are a city, but cities move all the time. Houston used to be in Colorado until about 1827.

I don’t know, I read it somewhere.

Stop trying to change the subject. Look, hon, I don’t want to pressure you. All I’m asking is that you think about it. I’m telling you, my place is so much bigger – I have the perfect spot picked out for the Needle. You’re going to love it here!

Okay, well, go back to bed and get some rest. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay?

Don’t worry, I won’t. Two hours behind – got it!

Love you!

Bye.

Holding Out for a Hero

2005-02-02T05:02:00.000-08:00

Whenever I read a news story about a child who saved his sibling by performing CPR (which he learned on Baywatch), or about a teenager who rushed into the neighbor’s burning house to get them out of the fire, it reminds me of my own childhood. Not because I actually did any of those things, of course, but because I so desperately wanted to.

I wanted to save someone’s life. Not the reformed alcoholic or religious awakening type salvation. No, just good old, “you were about to die, and I just saved your life” type saving. My hero phase lasted a few years. At the local swimming pool, I would patrol the deep end, looking for someone who might be getting a cramp. I would stretch my arms and my calves just in case I had to quickly dive in to save an elderly woman. At the playground, I would monitor the younger children to make sure they didn’t get too close to the street, and I’d imagine myself racing after them and tackling them to the grass just seconds before a bus rammed into both of us.

I’m not really sure why I had this fantasy. I wasn’t a strong swimmer or a fast runner. I had enough friends to keep me busy – I didn’t need to indenture some little playmate by saving her life. I was never a thrill seeker, so I don’t think it was the adrenaline rush that appealed to me. And I would blush in school if the teacher singled me out for doing something well, so I can’t say that it was the fame I was after. Maybe I just wanted to know that I could do it – to know that in the face of great danger, I could put aside my own fears and risk my life for someone else’s.

I mean, hopefully, I would have saved somebody really important. Someone whose life would have made a big difference to thousands of others. Like a child prodigy, maybe. You know, I think that might be it – since I wasn’t a child prodigy myself, I at least could have been the kid who saved the child prodigy.

“Who’s that boy?”

“That’s a girl.”

“Oh. Who’s that girl?”

“You know. She’s that one girl who saved that child prodigy.”

“Oh, that’s the girl? Huh. She looked taller in the paper.”

I mean, when you think about it, saving a child prodigy is actually a lot more impressive than being one. Prodigies just are. They don’t choose to write operas at age four or solve complex mathematical equations at age five. Frankly, they can’t help themselves. It’s programmed into their DNA. Prodigies have an urge, a desire, which must be fulfilled at all costs. Relationships are destroyed, families are torn apart, friends are lost, all in the relentless, passionate pursuit of their talent. For god’s sake, didn’t any of you see Amadeus? Or La Bamba?

In fact, child prodigies are really no better than drug addicts. Let’s face it – I’m the one who made the choice. I’m the one who risked my life, just to save that uppity rosin snorting violin genius. Oooh, look at me! I’m a child prodigy! I’m too good to play tether ball with you because I might sprain my piano pinky!

So maybe it’s all for the best that I was never particularly brave or athletic. Thanks to me, there are probably a few less opium smoking, plane crashing, bipolar prodigies out on the streets, and if that doesn’t make me a hero, then I don’t know what does.

LiePod, or How an Apple Sealed Her Fate

2005-01-31T05:16:00.000-08:00

Apple equals Temptation equals Sin equals Satan. Why did this simple equation escape me for so long?

I just wanted to spend time with my friends and have fun this weekend. My job has been hectic, my apartment got robbed – I was looking for a mindless distraction. I just never thought I would be witness to Roma’s fall from grace.

This weekend, I went to Milwaukee to visit some old friends, and attend a marathon poetry reading (yes, my life is both wild and glamorous). We decided to kill time by heading out to the mall for some impulse shopping. For me, impulse shopping typically means spending $18 on some Aveda shampoo that smells really nice and makes my hair shiny. For my friend Roma, it meant much, much more.

After a quick run through Pottery Barn, Roma innocently asked me if I wanted to pop into the Apple store while we were at the mall to check out the iPods. Her sister just bought a sleek green iPod mini, so she was thinking about getting one, too.

The store was absolutely packed – every station was full of people typing and clicking and mousing and thumbing all the sexy Apple products. Within minutes, I found myself palming two iPods simultaneously – the mini and the regular. It was hypnotic. Lithe young sales associates in tight black T-shirts with iPod Shuffles seductively draped around their necks snaked their way through the crowd, ensuring that our every desire was being fulfilled. They held the answers to all our questions:

But how many songs will it hold?
And will it play The Sims?
Then how much is the mini-Mac?
Well what does the upgrade cost?
So does this come in tangerine?

Customers were following the sales people from station to station like timid art lovers hovering around a docent, eager to glean whatever details they could without actually having to ask the questions themselves.

But Roma was no shy patron of the arts. Though she led me to believe we had entered the Garden of Apple on a whim, Roma walked through those heavenly doors with a purpose. She toyed with the iPod for a few minutes, feigning interest in it long enough to get the sales associate’s attention.

When our twenty-something sales person approached, Roma moved in close to him, and casually draped her hand across the keyboard of the shiny white iBook.

“So, I see you were looking at the iPod. Are there any questions I can answer for you?”

“Well, actually, I’m more interested in getting a laptop. What can you tell me about the iBook?”

“Depending on what your needs are, the iBook is an outstanding choice. But I must admit that my personal favorite is the PowerBook. I own one myself.”

“The PowerBook? Tell me more.”

I stepped back as the sales person told Roma the story of the Book of Power, and all its advanced functionality. He leaned in close to her as he showed her how to build presentations using Keynote, and how to edit photos with iPhoto. They rocked and swayed together as he pulled up GarageBand 2 and demonstrated how Roma could create her own music.

“I think this has everything I could ever need in a laptop, and so much more. But tell me, does it come with MS Office already installed?”

“No, the Office Suite of software is not included. That would be an extra fee.”

“I see. And how much does the software cost?”

“Well, Office is a bit expensive. It’s about $300. Unless you’re a teacher, because then we can sell you the teacher’s edition, which is only $150. Are you a teacher?”

I glanced over at Roma, and saw a face I didn’t recognize. A half-grin crept up the left side of her face, and her eyes were as black as night. She turned to me slowly, turned back to the sales person, and I watched the tip of her tongue as it formed the words, “Yes. Yes, I am a teacher.”

My mouth dropped open, as if words were trying to escape, but nothing would come out. I stood there silently, while my friend looked into the eyes of this fresh-faced college boy and hissed out a blatant lie.

I waited silently for a few more minutes as the sales person ran through all of the other options that Roma might want to consider, at which point Roma told him she would need a few minutes to make her decision. Before we left, she asked if she could have his card – she wanted to make sure he got credit for the sale.

“Oh, sure. But just so you know, we don’t work on commission here. Although my manager does like to keep track of who we’re helping. Here’s my card.”

Lucas Young, Sales Associate.

Roma snatched the card from Lucas’ hand, led me out of the store by the arm, and took me to the Cinnabon to get a Coke. Still stunned by her lie, I had yet to speak. After we sat down for a minute, and the caffeine and sugar started to hit my bloodstream, I was able to think clearly once again.

“Roma, what the hell just happened in there? You told me you wanted a $250 iPod. Now you’re buying a $2500 laptop? And you’re not a teacher!”

“Oh Jenny, grow up, will you? Why would I want a silly little iPod when I could have the PowerBook G4? Did you see the screen on that thing? It’s magnificent! Brushed aluminum alloy exterior, legendary SuperDrive, built in AirPort Extreme, and .Mac pre-installed? He made a web page in 20 seconds right before our very eyes, Jenny! Were you even watching?!”

“But… you said you were a teacher! That’s just not true!”

“Look, he wanted me to say that. I only gave him what he wanted. And who really gets hurt? I don’t think Bill Gates is going to miss that $150 for MS Office.”

“Roma, that’s not the point! You have a perfectly good pc at home – why do you need to buy an Apple? Your dad told you never to get an Apple – none of the software is compatible!”

“Jenny, my father doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Have you seen the Apples? They’re glorious! They’re so much better than any pc I’ve ever seen. He probably just didn’t want me to get one because he knows how wonderful they are, and wants them all to himself.”

“That’s crazy talk! He just doesn’t want you to waste your money.”

“Look, I’m getting an Apple. And so are you. You need one, too. We’re all going to get Apples.”

“I don’t need one! I’m still digging myself out of unemployment debt, and I just got robbed. Plus, I just bought a new pc less than a year ago!”

“Yes, but you don’t have a laptop, now, do you?”

“Stop it! I don’t want the Apple! If you want one, go ahead and get an Apple. But leave me out of this!”

Roma and I went back to the Apple store so she could seal the deal. She found Lucas back by the accessory section, straightening out the boxes of iPod cases. Roma told him that she was ready for the Apple, so we got in line.

Lucas came back from the stockroom with a huge grin on his face:

“I have good news! Since you’re a teacher, not only can I give you a discount on the MS Office, but we also offer an educator discount on the laptop and accessories. I’ll just need to see an ID that indicates that you’re a teacher.”

My eyes widened. Roma’s eyes tightened. Lucas just stared blankly.

“Well, I don’t think I have it with me, but let me just check.”

I watched in horror as Roma pulled out her wallet and pretended to actually search for a nonexistent identification card for her fictitious teaching job. She flipped through card after card – credit cards, Blockbuster cards, Starbucks cards, library cards. She even looked twice, for effect.

“Nope, I’m afraid I don’t have my new one yet.”

“Hmm. Well, let me go ask the manager if there’s anything we can do.”

My stomach started to churn, and I had to walk away. I pretended to be fascinated by the Epson Stylus printers/scanners, but really just wanted to escape from this den of lies. From the corner of my eye, I saw Lucas walking back to the cash register.

“Great news! My manager said that we don’t need your ID. I’ll just need to know the school that you teach at and what course you teach.”

Roma licked her lips and, without missing a beat, said, “Alverno College. I teach Spanish.”

She somehow even managed to make up the right zip code for the school. Apparently, Lucas bought it, because Roma walked out of the Apple store with her new PowerBook, and a nice educator discount, to boot.

I was silent during the entire ride home – I just didn’t know what to say. My friend sold her soul for an Apple. And I just stood by and watched it happen. But even worse than my silence is that fact that since I got home, all I can think of is, “God, do I want an Apple!”

The Beginning of the End: A Play in One Act

2005-01-28T04:17:00.000-08:00

[Scene: a January evening on a crowded train in Chicago. Curly haired woman boards train and sits behind a man wearing an orange hat. Man is intently reading a book.]

Curly haired woman: Hi, honey – I was hoping I’d see you tonight. You look good. Your hair’s getting long in the back – I like the way it kind of curls up over your orange hat. I hope you haven’t been eating ramen noodles every night – you seem a little thin.

Curly haired woman: Orangehat, I want to talk to you about our relationship, but before you say anything, I need you to just hear me out. There’s just so much that I want to say to you right now, and I know if you jump in, I won’t be able to get it all out.

[Curly haired woman takes deep breath and pauses to collect thoughts.]

Curly haired woman: I miss you, Boo. I mean... I miss us. The way we used to be, you know? God, things were so good before, weren’t they? I used to feel I could tell you anything, but now it’s like we have nothing to say to each other.

Curly haired woman: O., I guess what I’m trying to say is that this separation just isn’t working for me. I thought that some time apart might help us figure things out, but I don’t feel like you’re really trying to make anything better. Your silence is devastating to me. It’s like this separation hasn’t fazed you at all - you act like we were never even married to begin with!

Curly haired woman: You’ve become such a workaholic over these past few weeks – the only time I ever see you is if I take the early train to work, or catch the late one home. Is that the kind of life you envisioned for us? I mean, did you even know that I got robbed last weekend? Do you even care? Oh wait. How could you have known? We never talk! Don’t worry – they didn’t steal any of your precious stuff.

[Woman wearing green scarf boards and sits next to man with orange hat. They exchange a few words.]

Woman with green scarf: Do you mind if I sit here?

Man with orange hat: No – go ahead.

Woman with green scarf: Thanks.

Curly haired woman: Well, well. Isn’t that just a kick in the head? No, no – don’t let me interrupt your flirtatious little banter. So who’s your friend, Orangehat? Aren’t you going to introduce her to your wife?

Curly haired woman: You’re not going to tell me who she is? Look, if you’re trying to make me jealous… It doesn’t matter – it’s all beginning to make sense now. I didn’t exactly see you jump to move your briefcase when I walked past your seat – I suppose you were saving that seat for Greenscarf all along, weren’t you? Well, now I understand why you like working so late – it’s so you can ride home with that tramp, isn’t it?

Curly haired woman: And just so you know, that scarf doesn't even match her hat.

[Curly haired woman leans in and whispers to man.]

Curly haired woman: Look, Orange. If this is about Seattle, I haven’t seen him or even spoken to him since December. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t intend to mess things up with us. I was mad at you for being so distant, and just got caught up in the moment. But I honestly don’t know how many more times I can apologize for the same thing. We’ve both made a lot of mistakes along the way, and probably said a few things we wish we could take back, but we can’t undo what’s already been done. All we can do is try to learn from this so that we can move on together.

Curly haired woman: Aren’t you going to say anything? O., I know you’re upset, but how are we ever going to work through this if you won’t talk to me? God, you won’t even look at me – I might as well be talking to myself here. Fine – read your damn book. Since when are you so into literature, anyway?

[Man and curly haired woman get off train at same stop. Man walks quickly, with woman following behind.]

Curly haired woman: Orangehat, wait up for me. Slow down! We need to talk about this – I’m not ready to give up on us yet. Do you want to grab a coffee so we can talk?

Curly haired woman: Orangehat!

Curly haired woman: Orangehat – if you keep ignoring me, then we may as well end this right here and now. I will not allow myself to be treated like a stranger by my own husband. What we have is so special – I loved you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, and I know you feel the same way. Are you going to tell me that I imagined your love for me?

Curly haired woman: Dammit! Slow down!

Curly haired woman: If we hadn’t agreed that traditional symbols of marriage were oppressive and that they supported the sexist view of wife as property, I’d take off my wedding ring right now and throw it at your stupid orange hat! God, I hate you!

Curly haired woman: No wait. O! I didn’t mean it. I don’t hate you – I love you! You know I do! Wait up! I can handle it if you tell me you’re angry, or that you feel betrayed, but what I cannot take is this total indifference! It’s killing me!

Curly haired woman: What am I going to tell the kids…

Curly haired woman: … that I thought about having with you?

Curly haired woman: Orangehat!

Curly haired woman: Orangehat, wait!

Curly haired woman: Orangehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!

[Woman drops to knees in the snow, raises fists above head as she screams man’s name. Man continues to walk briskly into the night. Woman collapses into snow bank, curls up tightly, and sobs.]

THE END

(?)

Silver Lining

2005-01-26T04:52:00.000-08:00

Although you wouldn’t immediately think this, there are several key benefits to being robbed, which I will outline in detail below. I encourage everyone to print out this list and keep on hand in case, god forbid, you are ever burglarized.

Writer’s block is temporarily cured
About ten minutes after I walked into my apartment – once I had established that my cats and my computer were still here – I thought, “This is so going in the blog!”

Free wine from neighbors
This usually only applies if your neighbor also got robbed, and has wine. Lucky me.

Sympathy from friends and co-workers
Which often manifests itself in the form of free wine and/or lattés.

Pressing reason to clean house thoroughly
When a police officer puts fingerprint dust on the top of your DVD player, and it’s indistinguishable from the ¼ inch thick layer of regular dust, it’s time to get out the Lemon Pledge.

Plus, burglar hands were all over my underwear! Laundry time!

Built-in excuse for never returning borrowed items
“Hey, Jen – can you give me back my Tori Amos CD?”

“Ohh, didn’t I tell you? The burglars took that.”

“What about my orange hooded sweatshirt?”

“Yeah, I think they used that as a disguise.”

“Uh huh. And my copy of The DaVinci Code?”

“I heard the black market for those is pretty hot right now with the movie coming out and all, so maybe they were planning on pawning that. Look - don’t blame the victim.”

Increased landlord attentiveness
For a short window of time, your landlord will feel a greater obligation to respond to your requests, so long as they can be linked to greater safety. Unfortunately, you will not be able to convince him that a new coat of paint in the living room will deter future break-ins.

Reason to guilt family into giving you more heirloom jewelry
“Gosh, that ruby ring of yours is pretty. I sure wish I had a nice ring like that. But, you know, mine all got stolen. I’ll never be able to afford anything that nice. Sniff…”

Inappropriate outbursts can be blamed on post traumatic stress disorder
“A preferred customer discount card? That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard! Who did you sleep with to get this job? I’m sorry… I didn’t mean that, and yes, I know you own the company, but you see, I was robbed last week.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?! I ordered two Thin Mints and four Caramel Delights, not the other way around, you moron! God – who did your parents have to pay off to get you into 4th grade? Wait… don’t cry. I didn’t mean that. Look – I was robbed last week, so I’m sure you understand.”

Rob Jen Rob

2005-01-24T04:54:00.000-08:00

“Okay ma’am, can you just start at the beginning, from the time you got home, and tell me what happened?”

“Sure. Okay, it was around 5:45pm when I walked in my back door, and immediately noticed that something just wasn’t right. The pantry door was open, and I never leave the pantry door open. I walked into the living room and saw my DVD player in the middle of the floor, and my CD’s thrown all over. That’s when I freaked out, realized that my front door had been smashed in, bolted out of the apartment, and called 911.”

And thus began my weekend.

After calling 911, and ensuring that I wasn’t wearing grey sweatpants with loafers, I knocked on my next door neighbor’s door to see if he was home and had heard anything. I noticed that Klaus’ door had some big marks on it as well where it appeared the burglar had tried to get in. As I waited in the stairwell for the police, Klaus and his friend Fernando came in.

“Hi Jenny – how’s it going?”

“Well, been better, I guess. My apartment just got robbed, and it looks like they tried to get into your apartment, too.”

Klaus was very sympathetic, offered to crack open a bottle of wine while I waited for the police, and then attempted to open his door. As soon as he put the key in the lock, we heard a big clunk, and all three of said in unison, “Oh shit.”

Klaus’ apartment had been burglarized as well.

When I spoke to the 911 operator, she told me to be sure to leave everything exactly where I found it so the Evidence Technicians could look for clues. Since I was pretty certain that the empty pizza carton on my coffee table and the underwear on my bathroom floor wouldn’t provide any meaningful leads, I took the liberty of removing said items from the scene.

It really didn’t matter, though, since what I did have to leave untouched was my bedroom – exactly the way I found it. It looked like a bomb had exploded inside my dresser. Whoever broke into my apartment flipped my mattress, rifled through my dresser, and dumped out almost every item of clothing onto the floor, taking special care to ensure that as many pairs of underwear as possible were on display for the Evidence Technician to review.

Somehow, he managed to get a bra hanging across my printer. Oh wait, maybe that was there to begin with. Well, in any case, it was a disaster area, and not a scene I was keen to share with strangers. But of course, since Klaus and I were now co-victims, we felt it was our duty and right to parade through each other’s homes to assess the damage.

So the first time I met Klaus, you may recall what happened. Now, on my chance to redeem myself and restore Chicago’s good name at the same time, not only does the boy get robbed, but he has to see, simultaneously, every pair of underwear and every single bra I own. Even the laundry day grandma underwear, which would more appropriately be called bloomers.

While Klaus was calling the police to report his break-in, I started calling all my friends and family to let them know I had become a statistic. First up was my mom, who immediately started brewing some Sicilian curse. She also mentioned something about cracking thieving skulls with a cast-iron frying pan, at which point I told her I needed to make some more phone calls.

Next, I left a message for Natasha, and then moved on to Vivian. It seems that every one of my friends has been robbed at least once, so I felt like I had suddenly become a member of an elite club. Vivian was concerned with the fact that I sounded too calm, and became convinced that I was in shock. She told me to call our friend Chris, who lives nearby, to have her come over and hang out with me.

“Viv – there’s a blizzard out. I’m not going to call Chris.”

“Call Chris!”

“Vivian – I’m not calling Chris!”

“Call Chris! You’re in shock!”

“I am not in shock and I’m not calling Chris!”

Our conversation continued like this for about five more minutes, until my call waiting clicked in and it was Natasha. Within two minutes of hanging up with Nat, I got a call from Chris:

“Vivian called me! She said you got robbed! She said you’re in shock! I’m coming over!”

“I did get robbed, but I’m fine. You don’t need to come over – there’s a blizzard.”

“You’re not fine, you’re in shock. I’m coming over!”

“I’m really fine, you don’t need to come over. I’m drinking scotch with my neighbor. He got robbed, too.”

“It’s 6:00pm and you’re drinking scotch. You’re in shock! I’m coming over!”

And so this went for another few minutes, until my mom called me back on my cell phone to see if I owned a cast-iron skillet. I told Chris that I had to take the call.

Thirty minutes later, Chris arrived at my door covered in snow and carrying a can of pepper spray.

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“No, mace is illegal. This is just dangerous. If you don’t know how to use it, you may end up spraying yourself.”

“Okay, so you’re bringing me something that most likely will end up blinding me, thereby allowing the criminal to do whatever he wants? Couldn’t you have brought a cast-iron frying pan?”

“Uh, no. I only have a wok.”

Once the police arrived and assessed the scene, I learned that the form of small talk police officers are most comfortable with involves sharing all of their crime stories which fall into the “much worse than this” category. The first officer, who was in his own words, just the report taker, tried to make me feel better about my losses by telling me about an apartment he recently visited that had been stripped of every single item – from the drapes to the floor rugs. And then he told me that he owns a building on the north side that had an available apartment, so if I was interested in moving out... this did not ease my mind. A cop was telling me to move out of my apartment.

While he was taking my statement, I became mildly obsessed with reenacting the crime scene to determine the sequence of events that led up to my ultimate burgling:

”Okay, so we’ve established that the crime took place sometime between 8:00am and 2:00pm on Friday, January 21. Based on the disheveled state of my apartment, and the surgical precision they used in my neighbor’s, I can only assume that they hit his apartment first, moved on to mine, and then heard a noise that spooked them, so they ran out of my place before they could finish the job. Why else would they have left the DVD player on the middle of the floor? But what was the noise? Think, Jenny. Think!"

“Ma’am, I appreciate your feedback, but I just need to get all my facts straight here first, okay?”

I hovered behind the police officer, making sure he missed no details. At one point, I noticed some wet drops on my floor:

“Okay, these footprints are still wet, which means that the perpetrator was here within the last hour. Ohmigod. The footprints. They are leading straight toward me! OH MY GOD!! HE’S IN THE APARTMENT!! HE’S STILL IN THE APARTMENT!!!”

As I lunged for his gun, the officer stepped back and said, “Uhh, ma’am? Those are your footprints. Your boots are wet.”

“Oh.”

Once the Evidence Technician arrived – six hours after my initial call – I joined Klaus in his apartment while the officer dusted for fingerprints. Klaus got up to turn his music off, but the officer told him to keep it on since he really liked that Stevie Wonder song.

“It’s so much nicer here than most of the crime scenes I’m at. Because there’s usually a corpse. And they aren’t much for conversation.”

Morbid cop humor – gets me every time.

Then he told us that the dust they use for fingerprinting causes cancer, but “they don’t tell you that when you join the force.” When the officer moved on to my apartment, he was able to find some fingerprints on my dresser, so he had to take my prints as well to make sure the ones he found weren’t mine. And that way I guess he could make sure I hadn’t robbed myself. Trust me, if I were robbing me, I sure as hell wouldn’t have taken the Swimming Pool DVD – that was the worst movie I ever saw – suckers! Sweet, sweet revenge.

As he was taking my prints, he complimented me on being such a cooperative subject by saying, “Geez, you’re easier to do than some of the corpses I find.”

To which I replied, “If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that…”

Necrophiliac humor – gets me every time.

Since both upstairs neighbors work out of their apartments, I thought for sure one of them must have heard something. From the looks of my door, it didn’t appear to have been a quiet job. When the police interviewed them, both neighbors stated that they noticed that my door was open, but assumed I was moving out.

Uh, yeah. They assumed I was moving out because of all the chunks of splintered wood that were littering the floor outside my door? Okay, okay. So I’ll cut them some slack. People like to mind their own business, so they don’t pay attention to the small details. But what about this detail? The woman above me also told the officer that she thought something was weird because the locks on our entryway door didn’t seem to work right. And by “not working right”, she meant “had been pried off with a screwdriver.”

But I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on them. Like I said, we’re conditioned to not get involved in other people’s business. I really don’t know what I would have done differently had I been in her situation. I mean, maybe there’s one thing I might have done differently, but it’s so minor, I probably shouldn’t even mention it.

I mean, not to split hairs, but I guess maybe the one thing I might have done differently would just be to CONNECT THE F***ING DOTS YOU MORON!!! THE LOCKS ON THE FRONT DOOR WERE PRIED OFF AND YOUR DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR’S DOOR WAS WIDE OPEN WITH SPLINTERED DOOR FRAME PIECES STREWN ALL OVER THE F***ING HALLWAY!! DO YOU THINK THAT MIGHT WARRANT A CALL AT LEAST TO THE LANDLORD?!?!?!?!?!

I mean, really, people. I’m not expecting anyone to get all CSI, but use your damn brain. Even if you don’t give a crap that I was robbed, don’t you think you might be concerned about the thieves moving their way up to your apartment next?

Whew. Now that I got that out, I feel so much better. Now, where’s that cast-iron skillet?

[Sidebar: whenever someone tells you that a relative of theirs has cancer, people feel compelled to share their stories of family and friends who have also been diagnosed with cancer. It’s a bizarre form of one-upmanship meant to lessen the blow of bad news. “You think that’s bad? My aunt had a double mastectomy and then they found out that she didn’t even have breast cancer, but then she died of cervical cancer anyway!”

So, with that in mind, I am opening the floodgates and requesting, in seventy-five words or less, your best robbery stories. Special prize goes to anyone who’s had their entire apartment stripped clean, from drapes to floor rugs.]

On Being a Woman: To Sir with Love

2005-01-20T05:36:00.000-08:00

There are few things more offensive to a woman – no matter where on the gender continuum she falls – than being mistaken for a man. I speak from experience since I was constantly mistaken for a boy as a child. By neighbors, by store clerks, even by relatives. I don’t think it’s that these people actually did any sort of in-depth analysis to assess whether I was a boy or a girl. People are just inherently lazy, so they tend to look for the most obvious visual cues:

Tall equals boy, short equals girl. Long hair equals girl, short hair equals boy. Leather equals boy, lace equals girl.

So when they saw a grubby little curly haired kid, climbing trees and catching frogs, these were all the clues they needed to determine that I was a boy. I suppose the fact that I didn’t wear a shirt until I was thirteen might have added to the confusion, but I can’t help that I was a late bloomer.

Occasionally, in what he deemed to be the ultimate insult, my brother would call me, “Yentl.” As far as brotherly insults go, this one leaned a bit to the esoteric, but my brother did skip a grade in school. After I started carrying a candle around the house and singing, “Poppa, Can You Hear Me?” for the next hour, he soon realized that his taunts really hurt him more than they did me. He also told me that I was born a hermaphrodite, and that my parents chose to raise me as a girl because the girl surgery was cheaper. Though my parents will neither confirm nor deny this claim, I just feel grateful that they made such a wise and economical decision.

Remarkably, my gender crisis crossed international boundaries – during the 70’s, my aunt’s church took in some Laotian refugees who had fled their country’s oppressive regime. For several years, this family would join us at our holiday get-togethers, and I would always play with the youngest son, who was about my age.

We would spend hours climbing trees, playing hide and seek, and tossing a Frisbee. Laughter was our common language. But more tragic to this young boy than being forced from his homeland was the day he became proficient enough in English to finally understand that I was a girl. As it turns out, the word “Jenny” carries no gender in Laotian.

He actually cried.

We never climbed trees together again.

To this day, I refuse to eat at Laotian restaurants.

Everyone lost.

So most people are simply unobservant, but let’s face it, some are just plain dumb. Case in point: I had an uncle who called me “Son,” even when I was wearing a dress. Of course, the word “Son” was usually preceded by “Go get me another Jack and Coke,” so that may have had something to do with his lack of awareness.

Or consider the case of the inept waiter: a few years ago I was out for drinks with a group of girlfriends when an unobservant waiter asked my short-haired gal friend, “What can I get you to drink, Sir?”

When, in her high-pitched voice, she responded, “A Guinness,” he didn’t know what to do, so he had a meltdown in front of our very eyes. Instead of simply saying, “Oh, I’m sorry,” like any normal person would have, he muttered and mumbled, then tried to make a joke of it by calling her “Sir” every time he came back:

“Here’s your Guinness, Sir.”

“Will there be anything else, Sir?”

“A refill on those pretzels, Sir?”

Because really, the best way to deal with accidentally embarrassing someone is to keep doing it. Over and over.

It just got worse and worse until one of us – I’d like to think it was me, but I really don’t recall – finally told him that the joke was over. As were his chances of earning a tip from us.

But back to me and my sexual identity challenges – as I got older, stopped catching frogs, grew my hair longer, and started wearing bras, people stopped mistaking me for a boy for the most part. But I still fight a daily battle against traditional feminine fashions. I just can’t help it – I like big shoes, and roomy pants, and cozy turtlenecks. I’m not trying to make some radical statement with my clothes. I don't want to relinquish my status as a woman. I just want to be comfortable. Pantyhose are not comfortable. High heels are not comfortable. And thongs? Newsflash: not comfortable.

On the contrary, Gap denim overalls and worn-in Doc Martens are really, really comfortable. It is important to note, however, that comfort must never trump common sense, which is a lesson I learned quickly when, as a naïve college student, I wore said Gap denim overalls and worn-in Doc Martens to my grandmother’s house. We hugged hello, she adjusted her glasses, looked me up and down, and then told me I looked like a beet farmer. Not just any farmer, mind you, but a beet farmer.

I imagined myself riding atop a truckload of freshly-picked vegetables, my hands and knees stained violet from beet juice. A piece of straw in my mouth, the warm sun on my face, and the gentle bouncing of the beet truck lulling me into a daze. It was hard labor – physical – but I earned an honest wage and a good night’s sleep each day…

Much as I enjoyed this image, I assure you that I never wore that outfit again – at least not in my grandmother’s presence.

Now, older and wiser, as I hike from the train station to work, the blistering wind hitting my cheeks, I stare lovingly at my fellow Chicagoans, buried under their wool hats, long scarves, big boots, and puffy jackets. I have come to realize that winter is the great equalizer. It strips us of our gender – we become faceless, sexless blobs shuffling from one building to the next in search of warmth.

I have determined that, as dreadful as Chicago winters can be, there is something wonderfully liberating about living in the Midwest because no one expects me to wear low rider jeans and strappy heels in December. For at least three months out of the year, cargo pants and Steve Maddens are perfectly acceptable.

So while everyone around me was thrilled by yesterday’s heat wave (32˚), I have mixed feelings about it. While I, too, look forward to a day when I can wear fewer than three layers of clothing, I also know that the longer days signal the coming of the season of skin. The season when I must consistently shave my legs, and slather my pasty arms with self-tanner, and struggle to find any fashions that do not expose my navel.

But until that fateful day comes once again, my focus must remain on comfort – all those beets aren’t going to pick themselves, you know.

Current Events (as read over that guy's shoulder)

2005-01-18T05:22:00.000-08:00

Boeing Bets Big on Plastic Planes – Chicago Tribune

Airbus Unveils 555-Seat Double-Decker Plane – Wall Street Journal

Air Icarus Introduces Aircraft Made of Feathers and Candle Wax – Daedalus Sun Times

City of Chicago: An Open Apology

2005-01-17T04:23:00.000-08:00

We interrupt this series of feminist essays to announce some breaking news. We will return to your regularly scheduled programming shortly and apologize for any inconvenience.

Here’s what I was wearing:

Ginormous 1990’s elastic-at-the-cuff grey sweat pants. Why? Because my old favorite plaid lounging pants ripped at the crotch last week and I had to throw them away.

Old Navy® camisole/bra. It’s a bra and it’s a camisole. All in one. But there’s no denying that it’s essentially a bra.

Brown argyle dress socks from work.

Here’s what I was doing:

Laying on my couch.

Drinking scotch.

Watching The Parkers.

Reading last week’s People magazine.

Here’s what I was eating:

Pringles Reduced Fat sour cream & onion potato crisps.

Leftover Thai noodles.

Half a banana.

Here’s what happened:

My cats, Punch and Judy, were screeching by the window.

I yelled at them to be quiet.

There was a sudden and loud knock at my door.

Here’s what I did:

Freaked out.

There was no way to pretend I wasn’t there, since I had just screamed: “For the love of god, Judy, will you shut the hell up? For the last time - you are an inside cat!”

Frantically searched for clothes.

Grabbed a giant plaid flannel shirt that was in my laundry basket.

Put on some huge black penny loafers.

Answered the door.

To say that I looked like a bag lady would be an insult to bag ladies. There are so many questions that can be raised and fingers that can be pointed, but really, hindsight is 20/20. Questions like – if I had time to find a flannel shirt, why didn’t I have time to find normal pants? Or why didn’t I slip on tennis shoes, so it at least looked like maybe I was working out? Or why was I wearing that outfit in the first place?

But what’s done is done, so to ask me these questions now is really just pointless and hurtful. I try very hard to live my life without regret, or at least to repress the regrettable choices I’ve made so that they only haunt me in my dreams or during hypnotherapy. This day is no exception.

When I cautiously opened the door, I discovered that it was my new next door neighbor, Klaus. He’s from New York – Brooklyn, to be exact – and simply wanted to know where the laundry room was. As soon as he asked me that, he looked at my outfit and thought to himself, “I’m pretty sure that this woman and washing machines are not well acquainted. I wonder what the penalty would be for breaking my lease.”

“Ummm… oh. Laundry? Yes. Out back. There’s a big lock. Need quarters. By dumpster. Duh… duh… duh…”

I became completely incoherent because all I could focus on was my sheer humiliation at answering the door in this outfit. The word “mortified” just kept running through my head, over and over. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to say something like, “Oh, you caught me in the middle of sweeping the chimney.”

This was my one chance to get in good with one of the neighbors now that the couple with the meowing daughter moved out. He’s from New York, not familiar with Chicago, and this is the impression I gave him. Yes, not only is Chicago a city where the Mayor can bulldoze the airport under the cover of darkness, but this is a place where it’s acceptable to wear loafers with outdated sweat pants and an ill-buttoned flannel shirt.

I probably had some noodles stuck to my face… I can’t be sure.

He was so polite, but he couldn’t take his eyes off my shoes. As we spoke, I tried to be very expressive with my face and gesture a lot with my hands to draw his attention away from my outfit. Just as I was channeling a combination of Lucille Ball and Marcel Marceau, Punch somehow escaped in between the elephantine columns that were my legs. I had to run up the stairs after him in my gigantic loafers, clomping up each flight like some sort of storm trooper.

I’m so sorry, Chicago. I’ve let you down. Not only are we the 5th fattest city in the nation – again – but now I have single-handedly put the entire city on Blackwell’s Worst Dressed List for 2005. Will you ever forgive me? I’m not sure I can forgive myself.

Now, I’m not trying to shift the blame here, but is that the way people do things in New York? They just knock on some stranger’s door in the middle of the night (7:30pm) like savages? I mean, we may be obese, but in Chicago, we have an unwritten code. We call people. We schedule appointments. We leave post-its. We don’t just knock on doors! And do you know why? Because we are all too aware of the likelihood that the person on the other side of that door may have potato chip crumbs in her hair and be wearing GINORMOUS ELASTIC-AT-THE-CUFF GREY SWEATPANTS!

I now feel compelled to walk around the apartment in a ball gown, just in case Klaus ever knocks again. But let’s face it – the next knock I hear at my door will be the Homicide squad when Klaus turns me in because he thought he smelled a dead body in my closet. I will tell the police that it was just the unusual combination of sour cream & onion and banana, but they’ll still need to search the place.

And then they’ll find them: the ginormous elastic-at-the-cuff grey sweatpants. And Klaus will say, “Those are the ones! That’s what she was wearing when I stopped by the other day. She seemed jumpy, like she was hiding something. Get out the black light!”

The police will take me down to the station for questioning, and release me after a few hours due to lack of evidence. But it will be too late. They will have already seen my sweatpants.

Oh god. I can’t say it enough. Forgive me, dear city. Forgive me. Forgive me.

On Being a Woman: What's Your Bag?

2005-01-14T05:01:00.000-08:00

Real women carry purses.

I didn’t make that rule, I don’t particularly like that rule, but that’s just the way it goes. And not only that, but real women own seasonal purses. Purses that match their shoes. Going out purses. Stay at home purses. Bar purses. Work purses. Wedding purses. Funeral purses.

This isn’t a modern phenomenon – it has been true all throughout history. Even in caveman days, I am certain that Sheanderthals carried around mastodon bladder purses, although I can’t imagine what they put in them. But then again, what exactly do I put in my purse? I often wonder why we as women need enormous bags, yet men can just shove a wallet in their back pocket and seemingly have everything they could ever need. But then when I see my brother and his wife, the answer becomes clear:

“Hey, hon – do you have any Chapstick?”

“Can I borrow your pen?”

“Got any gum in that bag?”

“Can you stick these tickets in your purse?”

“Hey – did you bring that Snickers with you?”

So, instead of a purse, I really just need a wife.

Maybe part of my problem is that growing up, I just didn’t have the right role models. Aside from my mother, whose ethnic heritage is 50% gypsy, 50% 1940’s Hollywood starlet, I didn’t really have any ultra girly influences.

This problem was clearly illustrated by a recent visit from my old friend, Vivian. She stayed with me for a few days last year during the holidays before going to see her family. After lots of laughs and catching up, she started to pack up to head out to her parents’ house. What I witnessed next both shocked and appalled me:

“Vivian, what are you doing?”

“What?”

“Did you just put your wallet and keys into that black knit cap?”

“It’s my hat purse.”

“No, it’s a hat that you stuck your wallet and keys into.”

“Right. A hat purse.”

“You can’t do that! You can’t just take a hat, put stuff in it, and call it a purse! People will think you’re crazy. You’ll look like you just robbed a bank!”

“Jenny, I do this all the time. I hate purses – you know that.”

“Look, Viv. I may not be a girly-girl, but I know a thing or two about parents and daughters. I know that every time I go home, my dad will ask me how my car’s been running. I know that no matter how old I get, my mom will tell me I don’t wear enough lipstick. And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if you walk into your parents’ house with that hat-purse-excuse-for-a-handbag, they will think that you live in a roach-infested flophouse behind some Chinese restaurant in Brooklyn.”

Since I refused to let Vivian visit her parents carrying the burglar purse, I told her I would lend her one of my purses. And thus began my brief journey into self-discovery where I learned that, sadly, I am not a real woman. I don’t own a purse. Not an official one, at least. While I don’t go so far as to use hats, I really only have mini backpacks or unisex messenger bags to transport all my belongings.

The one purse I did find was a spangly little sequined number from a wedding I went to several years ago. I offered it up to Vivian, but she declined, saying that she’d rather have her parents think she was a “dumpster-dwelling bank robber than be caught toting that prissy little Zsa-Zsa purse.”

“All right, well at least let me find you a hat that looks less like a ski mask.”

I dug around my closet until I found this hip, multi-colored Guatemalan knit hat that had two long tassels that wrapped under your chin. I turned it upside down, tied the tassels together, and voilà! A fetching patterned knit bag!

“Just tell your mom that they’re all the rage in New York this year.”

I just couldn’t let Viv set herself up like that. I mean, come on now – a hat purse? I may not be a real woman, but I am a real friend.

On Being a Woman: Long as God Can Grow It

2005-01-11T23:26:00.000-08:00

“I’m growing out my hair,” I said, as I nibbled on my cranberry scone, even though I wasn’t hungry.

“How long are you growing it?” Kim asked.

“Until it stops.”

Natasha piped in: “Oooh! Then you can let me flat iron it!”

Natasha is mildly obsessed with straightening my hair, but I always just laugh it off and tell her that someday I’ll let her do it. And just like when I promise that someday I’ll have lunch with my old co-workers, this, too, is a lie.

“You keep saying that! One day I’m just going to sneak up behind you with chloroform, and then you’ll wake up with straight hair!”

We all laughed and drank our overpriced coffees, but... I wasn’t laughing on the inside. Deep down, I felt a little scared.

My friends say a lot of things they don’t mean, so I wouldn’t normally give the flat iron comment much concern. However, given the fact that a) Nat has mentioned straightening my hair no less than 30 times over the past two years, and b) her father is a doctor, giving her ready access to both chloroform and gauze pads, I no longer consider this threat an idle one.

I think my fear of heated hair implements might go back to a horror I witnessed as a teen, on my first trip to Paris. I was sixteen, and sharing a room with my best friend, Carrie, and another girl we didn’t know very well. I can’t remember her name, so I’ll call her Rhonda. Rhonda was new to my high school, and had moved to Wisconsin from somewhere down south. She had beautiful platinum blonde hair and, in her slight drawl, would call me “Kitten,” which I found immensely charming.

One morning, Carrie and I came back up to our room after eating our complimentary continental breakfast, walked through the door, and almost instantaneously vomited up our croissants and Nutella. We had to cover our mouths and noses to protect ourselves from the stench that was coming from the bathroom.

I cautiously opened the bathroom door to find Rhonda sitting on the floor, sobbing.

“Rhonda! What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She had her head in her hands and her shoulders were heaving as she gestured toward the garbage can. When I got up the courage to look in the direction of the pungent smell, I saw a blackened curling iron, with long chunks of charred platinum blonde hair melted to it.

“Oh god. What happened?”

Rhonda wiped her tear-soaked cheeks and took her hands away from her face to look at us. I audibly gasped – she had burned her bangs off all the way to her scalp. As I later learned, Rhonda hadn’t fully read the “Know Before You Go” handouts that our teacher had given us, otherwise she would have known that European appliances operate on a different voltage than American ones, and if you plug an American curling iron into a French outlet without a converter, it reaches the temperature of the Earth’s core in three seconds flat.

For the rest of the trip, Rhonda worked on perfecting a female comb-over technique to give the illusion that she still had hair on the right side of her head. I bought her a beret. She never called anyone “Kitten” again. Sometimes I can still see that blackened curling iron, Rhonda’s smoking hair desperately clinging to it. It gives me chills.

Now anytime Natasha mentions taking a flat iron to my hair, I envision huge clumps of brown curly hair snapping off at the root, leaving gaping bald spots that would take years to grow out.

So yes, I am a little sensitive when it comes to my hair. Maybe it’s because all my life, I have been defined by my hair.

Which one is Jenny?

The curly haired one.

Not the tall one, the short one, the clumsy one, the athletic one, the skinny one, the pudgy one, the funny one, the smart one. But the curly haired one.

My grandfather used to tell people that I combed my hair with an eggbeater. And my grandmother could not comprehend the fact that I didn’t brush my hair.

“But grandma – you can only brush curly hair when it’s wet. I couldn’t possibly get a comb through my hair when it’s dry.”

No matter how many times I tried to explain this to her, she just didn’t understand, so one day, I brushed my hair out for her and took a picture of it. I looked exactly like Roseanne Rosannadanna. She no longer asks me why I don’t brush my hair.

The worst school photo of my life can be blamed on the lunch lady who helped the principal out on picture day. It was 4th Grade and I had a short afro, such was the style at the time. Okay, it wasn’t so much the style as it was my only option. These were the days before high quality hair gel and curl relaxing conditioners, so my mother’s solution was to keep cutting my hair short.

When it was my turn for a photo, I sat down, looked at the camera, and just as I was about to say, “Cheese,” the lunch lady swooped in with the free plastic comb we all received, and tried to rake it through my hair. After a few of the teeth snapped off, she just started pushing my hair around with her hands, and then dejectedly walked away. And that is why, in my 4th Grade class picture, it looks like someone slathered a gigantic pile of brown mashed potatoes on top of my head. That is also why my mother only ordered wallet size that year.

Then came 6th Grade, when everyone had beautiful feathered Farrah Fawcett hair. Damn you Farrah Fawcett! Damn you to hell! I spent hours in front of the mirror each morning, trying to part my hair in the middle and using a curling iron to make the curls go to the right and to the left like they were supposed to do. But anyone with naturally curly hair knows that you don’t tell your curls which way to go. They tell you. And you like it.

Particularly in that era of stick straight, long Marsha Brady hair, people would often ask me if I wished I had straight hair. I understood that the answer they were looking for was the affirmative, so I would just shrug my shoulders and nod my head yes. Of course I wanted straight hair. Wasn’t everyone supposed to want straight hair? Except for the people with straight hair, because they were all getting perms. But it was clear that they were just taking a short vacation in Curlyville. They could leave anytime they wanted, but I had to live there. Forever.

For as long as I can remember, people have tried to tell me what to do with my hair. My mom wanted spit curls. My girlfriends said barrettes. My hippie boyfriends wanted it long and wild. And now Nat wants it straight. Of course, the one time I was left to my own devices, I commanded my hairdresser to give me a tail, so perhaps it’s best that I always left my hair decisions to others.

But now, I have reached a point in life where I have come to understand and appreciate my hair. It has special needs, and as long as I respect its power, it will respect me right back. And thankfully, modern science has made huge strides in the gel and mousse department.

I finally understand that my curls, just like Samson's locks, are the true source of all my power. Without them, I imagine I would have no personality whatsoever. I'd just become another face in the crowd, another body occupying a seat on the train. So now when people ask me if I ever wish I had straight hair, I can honestly say no. No, Nat-Delilah, I don’t.

A home for fleas
A hive for the buzzing bees
A nest for birds
There ain’t no words
For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder of my
HAIR!

On Being a Woman: Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny

2005-01-10T05:16:00.000-08:00

Ask any man to name the most excruciatingly painful event a woman can endure, and he will inevitably say: childbirth. Ask any woman that same question, and she will undoubtedly say: trying on bathing suits.

While I admittedly have not yet reproduced, I can say without question that I would rather give birth to twins simultaneously without an epidural while running a 5K than have to try on a thong bikini in November under harsh fluorescent lights in front of a three-way mirror. And I defy any woman to contradict me.

But like going to the dentist, or recycling, there comes a time when you just have to bite the bullet and do the thing that you most hate and fear. This time came for me a few years ago when a group of girlfriends and I decided to take a winter getaway to sunny Cancun.

My friend Vivian and I decided to go to Kohl’s Department Store to try on swimsuits for our trip. The trip was only a few days away, and I still hadn’t built up the courage to go bathing suit shopping. I kept trying to convince myself that maybe I didn’t need one.

“So… are you planning on laying by the poolside in jeans and a polo shirt?”

“No – I have some culottes I think might work out just fine. I’ll still be able to dangle my feet in the water, right?”

“Jen, you’re not wearing gauchos on the beach. That’s absolutely rid-“

“I didn’t say gauchos. I said culottes.”

“Same thing. You’re stalling.”

“Fine. Drive.”

When we arrived at the store, I tried to delay Vivian by dragging her to the shoe department. There was a sale on Skechers, and I knew that was her weakness. Unfortunately, Viv was single-minded in her mission, and couldn’t be distracted by discounted footwear. I begrudgingly followed her to the swimsuit department and started flipping through the racks:

“Ugly. Fugly. Slutty. Dorky. Frilly. Low-cut. Sleazy. Mannish. See-through. Heinous. Viv, let’s just go, there’s nothing here I like.”

“Jen, we’re leaving in three days. Pick out some swimsuits already and get in the dressing room!”

So I grabbed as many suits as I could find that weren’t completely offensive to me – about ten or so – and bee-lined to the dressing room. Since I had no idea what size I needed, I grabbed each suit in sizes 6 through 14, which gave me a total of about 50 suits to try on. As I walked into the dressing room, the clerk mumbled something about a limit of 10 items at a time. I bared my teeth and hissed at her, and she backed off.

While I wouldn’t normally share this level of detail, I feel it’s important to note that I had just gotten my period, and therefore was retaining approximately 14 gallons of water, primarily in my abdominal region. Additionally, it was late fall, and due to sunlight deprivation, my skin was a delicate shade of indigo, slightly translucent.

Since I don’t trust the “Sanitary Lining for Your Protection” inside swimsuits to actually protect me from anything, I, of course, kept my underwear on for the duration of this masochistic fashion show. Due to the previously referenced 14 gallons of water, I was wearing my industrial sized underwear, which stuck out approximately 4 inches on either side of every suit I tried on, requiring me to just imagine what the suit might look like if I didn’t have the equivalent of a beach towel hanging out of my ass.

Thanks to the unforgiving fluorescent lighting, my raging hormones, and my unusually long torso, my self-esteem was crumbling with each disastrous attempt at finding a swimsuit. Just when I was about to crawl into the corner, hug my knees, and rock myself into a state of calm, I heard it.

Like the trumpeting of the angels signaling the Rapture, a loud siren rang out from the streets, wailing louder and louder. Suddenly, a voice came over the Kohl’s intercom and said:

“Attention Kohl’s shoppers! A tornado warning has been issued for Milwaukee County. Attention Kohl’s shoppers! A tornado has been spotted in the vicinity. For your safety, we need all shoppers to move to the basement of the store.”

Vivian ran into the dressing room to get me:

“Jenny – hurry up! There’s a tornado warning. We have to go to the basement of the store!”

I sometimes see my future in images, and this was one of those moments: I imagined my pale and flabby bikini-clad body being sucked out of the ceiling of the Kohl’s dressing room by an F4 twister which would spin me around for miles, ultimately rocketing my body through a tree trunk. When they discovered me, the sheriffs would debate the best way to get my corpse out, all the while snickering at my thighs, and wondering why I was wearing granny underwear beneath my bathing suit.

That image alone gave me superhuman speed, which allowed me to whip off my bathing suit and put my clothes back on in 2.7 seconds flat.

I stepped out of the dressing room to meet Vivian and was immediately corralled by a 19 year old sales clerk who just shoved us both toward the back entrance to the basement.

“But Viv, why do we need to go to the basement? It’s just a warning. A tornado warning is just when they think conditions are right for a tornado. A watch is when they’ve actually seen one.”

“No, Jen – you’ve got it backwards. The warning is the more serious one.”

“But we only live 10 minutes away. What are they gonna do, block me from leaving the store?”

“Jenny, there’s a tornado. They just want us to go to the basement. What’s the big deal?”

And that’s when it happened. The sirens were blaring. My hormones were raging. My bloated belly was giving me acid reflux. Vivian kept asking me questions. The 19 year old clerk was touching my arm. The intercom was squawking “Attention Kohl’s shoppers!” I could feel my blood boiling:

T minus 5 seconds to core meltdown…

4…

3…

2…

1…

“I AM NOT F***ING GOING TO GO DOWN TO THE F***ING BASEMENT OF KOHL’S F***ING DEPARTMENT STORE!!!! THEY CAN’T F***ING MAKE ME!!! I’M WALKING OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW, WITH OR WITHOUT YOU!!!”

The 19 year old clerk let go of my arm and stepped back, as did pretty much everyone within a 50 yard radius of me. The shoppers frantically ran toward the basement, more out of fear of me than the impending tornado. Viv stood there silently. Her years of working with the mentally ill in a homeless shelter served vital to our next exchange.

“Jenny. No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. But there is a tornado coming toward us. Right now. Why don’t we just go down into the basement and look around, and if you’re really uncomfortable, we can talk about it down there, okay? This will all be over in a few minutes, because that’s how fast those tornados move, okay?”

I stared at her with the crazed look of a trapped badger. I knew I had nowhere to go but the basement, so I followed Vivian down, snarling and gnashing my fangs the entire time. Once in the basement, I began to calm down. The stacks upon stacks of turtlenecks and Lee Jeans felt like a warm embrace. The scent of Jean Naté After Bath Splash washed over me like a spring breeze. The sirens stopped, my breathing returned to normal, and my heart rate dropped back down to a human level.

I imagine that the emotions I felt at that moment were similar to those a werewolf feels after he wakes up naked and confused, surrounded by the destruction he caused in his uncontrollable rage. I turned to my friend and said, “I’m so sorry, Vivian. I just freaked out. The sirens. And the bloating. And the thongs. Oh god, the thongs. Viv – they were going up my bu-”

“Shhhh. Jenny – it’s all over now. I’ll take you home, okay?”

“Okay. But Viv – I didn’t get a suit…”

“It’s okay, Jenny. You can wear the gauchos.”

“Culottes.”

“Whatever.”

On Being a Woman: Prologue

2005-01-07T04:20:00.000-08:00

I am woman. Hear me, Roy.

I can bring home the bacon. Fry it up in a pan.

…well, actually, raw bacon kind of grosses me out, so I really can’t fry it up in a pan. But I can pick it off my Bacon Double Cheeseburger Deluxe and put it in a pan, if you’re really that set on bacon.

But enough with the bacon talk. The question I really want to address is: What does it mean to be a woman? How do I define femininity? Does society define femaleness differently? And are control-top pantyhose really that controlling after all?

As I get older, these are the questions that plague me day and night. Since my health insurance only covers a limited amount of therapy, and because no one bought me The New Our Bodies, Ourselves for Christmas – even though it was the only item on my Amazon wish list – I have chosen to explore these topics right here on these pages.

Over the next couple weeks I will delve into the meaty issues that are on everyone’s mind right now, such as: Jenny’s insecurities, Jenny’s successes, Jenny’s failures, and Jenny’s regrettable fashion choices, all as they relate to her gender. For those of you brave enough to stick with me on this journey, I applaud you. Please note, however, that you must be at least this tall to get on the ride. Remember to secure your valuables, and keep arms and legs inside at all times.

See you next week!

Hard day's night

2005-01-06T04:10:00.000-08:00

Thursday in Seattle was a hard day. I hadn’t had a blog in 24 hours. I didn’t know just how addicted I was to the Internet – you never do – until I was alone in a foreign land, with no access to blogger. I shouldn’t be surprised, though, because I have a highly addictive personality. It’s not my fault; it’s my mother’s. She gave birth to me in March, which made me a Pisces, which made me devoid of any willpower.

Elizabeth Taylor and I almost share the same birthday, and my life mirrors hers in a way that makes me fear for my future. She fell off a horse as a teen while filming National Velvet, sparking a destructive addiction to painkillers. I fell onto the couch as a teen while watching the film Blue Velvet, sparking a destructive addiction to David Lynch movies.

She has a desperate need for love and acceptance, which she unsuccessfully tries to fulfill by bouncing from one unhealthy marriage to the next. I have a desperate need for love and acceptance, which I unsuccessfully try to fulfill by bouncing from one unhealthy imaginary marriage to the next.

She played Maggie “The Cat” in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I sometimes play with my cats on a hot tin roof. You should see them jump!

She has Michael Jackson, I have Seamus. It’s eerie.

Crippled by my Piscean weakness, I spent much of Thursday with the shakes, nervously drumming my fingers on the dashboard, and scanning the streets for signs of an Internet café. Fortunately in Seattle, local law mandates one Internet café per six Starbucks, so that meant that there was an Internet café on every block.

My co-worker, however, was not in favor of bailing on our client meetings so that I could read the latest hijinks of my favorite bloggers. I tried to explain that it wouldn’t take me long, that I just needed a few hours to make sure I hadn’t missed anything important, but the rental car was in her name, so I had to sit back and take it. She doesn’t get you. She doesn’t get you at all. I hate her.

While we were meeting with the client, I could feel beads of sweat collecting on my upper lip, and started to feel queasy. I excused myself to use the restroom, and immediately splashed some cold water on my face. I looked up from the sink and saw myself in the mirror – the pale and clammy skin, my dry tongue, the dark circles under my eyes – and thought, “My god, what have I become?”

Just then, some women came in to fix their hair. I saw my opportunity and grabbed it. As they walked out of the bathroom, I followed them past the front desk and into the office area. No one gave me a second glance as I snuck in behind them. I knew I probably only had ten minutes at best before my absence would become concerning, so I walked with purpose around the maze of cubes until I found an empty desk. The name plate said: Susan O’Connor.

After checking to make sure no one saw me, I sat down and started to log onto her Internet.

“Well, Susan, whoever you are. I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your pc for a few minutes.”

Come on. Come on. Doesn’t this company have DSL?

Damn! Password protected.

I rifled around Susan’s desk to see if I could figure out her password:

Soccermom04? Denied.
Irisheyes? Denied.
Puglover? Denied.

Please Contact System Administrator To Unlock Password.

Oops.

Just as I got up from Susan’s desk, she arrived with coffee in hand.

“Uhh… can I help you with something?”

I had to think quickly.

“Yeah, hi. I’m looking for accounting, can you tell me if I’m on the right floor?”

“This is accounting. Who are you looking for?”

Crap. What are the odds?

“Uhh, actually it’s finance that I’m looking for. I need to talk to Dave in finance, but I’m running late for a meeting, so you know what? I’ll just leave him a quick voice mail instead. Thanks!”

I quickly made my exit and slipped back into the client meeting. My co-worker shot me a dirty look, but I don’t think the client paid much attention. Thanks to a series of deep breathing exercises and the remainder of my venti skim latté, I miraculously made it through the meeting. When I got back to the hotel, I realized that I really should have paid better attention to the inordinately chipper woman at the front desk when I first checked in, because I looked at the information sheet she handed me with my key on Wednesday, and saw the sweetest four words I had ever read: Free High Speed Internet.

So why? Why hadn’t I read this earlier? I think that maybe the gods were trying to teach me something. It’s really true – you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. I think that perhaps 2005 will be focused on appreciating what I have, so I’ll start here and now: I love you, Internet. And I’ll never take you for granted again.

Give peace a chance

2005-01-05T05:04:00.000-08:00

Looks like Seamus is at it again. If he’s not getting Natasha and me arrested at 2:00am, or trashing a Starbucks, he’s fueling the East Coast/West Coast blogger rivalry. I learned through the grapevine that Seamus has been trying to instigate some war between my old friend, TuBlog Shakur, and me.

This all goes back to my youth – when I was a young gangblogger, I was known on the streets as the Notorious B.L.O.G., or Bloggy Smalls to my crew. TuBlog Shakur and I met when he was just coming onto the blog scene. I showed him the ropes – I linked to him, he linked back. We’d leave funny comments on each other’s blogs. It was cool.

But then TuBlog moved to a western suburb of Chicago, and things started to change. There’s just a different attitude toward blogging on the West side. It’s a more in-your-face, hard-edged style that I’m just not down with.

TuBlog and I would run into each other at a few of the big blogging galas, where he’d roll up in his tricked out Ford Windstar with some young hoochie on his arm – I think her name was J-Chlo. He got sucked into the glitz and the glamour of the business, and lost touch with what blogging is really about.

So last week, I caught wind of an email Seamus sent to TuBlog:

“Bloggy Smalls does a much better job updating her blog than you do. She has new stuff several times a week. Sometimes you go for weeks without posting a new entry. I may stop reading your blog altogether and just stick with her. Plus, I heard she called you a punk.

If you want to keep any sort of blog cred at all, you’d better do something about Bloggy. Unless you really are as much of a punk as she said you were…”

Personally, I’ve never bought into this whole East Coast/West Coast blogger crap. Maybe when I was younger I did, but now that I’m older, life is just too precious to waste on pointless rivalries. This fighting has got to stop, so I’m here today to offer an olive branch to my friend and fellow blogger.

TuBlog, if you’re reading this, what do you say we put aside our petty differences once and for all? Does it really matter who blogs more, or who knows how to post photos on his blog, or who has a Sean John designer case for his iPod? We’re all working toward the same goal, so I say we throw down our mouses, toss aside this silly East Coast/West Coast thing, and just blog like we’ve never blogged before.

Blog on blog violence stops right here, right now.

Peace.

Separation anxiety

2005-01-03T05:14:00.000-08:00

Hey mom, it’s me. So – have you recuperated from the Christmas madness yet? God, I can’t believe how fast the holidays flew by! The lasagna was great the next day, by the way.

Yeah, you and me both! At least five pounds. Hey – do you have a minute? I kind of need to talk.

No, no. Nothing bad. Well, I don’t know – it’s not good, I guess. Mom… Orangehat and I… we’re going through a trial separation.

No! We’re not getting divorced. It’s a separation – that’s all. We’ll still see each other, but we’re going to be taking different trains for a while, just until we can figure some things out.

Mom – he’s not cheating on me. It’s not that sim-

Yeah, they were going great, but things change. People change. I really did a lot of soul searching during my week with Seattle. Maybe it sounds cliché, but I felt more alive in those few days than I have in years. I’m just not sure that Orangehat and I are meant to be together. I just… did you always know dad was the one for you?

I mean, I thought I felt that way about him, but then when I met Seattle, one thing led to anoth-

I wasn’t going to. Mom – I’m just trying to explain what’s going on. I wasn’t going to give you the intimate details – geez!

You’ve never even been to Seattle. How can you say it’s a mistake?!

You’re not going to tell her anything, that’s what! Why would you tell Grandma? Mom – I said it’s just a trial separation. What’s the point of getting the whole family riled up when we’re trying to work things out?!

I don’t know why you’re getting so upset – it’s not like you ever made any effort to get to know Orangehat. You always treated him like a total stranger anyway.

Name one time!

Whatever.

We haven’t. I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know if Orangehat would go. He’s not really into all that touchy feely share your emotions in front of a stranger kind of thing. It’s not exactly my idea of fun either, but I’m willing to try.

Believe me, you don’t need to remind me. Don’t you think I had dreams of a house full of little Orangecaps running around, too? But that’s not going to save our marriage. We have to figure out whether or not our relationship can last before we can even consider bringing a child into the mix.

Well, things are different than when you and dad were young-

Yes, I do take marriage seriously, but I’m not going to stay in a relationship that makes me unhappy, when there might be someone else out there who’s perfect for me.

Mom, I can’t do this right now. I gotta go. Just tell dad, will you?

Okay, yeah.

I will.

Love you, too.

Bye.

Reasons you should not let your friends determine your New Year's Resolutions

2004-12-31T07:30:00.000-08:00

...particularly after drinking cheap Greek wine, which shall, from this day forward, be known as headache wine:

Jenny's New Year's Resolutions
1. Drink Thai bubble tea and like it
2. No more fires
3. Make Natasha happy
4. More bowling
5. Get tattoo (possibly henna)
6. Less human interaction
7. More technology
8. Less eyeballin'
9. Break up with Dr. Greene (again)

Happy New Year everyone!

Friends don't let friends drive. Ever.

No adjustment necessary

2004-12-30T04:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Esteemed Male Co-Worker:

During my short tenure here at Valhalla Inc., I have developed a great deal of respect and admiration for you as a colleague. You possess a wealth of knowledge about the company, you are always willing to lend a helpful hand, and your chipper attitude makes it a joy to come to work each morning.

Because I hold you in such high regard, I know that you will understand that this letter, while incredibly difficult for me to write, is essential to the continuation of our successful working relationship. I am certain that you are not aware of this, but over the course of the past few months, I have noticed that you have a habit of adjusting yourself when you are talking to me. I think you know what I mean, so I would prefer not to have to spell it out any further than that.

I’m sure that this is an unconscious habit, developed over years of working almost exclusively with men, so my hope is that by calling attention to it in this letter, you will be able to break the habit. Quickly.

I could probably overlook an occasional shift here and there, particularly if you attempted to do it discreetly. But are you aware that on December 13, during a fifteen minute conversation at my desk, you adjusted your anatomy four distinct times? When I first noticed this habit, I thought that maybe you had a rash, but since this has continued for the past three months, I can only assume that you either have a raging STD that will most likely cause dementia, or you are just a chronic self-adjuster.

I don’t want you to feel that I’m attacking you here – I’ll readily admit that I’m part of the problem. I have a heightened sensitivity to people calling attention to their private parts in a work setting. I prefer to imagine that my co-workers – just like my relatives – all have bodies that resemble Ken and Barbie dolls, i.e. sexless and smooth, without appendages or orifices of any sort.

So you see, when you continually draw attention to the fact that you possess something that needs adjusting, it upsets the balance in my mind, and distracts me from being the best worker I can be.

What I am proposing is a phase-out plan – similar to the Nicorette Three Step program – so that you can shed this habit once and for all. For the first week, you are allowed three adjusts per day, provided that they are not directly in my line of vision. During week two, we’ll drop down to two daily adjusts. Continue this plan through week three as well. In week four, limit yourself to just one shift per day, which I would recommend scheduling during your train ride in. Then, by week five, you will be free of any urges to touch your pelvic area during the workday.

I understand that breaking any long-time habit involves a few setbacks here and there, so I don’t want you to be too hard on yourself. Just make sure that you continue with the program, and set some goals for yourself that are Specific, Measurable, Agreed-Upon, Realistic, and Time-Bound. That’s the S.M.A.R.T. way to break any habit!

I look forward to a long and successful working relationship with you here at Valhalla Inc., and am confident that you have the willpower and commitment to accomplish this goal.

Best regards,

Jenny Goatee-Washington

Just call me "Lefty"

2004-12-29T04:56:00.000-08:00

I now have another item to add to my ever-growing list of: "Reasons I may need to someday saw off my own arm."

I checked in to the hotel in downtown Seattle late Wednesday night because our plane was delayed, the car rental company couldn’t find my Hummer, the hotel had me sharing a room with my co-worker, and so on.

So after a very long journey, I finally got into my room, hung up my clothes, changed into pajamas, went to the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and heard… nothing. You know, the usual routine.

With the sense of dread and frustration that always accompanies a malfunctioning toilet, I quickly tried to assess the situation. When I pushed the handle down, it just kind of loosely jiggled back and forth, clearly serving as nothing more than a decoration. I could see that this trip was starting out really well.

Fortunately, I’ve seen a few episodes of Extreme Home Makeover, so I took the toilet tank cover off and noticed that the little chain that is supposed to be attached to the handle was curled up nicely at the bottom of the tank. Beautiful.

It was late, I was tired, I had to flush, so I did it. I pushed up my sleeve and dunked my arm – up to the elbow – into the toilet tank water.

Hotel. Toilet. Tank. Water.

With the speed of a ninja, I grabbed the chain and looped it back onto the handle, so the toilet once again functioned as god had intended it to.

This bears repeating: my arm was submerged up to the elbow in hotel toilet water. Oh sure, I tried to convince myself that the water in the tank was actually clean. It was the only thing I could do in order to build up the courage to dunk my arm in there in the first place. I knew it was a lie then, and I know it’s a lie now. Exactly how much antibacterial soap do you think it takes to kill the germs of 100,000 previous guests?

And now that I look more closely, I may not even have to saw it off, because it seems to be dissolving into a smooth little stump pretty well on its own. Guess I’d better start learning how to type with one hand. Dammit! Why didn’t I think to dunk my left arm in the water?

Holiday translator

2004-12-28T05:32:00.000-08:00

What time is it? = When can we open the wine?

When is company coming over? = When is the absolute last minute before I have to change out of these pajamas?

What a unique gift, Jenny! Where did you get it? = I wonder if they accept returns without receipts?

So boys, was Santa good to you this year? = Please give me affirmation that I’m a good aunt and that your affection can be bought.

I can taste the cod, but is there also a little cinnamon in this? = I must determine this unholy combination of flavors so that it never crosses my tongue again.

Well, I’m wiped out. I’m going to bed. = I’m going to flip through 160 channels of digital cable for the next three hours or until my eyes bleed, whichever comes first.

Come fly with me

2004-12-27T05:12:00.000-08:00

Happily, the flight to Seattle was only about two-thirds full, so I was able to sit in a row with an empty seat between my neighbor and me. Not that he wasn’t nice – he seemed perfectly lovely – but I gots to have my elbow room.

About 45 minutes into the flight, I noticed a very unfamiliar smell. This caused me great concern – I’d prefer to not smell anything at all when I’m locked and loaded inside a 737, but an unfamiliar smell is even more disturbing. Luckily, having previously worked in the travel industry, I knew exactly how to handle the situation: I discreetly tugged at the flight attendant’s skirt as she walked by and said, “I don’t want to alarm you or any of the other passengers, but I detect a very strange odor coming from the back of the cabin. Having previously worked in the travel industry, I feel certain it smells like bioterrorism. Are you familiar with the scent of anthrax?”

“Smell? Oh, you mean the food? We’re just about to serve dinner.”

Food? With smell? On a plane? Last I checked, pretzels and windmill cookies were pretty much odorless, so what the heck could be wafting from the back cabin? As it turned out, we got a meal on this flight. A hot meal. I truly cannot recall the last time I was on a flight that served a hot meal, but maybe that’s because I truly cannot recall the last time I was on a flight that took this farging long. Over four hours in the air? Are you kidding me? Isn’t there some jet stream we can hop onto to save us half an hour or so? Don’t we have turbo on this hunk of junk? Press that red button. Who’s the customer here? I said press it!

But getting back to the food, I got pretty excited at the prospect of a hot meal since I was feeling a little peckish from my long wait in the airport. I was waiting for what seemed like forever to get my meal, so when the flight attendant came to my row and asked if I wanted dinner, I flashed her a big smile and nodded eagerly.

“Would you like beef Stroganoff or chicken with rice?”

Oh god.

Please tell me that she didn’t just say Stroganoff. She couldn’t have. Maybe I’m a little delirious due to the thin air. Maybe she said something that sounded like Stroganoff.

I ran through all possible variations of that dreaded phrase, desperately hoping to find one that seemed more feasible than beef Stroganoff:

Would you like meat dough and cough?

Would you like teeth showing off?

Would you like cheap blow? F off!

I had to face the fact that while all of these alternatives were vastly more appealing than what I thought I heard, this woman was, in fact, offering me creamed meat on top of fat wet noodles.

Egads.

“Chicken with rice, please.”

The flight attendant dug around in her cart for a minute before she turned back to me and, with one simple sentence, became my mortal enemy.

“I’m sorry, it looks like we’re out of the chicken. Can I get you the beef Stroganoff?”

Not many people know this about me, but there are few things in life I hate more than beef and noodles. Add a cream sauce to that and I’m moments away from ripping out my own tongue with a spork. I don’t know what it is – maybe I had some sort of repressed traumatic childhood experience involving chipped beef – but the sight of beef Stroganoff alone makes my throat snap shut. And don’t get me started on the smell.

Apparently this trauma showed on my face, because the flight attendant told me to hold on, and said that she’d check up front to see if they had any chicken left. I sat patiently and silently, praying that the front of the cabin was stocked with beef eaters.

During my eternal wait, I did what anyone would do in similar circumstance – I made my neighbor extraordinarily uncomfortable by staring at his chicken and rice dinner. I followed his fork from plate to mouth with each bite. Just as I was about to ask him if he was going to eat all that zucchini, I was spared the indignity by the arrival of my very own lukewarm plate of chicken and rice.

As I devoured my chicken and tried to avert my eyes from the woman in the aisle next to me eating the beef Stroganoff, I noticed a little slip of paper on my tray. I picked it up to investigate, and found that it was a prayer card, of sorts.

It featured a mountainscape in varying shades of calming blue, and said:

I will be glad and rejoice in you;
I will sing praise to your name
O most high.
Psalm 9:2

I thought perhaps some renegade nun was on board, slipping little messages into random dinners, until I noticed the Alaska Airlines logo on the bottom of the paper.

Huh.

So… what’s that all about? I distinctly recall requesting an aisle seat, bulkhead section, and no proselytizing on this flight. I began to get truly suspicious when I reached into the seatback and found a copy of The Watchtower.

Maybe it’s because I’m not a churchgoer, but whenever I see little cards with religious sayings on them, I think of funerals. When I think of funerals, I think of dead people. When I think of dead people, I now think of Alaska Airlines. Is that really the marketing message they were hoping I would take home with me?

Intervention

2004-12-26T11:35:00.000-08:00

My brother, upon finding me, his wife, and our mother in the kitchen drinking wine at 11:30 this morning:

Brother: "Jeez - what a bunch of lushes. It's not even noon yet!"

Mom: "Yeah, I guess this doesn't look good, does it?

Me: "I'm not worried. I know I don't have a drinking problem because I'm very controlled about it. Aside from the holidays, the only time I drink is when I'm alone or sad."

Overheard in the Elevator: Christmas Wish

2004-12-23T14:54:00.000-08:00

Woman 1: "We took Jessica to see Santa last weekend at the mall - my god what a madhouse!"

Woman 2: "Oh, I can imagine. How old is she now?"

Woman 1: "Six."

Woman 2: "So what did she ask Santa for?"

Woman 1: "She told him she wanted to be funny."

I'm not sure why, but this conversation both warmed my heart, and broke it simultaneously. I hope Jessica gets her wish.

Anticipation is making me wait

2004-12-22T00:49:00.000-08:00

Ahhh, Seattle. Where to begin? I missed you all so much, that I’d like to relive my whirlwind tour of the Pacific Northwest by taking you along with me, step by step. From airport to hotel, hotel to client, client to hotel, hotel to airport, airport to airport, and airport to home. I just wish you hadn’t packed so much luggage. What, were you planning on moving to Washington?

So let’s begin: okay, so I’m not really in Seattle yet. In fact, I’m nowhere near Seattle. I’m sitting at Gate L4 in O’Hare, killing time now that I’ve arrived two hours prior to departure, and exposing my nether regions to untold volumes of radiation seeping out of my laptop. That’s okay, odds are, I’m probably not going to be using these eggs anytime soon.

I know I’m here really early. I can’t help it. There’s nothing I hate more than rushing to the airport, stressing out about possibly missing my flight. Well, I suppose there are a few things I hate more than that, like maybe irradiating my ovaries, or eating beef with noodles, but right now, my priorities are a bit skewed.

In preparation for my trip to Mecca, I decide to test out an O’Hare Starbucks latté so I can compare it to a Seattle Starbucks latté once I arrive. I am expecting to have my mind thoroughly blown once I step off the plane in Seattle. Do they have Starbucks vending machines? That would really be something. I don’t think it will be too hard to top this one, since the barista-in-training first made my latté with caffeine instead of without, and then on his second attempt, he gave me whole milk instead of skim. I don’t really object to the whole milk, since I’m from Wisconsin, and therefore have the ability to drink milk straight out of a cow’s udder if I’m thirsty enough.

Okay, I’ve never really seen a cow’s udder, but if someone dared me, I might drink some milk out of one. If it was squirted into a Black Russian. Come to think of it, isn’t there an actual drink that’s made with scotch and milk, or did I just make that up? I should know since Natasha and I took bartending classes together. But I’m getting a little off topic here. The point I’m trying to make is that all my research indicates that a latté should be 25-47% better in Seattle than in Chicago. And if it isn’t, you can believe I’ll be writing a letter to a certain CEO of a certain coffee company.

While waiting at the gate, I witness a reunion of sorts, as a giggly young woman, about nineteen years old, recognizes the woman standing by the gate as a former classmate of her older sister.

“Oh my god! Didn’t you go to school with my sister Rhonda? Ha ha ha! What are you doing here? Ha ha ha!”

The woman looked a little uncomfortable with this display of unbridled giggling, wiped the corners of her mouth with her hand, and said, “Yes, I remember Rhonda.”

And, although she was dressed in an Alaska Airlines uniform, the woman felt compelled to answer the giggly girl’s question, so she gestured to her outfit, raised her eyebrows, and said, “I work here.”

“Oh - so are you a stewardess? Ha ha ha.”

The woman adjusted the strap on her briefcase, smiled and said, “They don’t call us ‘stewardesses’ anymore.”

“Ha ha ha! What do they call you?”

“Flight attendants.”

“Oh. Ha ha ha!”

Later I glanced over and saw the young girl enthusiastically teaching the flight attendant how to crochet. The giggly girl is actually quite sweet.

A dapper man in a grey fedora was standing near the garbage can, looking around suspiciously. He pulled something out of his bag, looked around again, and kneeled down by the garbage can. As I looked up, I noticed that he had slapped a giant sticker advertising some website onto the garbage can. I took note of the URL and will look it up later.

In preparation for my long trip, I walk over by the bathrooms and plug my laptop into the only available outlet in all of O’Hare. A woman with short black hair and an iPod starts pacing in front me, looks nervously at her watch, and asks me if I’m going to be using the outlet for very long.

I told her that my laptop battery was down to 18%, and I was about to go on a four-hour flight, so I kind of needed to charge up. I felt slightly guilty about my non-charitable response, particularly since my laptop was actually at 32%, but what’s more important – writing blogs, or listening to U2? I don’t think there’s much debate there.

The man standing behind the counter at the gate grabs the microphone and announces that our flight will be delayed approximately one hour, due to weather problems. His eyes glance to the left as he says this, so I am certain that this is a lie, but have no choice but to begrudgingly accept his deception.

Once my laptop is charged up, I wonder if the giggly girl would teach me how to crochet?

Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Oh my darling...

2004-12-21T03:49:00.000-08:00

Clementines are the perfect fruit, I have just decided. They peel very easily, are consistently tart and tasty, and are small enough that you never feel obliged to share them with someone sitting at your table in the lunchroom. Plus, if you have three of them, they are the ideal size for juggling.

I like them even better when they are Buy One 5lb Bag and Get Another 5lb Bag Free! at the Jewel. Therefore, for the reasons outlined above, I vow to eat 50% more clementines in 2005. I hope you join me.

Shop til you drop

2004-12-20T04:29:00.000-08:00

I have never really considered myself much of a risk-taker. Sure, I’ll abandon the occasional job without another one lined up during the worst recession my generation has ever seen, and once I bought and ate a cheesesteak from a guy standing on the side of the road, but for the most part, I like to play it safe. I always wear my seatbelt, avoid standing near trees during a thunderstorm, and never mix ammonia with bleach. So that’s why I still can’t figure out what daredevil spirit possessed me this weekend when I decided to do something that nearly cost me my life:

I went to a Toys ‘R Us at 11:00am on the last shopping weekend before Christmas. By myself.

I am a horrible procrastinator when it comes to holiday shopping, so I pretty much had to complete 90% of my shopping this weekend.

Since the list of presents for my nephews didn’t seem too intimidating, I wasn’t overly concerned:

1. Adam – Army guys and Lego’s
2. Elliott – Yu Gi Oh! and science stuff

I’m going to a Toys ‘R Us, for crying out loud – how hard can it be to find these items? Oh, silly little Jenny. Was I ever really that naïve?

First stop, army stuff. Adam likes battleships and army guys, so I headed straight for the G.I. Joe section. To my right were the little G.I. Joe action figures – they were all displayed in nicely sealed two-packs: one good guy and one bad guy in each. I grabbed the first one I saw – G.I. Joe vs. Venom – and although it looked pretty cool, I suddenly noticed the pack that was hiding behind the first one I grabbed. Wait! That one seemed even cooler because the one guy had a mask, and the other guy had a saber. Stop the press! The one underneath that one was better yet because the one guy had a grenade launcher and the other guy had antennas. Hold the phone…

Overwhelmed by the options, I threw all of the little G.I. Joe’s to the side and looked to my left, where all the big G.I. Joe’s resided. The first one I grabbed was the talking G.I. Joe. Let me tell you - the times, they are a changing. When I was a kid, talking dolls had a string in their back that you pulled, and a few different mechanical phrases came oozing out of some holes in their stomach. Eventually, the string snapped and you were left with a mute doll that looked like it had been blasted in the belly with a sawed off shotgun.

Now, the latest Talking G.I. Joe actually has a mouth that moves when you press his chest. I know what you’re all saying – “That sounds so cool!” Hold on to that thought for a minute, because you may reconsider. Here’s the thing – when you press Joe’s chest, his mouth actually opens, and he utters one word. Then you press his chest again and his mouth opens, and he utters one more word. Repeat this process three more times and you have just heard the creepiest sentence ever spoken.

Joe’s dead blue eyes stare through you as his cavernous mouth gapes open, and he says:

“We.”

[press again – demon mouth opens]

“Must.”

[press again – demon mouth opens]

“Defeat.”

[press again – demon mouth opens]

“Venom.”

[press again – demon mouth opens]

“Now.”

I was thoroughly traumatized by this evil G.I. Joe, and vowed never to inflict his terror upon my nephews. I let my mom buy it for them instead.

I decided to hold off on the army guys, and look for some of the educational toys that Elliott had requested. He’s a boy genius, so he asked for some LeapPad Magic School Bus Does Trigonometry thing. When I asked for some assistance, a poorly paid and under-enthused stock boy grunted in the general direction of the Imaginarium Station, which is where all the smart toys are located.

I’m not sure if it’s intentionally designed this way, perhaps so that you can never escape, but the Imaginarium Station is laid out much like the hedge maze in The Shining. I walked down one corridor and found all the overpriced LeadPad books. Then a left turn took me to the science section, littered with telescopes and Sea Monkeys. Another left turn and I wound up near the Dora the Explorer Vocabulary Builder section. A quick right led me straight into LegoLand, which is directly in front of Cheap Lego Knock-Off Land.

Wait – did my brother say Elliott likes astronomy or geology? Does he like bugs, or was that last year? Are Pokémon and Hi Hi Puffy Amiyumi the same thing?

With each wrong turn, I started to feel my body temperature rise, partly because I still had on my huge winter coat and a turtleneck sweater. A steady trickle of sweat began to drip down my back, as my breathing became more and more shallow.

Over the loudspeakers blared the shrill voices of children singing on the Nickelodeon Christmas Album, interrupted only by the squawking commands of Toys ‘R Us cashiers looking for price checks and stockboys.

“Christmas, Christmas time is here. Time for joy and time for chee- ANGELA PLEASE REPORT TO THE CUSTOMER SERVICE DESK IMMEDIATELY. ANGELA TO THE CUSTOMER SERVICE DESK -I still want a hula hoop!”

My vision started to dim, and my mouth got very dry, so I knew I needed to get some fresh air quickly. I turned left to exit the Imaginarium Labyrinth and ran head on into a woman and her four children arguing over which Lego set to buy. When I spun around to avoid them, I was trapped by three people waiting in line to do price checks at the self scanner.

As I struggled to squeeze my body between an overloaded shopping cart and a Lincoln Log display, I felt my arms go limp and my knees start to buckle. My last words before hitting the ground were, “Yu Gi Ohhhhhh…”

I’m not sure how long I was out, but when I woke up, all I could make out was something red and furry chuckling and moving toward me. I rubbed my eyes and said, “Santa? Is that you? I… I’ve been good this year. Did you get my letter?”

When I wiped the drool off my cheek and put my glasses back on, I saw that it wasn’t Santa moving toward me, but a sale bin of Hokey Pokey Elmos that I must have set off on my way down.

I brushed myself off and stumbled toward the nearest exit, revived by the blast of wintry air that met me. Once I made it back home, I did what I should’ve done all along – stayed inside the confines of my home and purchased all my gifts online. Clearly, if the good lord had intended me to interact with live human beings, he wouldn’t have given me DSL and a secure Visa card.

My, that was bigamy

2004-12-17T15:29:00.000-08:00

I’m not proud of what I’m about to tell you, but I feel like I need to bring you up to speed on some recent changes in my life. During my business trip, I cheated on my husband. I never thought I would meet someone who excited me as much as Orangehat does, but sometimes life throws you a curveball and you just have to make lemonade.

His name is Seattle, and I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.

I just never thought my life would end up this way. I take marriage very seriously, and once I commit, I commit wholeheartedly. But things have been a little rocky between Orangehat and me lately – he seems distant, silent, absent. Sometimes I look at him on the train and wonder who he is. It’s almost like looking into the eyes of a stranger.

Next week will reveal all the intimate details of my love affair, but I just wanted to make sure that you heard this first from me, and not through the tabloids. This isn't just a casual fling - it was truly love at first sight – I fell head over heels for Sea (that’s my nickname for him). I can’t say that I feel good about the fact that I’m throwing away everything Orangehat and I have built together this year, but I just wasn’t feeling fulfilled in that relationship. Sometimes you have to take risks in life and follow your heart.

In fact, I really have my co-worker Tiffany to thank for my newfound bliss. Throughout the whole trip, I kept telling her how much I loved the city. So at one point, out of sheer frustration, she turned to me and said, “Well if you love Seattle so much, why don’t you just marry it?”

Marry it? Me and Seattle? Hitched?

A few scotches and a blood test later, I found myself at the Seattle Courthouse, waiting behind two fuchsia haired teens, one of whom looked to be pregnant. Before I signed the papers, I grabbed Seattle’s hand, turned to him, and said, “Babe, are you sure about this? I’ve got baggage, you know. I’ve got flaws. I’ve got a husband back home. I mean, are we really ready for this kind of commitment? I just don’t want you to ever regret…”

Seattle held my face in his gentle hands, put his finger to my lips, and said, “Shhh. Jenny, look at me. Look at me – I’ve never been more ready in my life. If I can wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life, I’ll be the happiest city in the world.”

My mind is swirling right now, so I can’t write much more. I’ll fill you all in next week, but right now, I’ve got to start planning our honeymoon – we’re going to Portland!

While the cat's away

2004-12-15T04:28:00.000-08:00

So I’m off to Seattle for the rest of the week, reprising my former role as corporate jetsetter extraordinaire. When the flight attendants offer me some tomato juice in a tiny cup of ice, I’m going to tell them, “You know what? This is on my company’s dime - just give me the whole can! And let’s make that TWO bags of pretzels, shall we?” And then I will twirl the ends of my mustache and throw my head back as I laugh.

I feel a little bad about leaving you all alone, so while I’m gone, I’d like to encourage you to spend some time with a few of the brilliantly hilarious and disturbingly intelligent folks over on the right hand side. Or you can just play minesweeper. Your call.

But as you stray from my warm embrace, please remember one thing:

No one will ever love you like I do.

Do you hear me?! No one!!

Oh sure, you may seem like the perfect couple, with your fancy house and trend-setting hairdos, but she’s so busy advancing her career and partying it up in London, do you really think she’s ever going to want to start a family? She sees you as an anchor around her neck. You know it’s true.

I can see it in your eyes – you want so desperately to take some time off and be a father. I’ll find time for you, baby. We’ll have so many kids that we’ll run out of names. Twins run in my family – you want twins, don’t you? You were so good to Julia when she was pregnant with hers.

Don’t shut me out, dammit! I will not be ignored!

…

Oops, oh crap. I’m sorry guys. I must have accidentally merged this blog with my letter to Brad Pitt. Boy is my face red - sorry for the confusion! Please disregard.

Well, um, I guess I should go. See you next week!

Busted

2004-12-14T04:00:00.000-08:00

What exactly do you say when your co-worker catches you picking a fight with your ultra-slow laptop at the end of the day?

Me (softly to computer, unaware that I’m saying this aloud): “Jesus! What part of ‘shut down’ do you not understand?!”

Him (channeling all his best South Side machismo): “Your computer giving you lip? You want I should take him outside?”

I guess it’s nice to know that someone’s got my back, even if it is against a Dell.

That's what friends are for

2004-12-13T03:23:00.000-08:00

I saw my husband on the train again last week. We did our usual routine – sat near each other, enjoying each others’ company, and feeling really good about the fact that we never feel obligated to fill silence with any sort of conversation. We’re just that comfortable together. That’s one of my favorite things about him.

As we walked home, I turned to go to my car and Orangehat kept walking straight ahead. For a moment, I thought about following him, just to see where we live. I can’t help but be a little curious.

Do we have a house? One of those nice condos with the balcony? Gosh, that would be nice. I'd love to plant some flowers out there in spring.

I decided against following him since I didn’t want to miss the beginning of Survivor Vanuatu – Islands of Fire. Plus, it was kind of raining out, and my hair started to frizz. Until he knows we’re married, I always want him to see me at my best.

Over the weekend, I was telling my friend Penny about my beau and how I thought about following him home.

Me: “I mean, if I just follow him silently to see where he lives and what kind of car he drives, and he never knows I’m doing it, that’s not really stalking, right? I'm only doing this so that we can be together.”

Penny: “Mmmm… that’s actually the definition of stalking.”

Me: “It is?”

Penny: “Yes.”

Me: “Oh.”

[reflective pause]

Me: “So then that would be a bad idea?”

Penny: “Right.”

This is why it’s important to run major decisions past an objective friend. Sometimes what seems like an innocent idea turns out to be a Class 2 misdemeanor.

Going on up to the Needle in the sky

2004-12-09T03:19:00.000-08:00

[Sung to the tune of LL Cool J’s, “Going Back to Cali”]

I’m going to Seattle, Seattle, Seattle.
I’m going to Seattle… hmmm, I don’t think so.

That’s right, I’m off to sunny Seattle next week for my first work trip at the new job. Can’t screw this one up – got a lot riding on it.

Actually, I’m really excited to go. Not only is this my first business trip in a long time, but it’s my first trip to Seattle ever. I haven’t really been anywhere on the West Coast, unless Vegas counts. I don’t know why I’ve never made it out West yet. I guess the flights are just so darn long – I figure if I’m going to be in a plane for 4 ½ hours, I’m more than halfway to Europe, so I might as well head in that direction instead.

Plus, I was never all that great with geography, so everything gets kind of sketchy for me once you get past Minnesota. I know there are a bunch of square states in the middle of the country, but from there it’s a bit of a blur. And growing up in Wisconsin next to Lake Michigan, my internal compass gets really screwed up if the water isn’t to the east of me.

But that’s all going to change for me next week. I’m packing up the covered wagon and heading out West. I may not know much, but I've heard enough about Seattle to know that it’s home to some of the country’s most exciting and recognizable landmarks. Since I know I will have a limited amount of free time while I’m in there, I’ve made a list of all the critical things I want to do:

1. Ride the roller coaster that goes around the top of the Space Needle.
2. Spend a few hours at StarbucksLand, home of the world’s largest free-standing latté.
3. Take the trolley down to the Golden Gate Bridge.
4. See if my hands fit inside of Angelina Jolie’s handprints at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.

Yes, Seattle is such a diverse state that I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding loads of amazing activities to fill my evenings.

Of course, this trip can’t be all fun and games. I suppose I really should start planning out more of the “business” part of my business trip. I wonder if we can hold our client meetings at the bar where “Cheers” was filmed?

Super Secret Hush Hush Down Low on the QT Project

2004-12-08T03:24:00.000-08:00

Oh, I have such exciting news to share! News of a project so important that it could change my life forever and perhaps alter the course of Chicago history. It’s still in the conceptual stage, but I’ve got an exciting idea I’m working on.

But before I tell you, you must swear to me that you won’t let this idea leak out. If this gets out, it’ll only be a matter of time before some idea robbers snatch it up and take it for themselves. Swear to me!

Okay, now that I can trust that this will go no further than this unsecured web connection, here’s the idea that struck me like a ton of bricks as I was riding the Metra home yesterday: I’m opening an art gallery.

[cricket. cricket.]

No, wait! Don’t go! It’s gonna be cool, really! This isn’t just any art gallery, but one dedicated to folks like you and me – the commuters. Initially it will feature found objects, but as word spreads – and I know it will – I will no doubt be flooded with requests from urban artists, dying to show their work in my prestigious gallery.

I’m calling it: the MetraPolitan Museum of Art.

Currently, my gallery is located in the trunk of my Honda Civic. Right now admission is free, with $5 donations suggested and appreciated. Hours of operation are 6:30pm-6:45pm M-F. Once I build up enough of a following, I will move my gallery to its permanent home: an abandoned rail car. I’m not sure where I might find said train car, or how much one would cost, or where I would put it, but it has to be in a Metra car.

For now, I’m working a collage entitled, “Discarded Ten Passes.” It’s a biting commentary on our workaholic lifestyle and throw-away culture. Although not yet complete, the work has received wild praise from renowned art critics Punch and Judy. In fact, upon viewing my initial sketches for the collage, Judy was so moved that she vomited right on my sketch pad. I can only hope that all my patrons respond to my art in such a visceral manner.

As soon as I hear back on my NEA grant, I’ll begin accepting applications for docents. I’m looking for some highly qualified candidates, so here’s a brief job description:

Position: Docent at MetraPolitan Museum of Art

Successful candidate will:

Look good in train conductor uniform
Be able to project voice loudly
Have prior experience riding a train
Possess proven hole punching skills
Own comfortable shoes
Be passionate about art, as it relates to rapid transit

Interviews will take place at Union Station on Track 14 between 5:41pm and 5:48pm each Wednesday.

Model behavior

2004-12-06T04:57:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, the harder I try to fit in, the more it backfires on me. Last Wednesday, Seamus invited me over to play poker with the boys. I hadn’t played poker for months, so I was both excited and nervous about my return to dark underworld of illegal gaming.

Aware that I would be the only woman in a group of seven men, I knew I had something to prove. I had to prove that I knew how to play Texas Hold ‘Em. I had to prove that I could cuss like a sailor. And I had to prove that I could hold my scotch.

See, the reason I haven’t played poker in several months is because Natasha and I were blacklisted due to the fatal error we committed the last time we played at Seamus’ house: we brought homemade cupcakes.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Nat and I decided we wanted to bring something other than a bag of chips and some beer, so we figured, what the heck, everyone loves a good cupcake, right? We attempted to decorate them like playing cards, but that didn’t really work out, so they just ended up with some black and red sprinkles on them. But they were really quite tasty, honest!

I hadn’t even made it through the doorway carrying the tray of treats when Seamus said, “What the hell are you doing? Get those cupcakes out of my house!”

Apparently eating dainty snack cakes is not seen as a manly thing to do during a serious game of poker. Plus they didn’t really taste that good with Glenfiddich on the rocks. Live and learn.

So this time I was prepared – I brought a six-pack of beer and some pretzels. No sissy light beer or chi-chi sourdough pretzel nuggets. Just good old Heineken and some pretzel rods. I debated over the pretzel rods, but then determined that they would go over well since they looked kind of like cigars. I was right. Men love their cigars and cigar substitutes.

As I sat at the card table, the window behind me was open and it was freezing outside, but hell if I was going to be the one to say anything about it. I’d sooner let my eyeballs freeze open than complain like a little girl about it being too cold. I could not risk being blacklisted again. Fortunately, after about an hour of icy wind blowing in, one of the guys put on his winter coat because we could see our breath, so I took that as my cue to be nice and shut the window. For his sake, of course.

We started playing cards, and everything was going pretty well. I won a few hands, knew when to hold them and when to fold them, and started amassing a decent stack of chips. But then my proverbial house of cards came tumbling down around me.

The phone rang, and since Seamus was already out that round, he took the call. It was our friend, Dr. Greene, the renowned human cloning specialist. I heard them chatting in the background, but didn’t pay much attention. Then I heard Seamus say, “Yeah, Jenny’s here. What? Hold on, I’ll tell her.”

“Jen – Dr. Greene wants me to tell you that Norelle’s gone, whatever that means.”

I leapt up, almost knocking over my beer and screamed, “Ohmigod, she is?! YES!! I hated her!”

Everyone became deathly silent, and just stared at me as I stood there red-faced, clutching a semi-crushed pretzel rod in my hand.

”Who’s Norelle? Is that the girl Dr. Greene was dating?”

“Uhh, no.”

“Oh – is she that co-worker of his?”

“Uhh, no.”

“Well who is it?”

“Uhh… nobody. It doesn’t matter. Hey, is it my deal? Don’t blinds go up now? Anybody need another beer?”

Norelle. Why did he have to bring her up now? Why, Dr. Greene? Couldn’t you have waited until I got home that night? Couldn’t you have just emailed me or left me a voice mail? An entire evening worth of hard work spent rebuilding my credibility was almost thrown out the window, all because the good doctor couldn’t keep his gene splicing lips zipped.

Most of you, I’m sure, have no idea who Norelle is, nor do you care. It’s only the sick, shameful individuals, like Dr. Greene and me, who are intimately familiar with that name:

Norelle is a woman who is no longer in the running toward becoming America’s next top model.

You see, sometimes Dr. Greene and I like to watch America’s Next Top Model on Wednesdays – okay we always like to watch it, are you happy now? – and Norelle is a really annoying person on the show who finally got kicked off. Hearing of her demise made me totally forget where I was, and what I was trying to accomplish that evening. I was unable to contain my excitement, and almost blew my entire cool girl cover.

I don’t know, I guess I can’t really blame Dr. Greene. It’s not his fault that we’re hopelessly addicted to the worst best TV show in existence. I just need to get a better grip on my emotions when I know I’m around people who wouldn’t understand.

Now I can only hope that most of the guys forgot my erratic outburst and didn’t catch the reference to America’s Next Top Model. I guess only time will tell – we’ll see if I get an invite next month to poker night. I just pray it’s not on a Wednesday night again.

Train reaction

2004-12-02T04:55:00.000-08:00

I met my husband on the train today. We were sitting next to each other when another woman came over and sat in between us. As the train conductor came by, the woman frantically looked for her December monthly pass, but couldn’t find it. She dug through her wallet and only came up with $2, but the fare during rush hour is $4. It was clear that the conductor didn’t care to hear that her December pass was still in the envelope on her kitchen table. He just stood in front of us stone-faced as he fidgeted with his hole punch.

That’s when my husband stepped in – he pulled out his 10-fare pass and told the conductor to take an extra punch. The woman was shocked and extremely grateful. When she handed my husband her $2, he refused to take it.

“Don’t worry about it. I hardly ever use the punch card anyway.”

Turns out he had forgotten his December pass, too.

I don’t know my husband’s name yet, but for now I’m calling him Orangehat Goatee. He has everything that a woman could ever want in a husband – he’s kind-hearted, generous, and attractive. He’s clearly intelligent because he knew enough to keep a spare 10 pass in his wallet for this very occasion. I assume he has a job, since he had a briefcase and was taking the train from downtown. And when he got off at my stop, he was blocks ahead of me in no time, so he’s clearly in good physical condition.

I love him so much. Sometimes it hurts just to think about it.

I haven’t told Orangehat that we’re married yet. I want to wait a while – maybe like a year or so – before I let him know. I know that sometimes guys can get a little spooked by the whole marriage thing, so I don’t want to stress him out during that touch-and-go first year of marriage. We'll just keep going along with the status quo for the next 12 to 14 months. Riding the train together. Walking home together. Living life together.

Then, once I finally tell him that we’re married, if he freaks out, I’ll calm his fears by letting him know that we’ve already been married for a whole year. We will have gotten through that “getting to know you” year without a hitch.

“Orangehat, what are you getting so upset about? Baby, we’ve been married for over a year now, and has it affected your life negatively in any way? Name one thing that this marriage has prevented you from doing. You can’t, can you? I never stopped you from hanging out with your friends, staying out late, or dating other women. I haven’t nagged you to do more work around the house, or pressured you into starting a family. The only thing that’s changed is that you've been unconditionally loved and supported for the past year. How can that be wrong?”

I don’t see any holes in that argument, so I cannot imagine how this plan could fail. But now, when I finally tell him next year, do we buy each other wedding gifts or anniversary gifts? Doesn’t matter – I just cannot wait to let everyone know that I am Mrs. Jenny Goatee. Or maybe I should hyphenate: Mrs. Jenny Onassis-Goatee.

Oh yeah, if any of you know Orangehat, please don’t congratulate him on his marriage to me. Not until next year. I don’t want to mess up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Radio Ga Ga

2004-12-01T04:28:00.000-08:00

I’ll admit it - I’m a snoozer.

I’ve never been much of a morning person. Before I can actually get out of bed, it usually takes me about 30 minutes of lying under the covers, slamming the snooze button every 7 minutes, and calculating the latest possible time I can get up and still catch my train. (Okay – if I don’t wash my hair today, and I eat my toast in the car, that gives me at least another 15 minutes of sleep. If I don’t iron my pants, that will save me another 5 minutes…)

Since it’s part of my morning ritual, the radio station I listen to each morning plays a critical role in setting the tone of that day. Normally, I tune the clock radio to Greatest Hits of the 80’s and 90’s, which allows me to wake up to the sweet voices of the Eurythmics or Blondie. Some snappy little tune that will make me want to face the day. You know, something like, “Walking on Sunshine.”

But a couple weeks ago, something dreadful happened. My alarm clock went off, and all I heard was some annoying gravely voice talking, which led into some horrific 1950’s song. Don’t get me wrong – I love the 50’s as much as any thirty-something gal, but if I wanted to go to the sock hop, I would have asked Archie to the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance.

The first day this happened, it didn’t fully register with me. I just thought maybe my station was having an off day, or maybe I accidentally bumped the dial. I tuned the radio back to the right station, and didn’t give it another thought. But then the next day, it happened again. Then it hit me:

Oh god. My morning radio station changed formats.

With no advanced warning, they flipped from upbeat tunes by Wham! and Madonna to schmaltzy 1950’s and 60’s songs. Yesterday’s highlight? If I Had a Hammer. No offense to Mary, Peter, or Paul, but if I had a hammer that morning, there would’ve been nothing left of my radio except a smoking pile of wires and plastic.

So you’re thinking, “Big deal! Who cares what music you wake up to, as long as you wake up, right?” If only it were that simple.

See, part of the problem is that my brain is highly prone to suggestion. This is why I will never allow anyone to hypnotize me. I’ve always heard that a hypnotist can’t make you do anything under hypnosis that you wouldn’t normally do. That’s exactly what scares me – I need the pressures of society to keep me in line. My naturally repressed nature is the only thing holding back the snapping and drooling beast deep inside me.

But we should save that discussion for another day.

The point I’m trying to make is that my brain, prior to 10:00am, is somewhat like silly putty – slap it down on the comics pages, and you’ll end up with a somewhat distorted image of Family Circle. The five or so songs that I listen to each morning are permanently etched into my brain, at least until the next morning’s set list. And these songs will bounce around in my head. All. Day. Long.

To illustrate, there’s one particular scene in the movie Rain Man where Dustin Hoffman is in the car with Tom Cruise and they’re listening to the radio. Dustin Hoffman hears the radio tag line – something like “BAM! 102.9 Classic Rock!” and just keeps repeating it over and over again until Tom Cruise tells him that K-Mart sucks.

BAM! 102.9 Classic Rock!

BAM! 102.9 Classic Rock!

BAM! 102.9 Classic Rock!

This is exactly what my life is like.

Except now it’s:

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.

The day before that, I found my thrill. Wanna know where? Yeah, it was on Blueberry Hill. I found it over, and over, and over again. And let me tell you – wasn’t all that thrilling.

So why don’t I just change the station and stop my daily torment? Because, in addition to being highly susceptible to suggestion, I also suffer from short-term memory loss. I think it was caused either by all my years in the model airplane club, or from the medical marijuana that I smoke to combat the painful effects of my severe myopia and slight astigmatism.

Either way, by the time I finish writing this entry, I will have completely forgotten about the radio station dilemma, and will have to suffer through yet another day of sappy oldies but goodies. I guess if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!

Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near, la la la, la la la la, close to you…

Out of the mouths of babes

2004-11-29T16:03:00.000-08:00

With any holiday function comes the potential challenge of having to justify your life to people you haven’t seen in months. Why am I still single? Why haven’t I bought a condo? Am I saving for retirement? Why don’t I have a job? Fortunately, I got that last one taken care of just in time for the holidays.

This year, as prepared as I was for the interrogation, I never anticipated its source: my four year old nephew, Adam.

I arrived at my parent’s house on Thanksgiving morning, arms filled with food and gifts. Okay, actually my arms were filled with an empty Starbucks cup and a basket full of dirty laundry, but I had fully intended on bringing gifts for everyone. I just fell behind.

After all the hugs and kisses were dispensed, and the rinse cycle began, I sat down at the kitchen table to talk to my youngest nephew. Adam was drinking some cranberry juice at the time, and was deeply focused on tracing his hand for a masterpiece entitled, “Turkey Hand.”

Not wanting to interrupt his genius, I just started drinking some wine (it was 11:22am, well past the 11:00am starting time) and filling my dad in on all the latest job stories. At one point, Adam looked away from his artwork and said, “Aunt Jenny, why are your teeth grey?”

I was a little thrown by the question, since I had only prepared pat answers to all the usual queries. To date, no one had ever asked me why my teeth were grey. Frankly, I am quite hopeful that no one ever asks me this question again. (For the record, my teeth are not grey, but are what my dentist calls a “nice, natural tone.”)

I explained to my nephew that what he was noticing was most likely the difference in color between my natural teeth and my bridgework. To illustrate my point, I grabbed his grape scented marker and drew a crude depiction of a dental bridge on the back of a napkin. This sparked a series of questions about why I have false teeth, if I needed a bridge because I didn’t brush my teeth, and if false teeth hurt.

Once I had explained all the ins and outs of cosmetic dentistry, he went back to drawing turkeys. Which then became black widows. Which were then eaten by dinosaurs.

Later, as we were getting ready to go outside for a walk, Adam looked up from his intense efforts at tucking his pants legs into his boots and said, “Aunt Jenny, how come you don’t have a son?”

“Uhh… I don’t know. I just haven’t been lucky like your mom and dad, yet.”

“Oh. I thought maybe it was because your eggs are so far past their expiration date that even the fertility clinic turned you down when you tried to sell them one to make some extra money while you were unemployed this summer.”

Wait. Now I wonder if maybe that last part was just in my head, because I don’t think Adam knows the phrase “fertility clinic” yet. Certainly not well enough to use it in context. And for the record, I’m pretty sure I’ve got at least a dozen or so eggs that haven’t expired yet, even if that lousy fertility clinic didn’t want them. “Must be under 30 years of age” – who made up that stupid rule?!

After our walk, we came back in and started to get cleaned up for Thanksgiving dinner. I was infinitely flattered when Adam requested that I sit next to him at the dinner table. As we were eating, Adam told me about a girl in his pre-school he has a crush on (Angela), what he hopes Santa will bring him for Christmas (army guys), and why his big brother wouldn’t let him play with his new Yu-Gi-Oh! cards (because he’s mean).

In between bites of sweet potatoes and turkey, Adam looked up at me and said, “Aunt Jenny, what are those lines on your head?”

“They’re called wrinkles, sweetie. People get them when they get old like me.”

“But my mommy doesn’t have any lines on her head.”

“Adam, that’s because your mommy sold her soul to the devil a few years ago in exchange for everlasting youth and beauty.”

Before I could finish my explanation of eternal damnation (with grape scented illustrations), Adam leapt out of his chair and ran to the bedroom in tears.

I don’t anticipate getting any questions about wrinkles next year.

Statistical Analysis

2004-11-25T11:08:00.000-08:00

In honor of the day of giving thanks, I thought I would share some important Thanksgiving statistics:

20 minutes = amount of time it took me to scrape the ice off of my car this morning.
14 = the number of times my nephews will say, "Aunt Jenny - tell us a scary story. Not Hansel & Gretel. A really scary story!"
7 = the number of times I will (unsuccessfully) try to explain to my relatives what people in marketing actually do.
11:00am = the acceptable time to begin drinking wine.
3 = the number of side dishes my mother will forget to put on the dinner table.
$2.00 = the amount of money I will pay my 4-year old nephew for one of his signed original drawings of a black widow eating a cobra.
4 = the number of hours I will spend flipping through digital cable on the TV in the guest room.
6 = the number of times I will have a mild panic attack due to sensory overload, and need to go for a walk in the woods.

That's all folks. Have a very happy Thanksgiving, and for you non-Americans, happy... Thursday!

Colors Part 2: Gangsta Tap

2004-11-24T03:04:00.000-08:00

When Natasha, Seamus, and I signed up for our first tap class, my goals were simple. I just wanted to improve my coordination, meet some new people, and someday earn the right to wear tights and a tuxedo jacket with tails. I never imagined that tap dance could drag me down a path of violence and destruction – that same path I fought so hard to avoid all these years.

Like any disease, this cancer started slowly, almost undetectably. Seamus was the first to exhibit symptoms. Before we became dancers, Seamus was a laid back, happy-go-lucky kind of person. He had big, crazy ideas, but they were always hypothetical.

“I’m thinking about going on a diet where I only eat round things.”

“I’m gonna write a Broadway musical called ‘Moving On Up,’ based on The Jeffersons.”

“I think I might get a tattoo on my arm of all the cities I’ve been to in the past year.”

See, it was always crazy stuff like that. No one ever believed he’d really do any of those things. So when Seamus showed up to class sporting a swollen tattoo that said, “Cleveland,” I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.

As time passed and we moved on to Tap II, Seamus became more and more passionate about how great tap dancing was. How it was so much better than every other form of dance. He said that just because we didn’t wear ruffled shirts and tight black pants like the salsa dancers didn’t mean we weren’t as important.

In order to get the respect he felt tappers were due, he decided to get organized. That’s how Seamus started the gang. Natasha was his first recruit, mainly because she came up with their gang name: the Tap Dawgz.

I told Seamus and Nat that I thought that might be a copyright infringement on the movie,Tap Dogs, but Seamus said he didn’t care.

“Look, Jenny - I’m the leader of a gang now. I have a tattoo. I just got my hair buzzed short at Klassy Kuts. You think I give a crap about some stupid copyright law? Besides, my lawyer said we’re okay because of the different spelling.”

Nat chimed in, “Yeah, just let them try to file a suit against the Dawgz. Who are they gonna sue once I bust a tap in their ass?”

They started pressuring me to join their gang, but I resisted. At least at first I did. It was scary how easily I found myself falling back into my old routine. After initially dismissing the idea of joining their tap gang, I caught myself doodling out a few logos for the Dawgz. First, some tap shoes with a skull and crossbones on the side, and later, a Rottweiler wearing a top hat.

But Seamus wanted more than just a logo from me. He said if I wanted to be a T-Dawg, I had to prove my loyalty. In order to be initiated into the gang, Seamus said I would have to sneak into the ballet class that meets before tap and slice up some shoes. Slice them up real good.

I didn’t like the idea of hurting anyone, especially the slight ballerinas in the 2nd floor studio. But old habits die hard, and when I came to tap class with a pocket full of severed pink satin ribbons, Seamus knew I could be trusted. He said my gang name could be Cyrus.

The Tap Dawgz were tight – all three of us. We answered to no one but ourselves, so when a rival dance gang – The Damen Avenue Jazzies – started encroaching on our turf, Nat said we had to take a stand. She said we’d be nothing but punks if we let them hang out at our Starbucks. I didn’t want to get sucked into a violent situation, so I brought up the fact that there were four other Starbucks locations within a five block radius, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Seamus said we had to prove to them who owned these streets, so one Saturday morning we went to the Starbucks looking for them. Seamus sent me in first to check out the situation. A quick scan of the coffee shop revealed three Jazzies who were getting their morning coffee before heading off to the studio to practice. Two of them were sitting at a table by the window reading the Tribune. Their matching red legwarmers told me all I needed to know – these were old school gangbangers.

All the playground karate in the world couldn’t have prepared me for the massacre I was about to witness.

Seamus immediately walked toward the blonde one, who looked to be their leader, while she was at the counter asking for a little more honey in her Chai tea. As soon as he approached, the tall one at the table saw what was about to go down, so she tried to distract Seamus with a frenzied interpretive dance called Time Unbound. It was dizzying to behold – I felt her anguish as she jerked her body back and forth, shifting her arms mechanically like the hands of a watch, and ultimately falling to the ground in what I believe was a poignant reference to sand slipping through an hourglass.

As hypnotic as her dance was, Seamus wasn’t phased. He slammed his cane down on the counter, sending raw sugar and nutmeg flying into the eyes of the Jazzies’ leader.

Seeing her two fallen comrades, the third woman tried to grab her gym bag and sneak out the side door, but Nat saw her just in time. Nat bent down, unscrewed her tap, and whipped it at the woman, knocking over the Grande cup of coffee that she had been drinking. The woman ran out screaming, scalded by what was left of her Americano.

“I catch you on our turf again, and next time it’ll be a Venti mocha! Chocolate stains don’t come out, you know!”

Seamus looked on proudly.

As I looked down at the disaster we had created – a trail of coffee seeping toward my shoes, sugar crunching underneath my feet, Java jackets strewn all across the counter – I felt sick to my stomach.

“Oh god. God. What have I done?”

I looked up at Seamus and saw him helping Nat carve another notch in her tap as she screwed it back on.

I want out. I love the Tap Dawgz – I mean, they’re the only family I’ve got – but I can’t do this. I didn’t struggle for 20 years to stay on the straight and narrow just to allow some feud over the box step vs. the time step to drag me back into this violent cycle.

So I told them I was leaving the gang. They were free to use my logo if they wanted, but I was officially out. I handed Seamus the dog tags he had made for me with the name “Cyrus” on them, and turned to leave.

As I walked away, Seamus yelled, “You’ll be back! Where else are you gonna go? Once a T-Dawg, always a T-Dawg!”

Not if Mrs. Garcia has something to say about it.

Colors Part 1: Kidz 'N the Hood

2004-11-22T03:43:00.000-08:00

If it hadn’t been for Manny Garcia’s mom, I would probably be dead or in jail by now.

It was 1980 – we had just elected our first movie star president, the Cold War was in full effect, and Joanie Loves Chachi was still two years away. I had just turned nine, had a lot of anger inside me and nowhere to direct it. So I turned to the streets, or rather, to the playground. Feeling alienated from society, and rarely being picked for the kickball starting lineup, Manny, our friend George, and I decided to form a street gang. Inspired by the movie, The Warriors, we called ourselves The Warriors. After school, we’d go to the park to train so that our bodies and minds were strong. We knew that they had to be, just in case we were ever called into battle.

The three of us would run laps, climb trees, and practice karate, but we pronounced it “ka-ra-TAY” because it sounded a lot more authentic that way. We took our regimen very seriously, keeping a journal of how many pushups George could do, or how long I could hang from the willow tree before letting go. Sometimes we’d look for big sticks to use as weapons, or just grab Manny’s old baseball bat and tap it menacingly in our hands at each other.

George and I were pretty good at drawing, so we worked together to come up with a gang symbol. George wanted it to be a snake coiled around a dagger. I lobbied to get two intertwined pairs of nunchucks, which I thought seemed a little more artistic, yet still intimidating. We compromised and ended up with a pair of nunchucks draped over a dagger. There was some talk of getting satin jackets with our logo on them, but we were nine.

One day, after a particularly grueling training session, we decided to go on our first patrol. Our initial stop in protecting our turf was Manny’s house, which was a few blocks behind the elementary school. As we walked toward his house, I saw his mother standing on their porch, so I waved. When she saw the baseball bat in Manny’s hand, she yelled, “Manny! Are you going to play baseball? Take your little brother to the park with you!”

George smiled and chimed in, “We’re not playing baseball. We’re in a gang!”

Manny winced.

His mom just stood there for a minute without saying anything, and I contemplated turning around to go home. Just then, she stormed off the porch, snatched the bat out of Manny’s hand and pointed it at us as she yelled, “Do you think being in a gang is some kind of a joke? You think this is funny? Do you want to get yourselves killed? Manuel – if I ever hear you talk about being in a gang again…”

She never finished her sentence. She didn’t need to.

“All three of you – look at me. You promise me you will never get mixed up in gangs. Promise me!”

As I learned that day, there already were gangs in Manuel’s neighborhood. Real ones. Not ones who sang “Macho Man” while climbing trees in the park. Not ones who went to the mall to get their names ironed on T-shirts in fuzzy letters. And definitely not ones who wore Smurfette wristwatches.

We all sheepishly nodded our heads and promised not to fall into a life of drugs and violence. Manny waved, and mouthed the word, “Bye” as his mother yanked him into his house.

As George and I walked back home, I told myself I would never break my promise to Mrs. Garcia. And for over 20 years, I stayed true to my word.

But that was before Natasha, Seamus, and I started taking tap.

[Stay tuned for the dramatic conclusion – Colors Part II: Gangsta Tap!]

Headliners

2004-11-19T04:32:00.000-08:00

Inspired by Hardee’s bold introduction of the Monster Thickburger, I decided that the time was right for me to launch a new product of my own. I really need to keep my finger on the pulse of consumer demand, so yesterday I had my market research team follow me around for the day to do some market research on the average thirty-something recently employed amateur tap-dancer. The market research that the market research team came back with helped me understand what my target audience is looking for.

The research indicated that Americans are working more hours than last week, wear turtlenecks at least twice each week, are eating 50% more candy than usual, and have a strong desire to be well informed about current events. After an important brainstorm session on my train ride home, my product development team created the following new feature designed to help Americans feel “plugged in” to this hectic world. It’s called “Current Events (as read over that guy’s shoulder).”

It’s concise. It’s timely. It’s proactive. It’s everything our focus group participant wanted. I’m certain that by reading these entries, I will become a much more aware citizen and consequently, a more productive contributor to society. So without further ado, I’m pleased to introduce our new feature:

Current Events (as read over that guy’s shoulder)

“K-Mart Snaps Up Sears for $8 Billion” – Chicago Tribune, October 18, 2004

I’m really excited about the merger between K-Mart and Sears because now, instead of having to not go to two different stores, I’ll only have to not go to one.

Overheard in the Elevator

2004-11-18T04:34:00.000-08:00

Woman 1: “Hey, did either of you guys hear about that new burger that Hardee’s came out with? It has like, 100 grams of fat and like, 1500 calories.”

Woman 2: “No way! Who would eat that?”

Man 1: “I bet it tastes good.”

Woman 1: “I think it’s called the ‘Monster Burger’ or something like that.”

Woman 2: “That’s sick.”

I was oddly intrigued by this discussion, so when I got off on my floor, I went online to see if such a thing really existed. It does. And Woman 1 was close – it’s actually called the Monster Thickburger. 1420 calories. 107 grams of fat. Two 1/3 lb patties of meat. Three slices of cheese. Four slices of bacon. Mayonnaise. Buttered bun. (I felt so sick when I just wrote, “Buttered bun.”)

I actually tip my hat to the product development folks at Hardee’s. They know they work for a dying chain (I mean, face it, when was the last time you ate at Hardee’s?) so they’re going out in a blaze of glory. They’re not going to pander to all these healthy eating activist groups – the same groups that strong-armed McDonald’s into introducing the McLean Deluxe and the McSalad Shaker.

I think Hardee’s should unapologetically strive to clog as many arteries as they can on their way into bankruptcy. McDonald’s wants to offer healthy alternatives so that independent filmmakers stop making movies like, Super Size Me? I say, let them! Hardee’s should counter McDonald’s every move with the unhealthiest recipes they can concoct:

McD’s offers apple slices in Happy Meals – Hardee’s offers deep fried cheese curds (It’s a Wisconsin thing. Mmmm… deep fried cheese!)

McD’s offers gourmet salads – Hardee’s offers gourmet pasta carbonara wrapped inside a deep fried pasty puff

McD’s offers bottled water instead of pop – Hardee’s offers melted butter instead of milk

But now, all admiration aside, I find myself facing a serious dilemma: now that I know about the Monster Thickburger, what about my New Year’s resolution to eat a slider at White Castle? I can’t have two resolutions revolving around beef. Not again. What’s a girl to do?

Bar car

2004-11-17T04:40:00.000-08:00

As the weather gets colder, the sidewalks get sloppier, and public transportation gets more crowded, I’m very happy to report that I recently made the switch from taking the “L” to riding the Metra to work each day. Don’t get me wrong – I like the Purple Line just as much as the next guy – but there comes a time in a woman’s life when she has to make choices. Difficult choices. Choices like:

Listening to someone talk to lawyer on cell phone vs. listening to someone talk back to voices in head

Smelling too much Chanel No. 5 vs. smelling too much Body Odors No. 1 and 2

Exposing immune system to millions of festering germs vs. exposing immune system to millions of… okay, I guess there’s no real difference there, but you get the point.

There’s just something about riding the Metra that makes me feel, I don’t know, kind of high society. I always get to sit down on the Metra. I smile at the conductor on the Metra and he smiles back. I can go to the bathroom on the Metra. Some people go to the bathroom on the “L,” which would be fine if there were actually bathrooms on the “L.”

But there aren’t.

I find great comfort in the familiar sounds of riding the big girl train: the automated recording saying, “Doors closing. Please stand back.” The conductor leaning out the door and yelling, “All aboard!” And the gentle “Pshhht!” of beer cans opening all around me.

It was this last sound that initially caught me a little off guard. The first time I heard it, I didn’t quite recognize what it was. Certainly, I’m well familiar with the sound of a beer can cracking open (although I’m more accustomed to the loving pop of a cork from some nice Shiraz), but it was the context that threw me. Beer cans? On a train? In public? That’s so – naughty!

I must admit, though, that I’ve yet to actually drink on the train myself. Through my astute observational techniques – known in some circles as staring – I have noticed that only men seem to drink on the train. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the train station bars only sell gigantic Sam’s Club sized cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I mean, come on now – my ride is only 15 minutes long. How am I supposed to finish all that beer? Do they expect me to shotgun that bad boy?

That would severely cramp my high society style.

I did actually see one woman drinking beer on the train a few weeks ago, but she was splitting it with her boyfriend. I guess that’s seen as acceptable – kind of like having a chaperone. But what’s an unescorted gal like me to do? Endure the scornful gazes of all my fellow commuters as I lug my half keg of Old Style past them and start to drink it alone as I stare out the window, a solitary tear running down my cheek?

Like I said, I love the Metra and all, but really – what kind of world do we live in where a single woman has to feel ashamed to drink 48 ounces of beer on an empty stomach in 15 minutes on a commuter train on a Tuesday night at 5:00pm before she gets into her car and drives home?

I know what you’re thinking: “Jenny’s just imagining this. She’s projecting her own insecurities onto everyone else. She’s not part of the solution – she’s part of the problem! If she wants to drink a beer on the train, she should just do it and shut up about it!”

And to that I say: Get the hell out of my head! You’re freaking me out! But I suppose you are a lot cheaper than my therapist, so perhaps you have a point.

I just wish that society didn’t put so many pressures on people to conform to some unwritten code of ethics. I mean, just picture a world where everyone was free to get intoxicated in whatever style and manner they saw fit. A world where no man, woman, or child with convincing fake ID would be judged for cracking open a Milwaukee’s Best inside a moving vehicle. Open your minds, friends. Can you just imagine it? Can you?

“Imagine all the people
Drinking on the train
You hooooooooo
You may say I’m a dreamer,
But I’m not the only one.”

Feeling not so fresh?

2004-11-15T04:56:00.000-08:00

[Note: This entry was alternately titled, How Jenny Loses Her Male Readership in One Fell Swoop. Sorry gents, this article had to be written. You can check back in a few days.]

Rarely does product advertising annoy me enough to feel the need to write about it. Heck, I work in marketing, so I kind of like advertising. Usually I'm pretty oblivious to the nonstop onslaught of "New!" and "Reformulated!" and "Refreshing!" messages that bombard us on an hourly basis. But last week something happened to change all that. I went to my favorite store in the entire world, Target, to stock up on everything that one stocks up on when visiting said Mecca: cleaning supplies, laundry detergent, Kleenex, tube socks, clearance Halloween marshmallow Peeps, and, you know… feminine hygiene products.

So I’m in the feminine product aisle, which is oddly located right next to the electronics section. Come to think of it, maybe Target is trying to establish some sort of in-store matchmaking service. I can almost see it play out: I’m rushing out of the woman aisle, arms full of sanitary products, when I run head-on into a dashing young man who is walking out of the electronics department. We collide. A torrent of DVD’s, batteries, and FDS feminine deodorant spray rains down upon our heads. I nervously gather up my items, cheeks burning with embarrassment and intrigue. I look up. Our eyes meet. As he hands me my box of Tampax tampons, now in new Compak® design, our hands briefly touch. It’s electric. He leans in for a kiss and…

But I digress.

When I got home from Target and started putting away my purchases, reveling in all the money I saved by purchasing in bulk, I noticed a strange graphic on the box of Kotex feminine pads. (Sidebar – I think they finally stopped calling them sanitary napkins. Amen to that!) On the cover of the box, there’s a picture of the little package the pad comes in, with the word: “Ssshhh!” on it.

Ssshhh?

Wait a minute - did my Kotex pad just shush me? I look closer and notice that the text underneath the ssshhh says, “Quietest Pouch!” Well it’s high time someone got rid of those noisy pouches, always with the yak, yak, yak. Thank god, I can finally hear myself think above the din of menstruating women all across the world simultaneously ripping open their pads!

This still isn’t really making sense to me, so I flip the box over, hoping for some further explanation. I found what I was looking for – on the back, selling point #4 is “Quiet, cloth-like pouch for discretion.”

Discretion? When was the last time you were in a ladies room and came out of the stall only to see half a dozen women laughing and pointing and throwing tampons at you. (Okay, maybe if your name is Carrie, but she got them back. She got them real good.) How much more discrete can you get than a microthin little pink square that easily fits into your back pocket? I mean, it’s not like they used to install car alarms inside the pouches.

It’s yet another absurd advertising message designed to convince women that their monthly cycles are dirty and humiliating. Devil woman! You must be ashamed of this cycle that confounds the non-bleeders! How dare you flaunt your fertility with the deafening sounds of plastic packages opening in the ladies room!? Goody Jenny is a witch! She bleeds without dying! Burn her! Burn her!

I mean, granted, I agree that we need to exercise some modicum of discretion, just like you would with any bodily function that requires you to retire to the ladies room. It’s not like I’m suggesting women walk around all week and advertise their periods by dangling tampons from their ears and slapping pads all over their clothes like post-it notes.

But are these advertisers truly trying to suggest that in 2004, focus group studies showed that women’s #4 concern was the humiliating and reputation-sullying sound of plastic tearing as we opened our pads? Now, I realize I’ve only been dealing with this issue for the past 20 years or so, but if you’re opening up a pad, you’re pretty much either in your own home, or in some public ladies restroom, right? If you’re at home, who gives a rat’s ass, and if you’re in a ladies room, you’re in a room with other ladies. Who. Also. Use. These. Products!

Well I say, screw you, Madison Avenue marketing geniuses. You want to “ssshhh” me? I don’t think so. So I’m starting a new movement. Everything old is new again. That’s right. I’m bringing back the sanitary belt. Wear it loud, wear it proud! What’s that sticking out of your low rider jeans? Hint: it’s not a thong. You heard me! The belt is back!

We’ve come a long way, baby.

Terms of endearment

2004-11-11T03:08:00.000-08:00

I was already starving by 11:00am yesterday. After a few weeks of diligently packing a lunch, I quickly fell back into my old habits of infrequent grocery shopping and regular trips to the food court for lunch. I haven’t suffered too much for the past week and a half, though, because I’ve mainly been living off of old Halloween candy that all my co-workers keep bringing into the office in an effort to wean their children off their week-long sugar highs.

Last week there were some smashed Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and a lot of Hershey’s Special Darks. Later there were the fruit flavored Tootsie Rolls, which I had never tried before. The orange ones were good, but tasted a little like baby aspirin. Mmm. Chalky. This week, all the hearty chocolate is gone, so I’m left with nothing but Smarties, which I love, but they aren’t very filling. And they make my belly burn if I eat too many of them.

Fearing the dreaded Smartie reflux, I headed out for lunch yesterday in search of some real sustenance. I went to the little deli near the office and ordered a turkey and swiss cheese sandwich on a hard roll. Oh, and some chips, please. The cashier said, “Did you want something to drink with that, sweetie?”

This caught me off guard a little, so I looked up from my wallet and saw the cashier giving me a warm smile that made her eyes crinkle. I smiled back and said, “Umm… sure. Medium Diet Pepsi, please?”

“No problem, sweetie. You have a nice day, now!”

I really didn’t want anything to drink. Hadn’t intended on ordering a soda. But I couldn’t help myself – she called me “sweetie” twice. Sure, I heard her say the same thing to all the customers behind me, but it wasn’t about being singled out. It was just the kindness in her voice when she said it. It was devoid of all irony.

The word just flowed so naturally off her tongue. I guess that’s her thing - she’s the “sweetie” woman. I envy her. I don’t have a thing. I wish I had a thing. Some thing that made people remember me and want to buy unnecessary sodas from me.

You have to be a certain kind of person to be able to get away with calling strangers affectionate little nicknames like that. I think you have to be really old or maybe from the south. Oddly, this woman was neither. She was just an average looking, somewhat pudgy woman with nice teeth and kind eyes. But she had sincerity on her side, so it worked for her.

I suppose I could just wait another 40 years to start referring to people as “doll,” but I’m not sure I have the patience. And a Midwestern accent does not register high enough on the charm scale to permit the use of “sugar.” Why did I have to be born in America’s Heartland?! Curse you, immigrant great grandparents! Why couldn’t you have settled in Kentucky?!

No wait, you didn’t know any better. And I don't really do well with the heat. I’m sorry great grandparents - I take it all back.

Actually, I have no one to blame but myself. I had my shot and I blew it. All my talk about wiping the slate clean with this new job, parting my hair on the side, making up lies about my family, and I completely forgot about the rarest of rare opportunities we get when we start a new job: adopting an accent.

I mean, what was I thinking? I was going to waste my time pretending to be left handed, when I could have been speaking in an Irish brogue all along? Seriously – say this sentence aloud in your best Irish accent, and just try to tell me you don’t want to give me a raise:

“Marketing, this is Sinead. What’s that you say? You need me to get you the print schedules for all the new collateral pieces? Aye, I’ll do it straight away!”

Or perhaps French:

“Marketeeng, zis ees Marie-Claire. Comment? Oh la la - you need me to get you ze print schedule for all ze collateral piece? Okay, I’ll do it tout de suite!”

Or maybe Italian:

“Marketing, it’s Giovanna. What? You love me and think I’m bellissima so you’ll get the print schedules yourself? Bravo!”

God, what a fool I am! Another great opportunity slips through my grasp. But mark my words, if for some unforeseen reason, I someday have to work at a company other than this one, I won’t make that same mistake again.

No, someday I’ll have a thing of my own. Me and my accent, we’ll have a really cool thing together. We’ll call people “sweet pea” or “lamb” or “hon.” And we’ll make people smile and they’ll remember us because we looked them in the eyes with complete sincerity and we didn’t want anything from them when we called them “darling” and that made them feel special for just one minute. But we will never call anyone “sweetie.” We know perfection when we’ve seen it.

Overheard in the Elevator

2004-11-10T03:09:00.000-08:00

[16th Floor. Three women and one man get on the elevator. One of women is listening to her iPod. Man and other two women silently stare ahead. The volume on woman’s iPod is extremely loud and everyone on the elevator can hear the music.]

Woman 1 [softly mouthing words]: “My… milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…”

Woman 2: “And they’re like, it’s better than yours…”

Woman 3: “Damn right, it’s better than yours…”

Man: “I could teach you, but I’d have to charge.”

Scent of a woman

2004-11-09T03:51:00.000-08:00

Yesterday on my way home from the train station, I was walking to my car and thinking about whether or not I had any peanut butter left at home, when I was suddenly overcome by an excruciating headache. Of course, my immediate thought was that an aneurysm had burst, but then I looked up and saw a woman in front of me, and realized that it was her perfume. I had been walking downwind of her for about five minutes before it registered in my brain that it smelled like I had just taken a baseball bat to the perfume counter at Nordstrom’s.

How much perfume must you be wearing for it to leave an almost visible trail behind you on a windy fall day? A lot. I’d say at least three or four sprays worth. I had to speed up to a near power-walk stride in order to pass her before my olfactory glands exploded.

To be honest, I really don’t like perfume. Except on me, because it smells really nice when I wear it. This is because, much like a chemist, I understand the delicate balance that is in play when applying a foreign scent to one’s body. And even more importantly, I respect the rules of etiquette when it comes to wearing perfume. For the uninitiated, here are the general guidelines:

Work: Plain and simple – avoid it. Unless you’re trying to seduce the boss, in which case, go get ‘em, Tiger!

Bars: Use generously since the smoke and stale beer scent will counteract any excessive perfume application.

Church: Avoid it. Okay, I’m not really speaking from a position of authority here since I don’t go to church, but I don’t think god cares if you smell like cinnamon. Or does he?

Horseback riding: Apply liberally. To the horse.

Grocery store: Oh that’s just sad. You put on perfume just to go buy toilet paper and frozen pizzas? Truly sad.

Airplanes: Under penalty of death, do not ever, ever wear perfume on an airplane. I mean it.

While we’re on the topic of airplanes, do they still have cologne in the bathrooms on airplanes? I always thought that was about the worst possible idea anyone ever came up with. Let’s see: enclosed metal tube, hundreds of people sitting inches apart, stale recycled air, tendency toward vomiting… by Jove I think I’ve got it! What this plane needs more than anything is for everyone to smell exactly alike! And by exactly alike, I mean like a drunken French hooker.

“Hey, you smell pungent! What’s that you’re wearing?”

“You like it? It’s called Eau de PanAm.”

“Mmmm. It’s both sour and musky!”

Personally, I think the only kind of perfume most people should be allowed to wear would be that kind that’s made of human pheromones. You can’t smell it, but people feel sexy when they wear it. I can see the ad campaign now: Je Ne Sais Quoi for Men, by Calvin Klein. Undetectable, yet irresistible.

Queen of The Castle

2004-11-08T03:14:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. My friends were somewhat shocked when I revealed this to them, although I didn’t think it would be quite as big a deal as it eventually became: I have never eaten at White Castle in my life. I must admit, though, that I contemplate it every time I drive by the one near my house.

I was driving around with Nat and Seamus a few weeks ago when I first shared this piece of information, and it sparked a debate that would have put Dick Cheney and John Edwards to shame. (John who? Edwards. He ran for Vice President a long time ago.)

Seamus was gung ho on introducing me to something called “a slider,” when Nat intervened and warned me that they’re called sliders because they shoot right through your intestines in about six seconds flat. Since the memory of my last gastrointestinal crisis is still somewhat fresh in my mind, I decided against the 30 for $15 bag of burgers. Thirty burgers? I mean, I realize that they’re kind of small, but what the hell am I going to do with thirty hamburgers? I suppose after I eat one or two of them, I could just throw the rest at cars to see if they stick.

Once I opted out of the slider, I found myself strangely intrigued by something called “Chicken Rings.” I really just got used to the concept of eating chicken fingers, so there’s something a little disturbing about imagining what part of the chicken the chicken ring comes from.

Well, for now both the slider and chicken ring will continue to remain a mystery. But if White Castle comes out with something called “Fish Necks,” I may finally have to cave in.

Overheard in the Elevator

2004-11-04T03:21:00.000-08:00

Woman 1: "Heh heh. Four more years!!"

Woman 2: "..."

Man 1: "..."

Woman 3: "..."

Woman 4: "..."

Man 2: "..."

Woman 5: "..."

Woman 2: "Mmm. Hey - is The Apprentice on tonight or tomorrow?"

Woman 4: "Tomorrow."

Woman 2: "Cool."

Cleanliness is next to godliness

2004-11-02T03:14:00.000-08:00

On Halloween night, I hung out at a local bar in Milwaukee with my friend Kim. It was pretty crowded with party-goers, so we had to grab a little table at the back of the bar by the bathrooms. As we tossed back a few drinks and admired all the creative costumes, I noticed that when some people came out of the bathroom, they walked over to a sink by the bar to wash their hands.

I thought it seemed odd that people would come out of the bathroom to wash their hands, until I realized that they had no other choice. The bathrooms in the bar didn’t have sinks in them, so you had to go back into the bar area to actually wash your hands. Now, I’ve got to believe that there were some serious health code violations going on with that setup, but I used to frequent this bar, so I decided against turning them in.

I did, however, become mildly obsessed with watching everyone come out of the bathrooms to see who actually washed their hands after using the bathroom. The only people I saw consistently wash their hands were the two bartenders, and I’m sure that’s because their boss – thankfully – makes them do that before they squeeze limes into customers’ drinks.

Kim could see that I was distracted, so I told her about my startling observation. She didn’t seem overly concerned, so I leaned over the table and shouted over the music, “There have been studies done that show that something like only 40% of men wash their hands after they go to the bathroom! How disgusting is that!?”

Kim took a swig of her microbrew beer, smirked, and said, “40%? Really? And exactly what ‘studies’ are you referring to? Sounds really scientific…”

I told her that I didn’t remember where I heard that, but I knew I had heard it somewhere, and it might have been a Dateline NBC exposé where Stone Phillips put a hidden camera in the men’s room to watch people and then ambushed them as they walked out without washing their hands. Or something like that.

Kim still seemed dismissive, so I suggested doing a study of our own to prove my point. She scoffed at first, but then her competitive nature kicked in and she agreed to do it.

“But if you’re wrong, you have to buy the next round.”

“I already paid for the first one because you said you didn’t have any cash, but whatever. You’re on, Kim!”

Since I have a bit of marketing research in my background, I know the importance of conducting an unbiased study, so I quickly called my unbiased former co-worker who used to work in research. She rushed over to the bar to help me conduct an ad hoc research project.

After some brief discussion, my friend, the unbiased researcher, set up shop at our table, where she could observe the comings and goings of the men’s room without interruption. By the end of the evening, the findings she presented to us on a cocktail napkin were nothing less than astounding.

WARNING: If anyone under the age of 18 is reading this right now, I’d like you to first have a parent or guardian send me an email giving me their consent before you continue. I promise you, this is not for the weak-stomached.

Unbiased Study of Men’s Post-Bathroom Hand Washing Practices
By: Unbiased Independent Research Firm

Methodology:
A random sample of men was observed entering and exiting the men’s restroom at [local bar]. Upon exiting the restroom, the researcher noted whether or not the men washed their hands before returning to the bar.

Sample Size:
N=5

Demographics:

Male

Regular bathroom users

Residents or visitors of Milwaukee

Drinkers

Estimated ages: 46, 37, 35, 30, and 25

Estimated income: between $35,000 - $150,000

Major Assumptions:

All subjects, upon entering the bathroom, performed some type of bodily function.

There is not a sink located inside the men’s bathroom (I tried to make Kim confirm this, but she would only tell me if there was one in the women’s bathroom, which there wasn’t).

Jenny’s prospective dating pool age range is between 30-42.

Significant Findings:

100% of men over 45 (N=1) wash their hands after using the bathroom.

100% of men under 26 (N=1) wash their hands after using the bathroom.

100% of bartenders wash their hands after using the bathroom.

100% of men in Jenny’s eligible dating pool (N=3) do not wash their hands after using the bathroom.

Only 40% of all men wash their hands after using the bathroom.

Unbiased Recommendations:

Never touch, nor allow yourself to be touched by men between the ages of 26-45 without first witnessing them wash their hands.

Never allow men between the ages of 26-45 to cook for you, as you will be certain to ingest significant quantities of E. Coli.

Exclusively date men under the age of 26 or over the age of 45.

Date a bartender.

I know these results are going to send shockwaves through the entire Internet, but I thought it was important that I share these findings with the public. I am hoping to draw attention to this issue that affects so many of us. More importantly, if I can shame even one 26-44 year old male into washing his hands after peeing, then it will have all been worth it. Seriously guys, you’re grossing us all out. And we’re always watching.

Now go out and vote!

Daylight Savings & Loan

2004-11-01T04:42:00.000-08:00

Did you remember to save some daylight yesterday? I did. I saved 60 whole minutes of it, just like I do every year. But this time, I promised myself that I wouldn’t take this extra hour for granted. I would make the most out of every minute. So this year, I kept track of everything I did during my extra hour so that I could share it with the people closest to me:

1 minute: Thought about how excited I will be when, after Tuesday, I won’t have to hear the phrases “undecided voter” or “swing state” anymore. Unless, of course, those undecided voters finally make up their minds and cause their states to swing, in which case we'll never hear the end of it.

15 seconds: Put the last ghost shaped marshmallow Peep in the microwave to see how big it would get. It got really big.

2 minutes 45 seconds: Cleaned up melted ghost shaped marshmallow Peep in the microwave. It got really melted.

2 minutes: Ate three mini-boxes of grape flavored Nerds that I intended to give to trick-or-treaters. Later remembered that when I bought all this candy, I knew full well that I don’t get any trick-or-treaters in my apartment building.

7 minutes: Cleaned litter box. It had to be done.

2 minutes: Washed my hands. People, I just touched cat litter.

4 minutes: Recalled the best costumes I saw on Halloween: man dressed as robot, woman dressed as bloody prom queen Carrie, man dressed as homeland security terror level advisory.

6 minutes: Ate some cheese.

17 minutes: Watched part of one episode of Strangers With Candy, Season Three.

3 minutes: Wished Amy Sedaris was my best friend. Because she would make me laugh. All the time.

5 minutes: Tried, unsuccessfully, to get into my laundry room.

3 minutes: Contemplated going to the laundromat, but then decided to just spray Febreeze on my clothes instead.

7 minutes: Ate rest of cheese while I emailed Amy Sedaris.

Looking over this list, I can’t help but feel intensely proud and somewhat amazed at what can be accomplished in just one hour. What could I achieve if I were allowed to save more than one hour a year? I wish we could borrow a few hours every now and then to get things like this done. Then, I could pay them back later in the year when I don’t need them – like when I’m sleeping, or stuck in traffic.

Well, that settles it. I’m going to cast my vote on Tuesday for the candidate I feel is most likely to be in favor of establishing federally funded Daylight Savings & Loans all across America, so that we can once again reclaim our status as the most productive country in the universe.

Electric Avenue

2004-10-29T03:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, I awoke to the nostalgic sound of my favorite 80’s and 90’s music:

“…saw him dancing there by the record machine…”

[SNOOZE]

7 minutes later:
“…experience has made me rich and now they’re after me…”

[SNOOZE]

7 minutes later:
“…and she’s loving him with that body, I just know it…”

[SNOOZE]

7 minutes later:
Nothing.

7 minutes later:
Nothing.

Finally, my internal body clock kicked in and told me that something was amiss. Where were my tunes? I squinted at the clock to see what time it was and saw – nothing. No blurry numbers, no numbers at all. I flipped on my light and nothing happened.

I shot out of bed immediately, fearing that it might be 9:00am, but as I fumbled for my watch, I discovered that it was only 6:23am. But what had happened? Why didn’t my clock or my light or my computer work?

Oh god. The power is out. What am I going to do? How will I dry my hair? How will I iron my pants? How will I toast my poppy seed bagel? I can’t eat a raw bagel like some kind of savage!

It’s times like these that I really wish I had kept my Y2K readiness kit. I’m so hungry, and my throat is so dry! Boy, would some sweetened condensed milk and sardines taste good right about now.

I’ve always heard that you can really learn a lot about yourself in times of crisis, but I never knew how true that saying was until this exact moment. I learned quite a few things about myself, as I stumbled across my pitch black apartment like Mr. Magoo.

Mostly, I learned that I really like electricity. I had never really given it much thought prior to this moment, but I do. I really like it.

I also learned that unless you are adequately self-medicated, you should never, ever, look at yourself in the bathroom mirror using only the harsh glare of a flashlight. There’s really no effective way to use a flashlight to look at yourself, other than to slowly scan the surface of your face in a searchlight fashion, like a warden looking for an escaped prisoner. Or you can hold it under your chin like you’re telling a ghost story.

My god! I’m hideous! Why didn’t my friends ever tell me that I look like David Carradine? The unforgiving beam of the flashlight amplifies every pore, each wrinkle, and every imperfection in the skin. I quickly trashed the flashlight in favor of the adoring glow of a candle. Oh look! I’m lovely!

[Sidebar: I’d like to take a moment to thank my Aunt Therese – even though she doesn’t read my blog, or know what a blog is, or own a computer – for giving me candles for every major and minor holiday for the past twelve years. I never appreciated them as much as I did yesterday morning. Thanks to her thoughtfulness, I was able to find my way around the apartment by smell: lavender was the living room, cinnamon was the kitchen, vanilla was the bedroom, and so on. Thanks, Therese!]

Just as I started to make out my last will and testament, and size up my cats to determine which one I would eat first if the blackout continued much longer, I heard a strange sound. I think that my senses had become heightened due to sensory deprivation, so like a desert fox, I put my ears to the ground to trace the source of the sound. In addition to the gnawing of termites eating away at my floorboards, I also heard the mechanical whining of my DVD player turning back on.

The electricity is back on! I can see again! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! I ran around my apartment flipping on all of my appliances.

Toaster – works!
Hair dryer – works!
Computer – works!
Television – works!
Microwave – works!
Air conditioner – works!
Jack LaLanne Power Juicer – works!

I can’t recall the last time I felt this elated. I twirled around my apartment in a joyous interpretive dance, swaying and twisting to the dizzying hum of technology. And then, of course, I blew a fuse. But no matter! I knew that this new blackout was just a temporary one, ended quickly by the simple flip of a switch.

After thanking the electricity gods, I went back into the bathroom to touch up my hair, where I learned that you should never apply makeup by candlelight. I was shocked to see that I looked like I was auditioning for Victor/Victoria. Left half = man, right half = woman. Left side = Jason Robards, right side = two dollar whore. I quickly rebalanced my makeup, and was once again all woman.

I ate my bagel, watched a few minutes of the Today Show, and checked my email, relieved that the world was once again back in synch. These were the longest and most terrifying 53 minutes I’ve ever endured. Oh sweet, sweet electricity. Please don’t ever leave me like that again. I promise, I’ll never take you for granted!

Date abase management

2004-10-27T03:13:00.000-07:00

Why must everyone learn things the hard way? Why can’t people just look at the critical mistakes their friends and family make and avoid these same pitfalls? Who among us will be the first to break this vicious cycle? These are some of the great unanswered and unanswerable questions that plague our society.

I just thought that Natasha was smarter than the rest of us. She’s witty, talented, driven – she has a bright future ahead of her. So why – after witnessing first-hand the trauma that defined my Internet dating experiences – why did she insist on signing up for match.com?

I feel like somehow I am to blame for this. Maybe I sugarcoated my online dating experiences too much. Maybe I sheltered her from the truth. But if I did, it was only to preserve the innocence that defines dear Natasha. I mean, didn’t I tell her about the guy who took me to the zoo and laughed maniacally as he told me about all the species of monkeys that are being poached to extinction? And then who, even more disturbingly, drank a 48-ounce bucket of Hi-C Fruit Punch in 30 seconds flat, leaving a thick red Kool-Aid mustache for all to admire?

I feel certain I must have shared these details, so where did I go wrong? What part of “red Kool-Aid mustache” did she not understand?

I guess it’s pointless to speculate, because regardless, the plan is in motion. Nat has been on match.com for only two weeks and already has five dates lined up. Fortunately, even though she chose to ignore my initial warnings about the dangers of cyber romance, she has sought my sage advice in the selection process.

In a bold move that illustrated Nat’s blind faith in my judgment, she gave me her match.com User ID and password. This was mainly a move done out of necessity since her dial-up connection is even slower than mine, and she needed me to update her profile.

Still, it’s kind of like she gave me power of attorney, so I’m taking this responsibility very seriously. I’ve found that I’m taking a much more strategic approach to furthering Nat’s social life than I did my own. To shelter her from the overwhelming flood of crazies who, for some reason, seem to be drawn to her profile, I’ve been logging into her account every few days and deleting anyone who seems slightly mentally unstable. Or who has really long hair. It’s just better this way. [Ed. note: I’m also deleting anyone I think would be better suited to me, but not before I jot down their User ID’s.]

These are some of the criteria I use to weed people out:

Does he say he’s looking for a best friend and soul mate to spend every minute with?
How many pictures of his dog did he post? Do they outnumber the pictures of himself?
Did he leave the marital status field blank?
Did he say “Go Cubbies!” more than once? (OK, that’s not to weed out crazies. Just people who would potentially annoy me.)
Did he actually use the word “supposably” in his profile?

So after a few weeks of screening out potential axe murderers, or just murderers of the English language, Nat and I have narrowed down our pool to a few key candidates. For ease of reference, I’ll call them:

1. Funny Guy
2. Artistic Guy
3. Sensitive Guy
4. Athletic Guy
5. Brainy Guy

So far, the only gaps I see in our strategy are Rich Guy and Foreign Guy, but I’m still looking.

This afternoon, Nat has a date with Sensitive Guy. I’m not sure how I feel about her decision to put Sensitive Guy in the starting lineup. Personally, I would have chosen Funny Guy or Athletic Guy to begin with, but I guess the girl’s got to trust her own instincts sometimes.

Nat also violated my Rule #4 of online dating by telling her date to meet her at her office before they head out to lunch. This could prove disastrous if Sensitive Guy transforms into Since Nat Won’t Return My Calls I’ll Surprise Her At Work With a Bouquet of Origami Lilies I Made After Yoga Class Guy. Because, as we all know, that guy often quickly morphs into Restraining Order Guy.

But, I can’t live Nat’s life for her. All I can do is give her roots and wings, hope for the best, and secretly manipulate as many variables as possible from behind the scenes. Like this lunch, for instance. Fortunately, Nat works fairly close to me, so I plan on taking an early lunch, buying a wig and fake goatee or perhaps a Van Dyke at Walgreen’s, and following them to the restaurant.

While incognito, I will be able to observe the date and objectively assess any abnormal behavior from either Nat or Sensitive Guy. In my disguise, I will also be able to finally solve the mystery that has haunted me for years when I stroll into the men’s room to find out once and for all what exactly these “urinal cakes” I’ve heard about really are. I mean, if anyone should be getting cake in the bathroom, it’s women.

But back to Nat, I plan on logging all my findings into a simple database I’ve developed, and after I run the data through a few quick regression models, each date will receive a weighted quantitative score. The higher the score, the higher the likelihood for future bliss. My own biggest mistake was letting emotion enter into romance – I won’t let Nat fall victim to this same error. She’s counting on me, and I’m not going to let her down!

Overheard in the Elevator

2004-10-25T03:47:00.000-07:00

Woman 1: “Hey Margaret. So, what time are you leaving today?”

Woman 2: “Not until 5:00!”

Woman 1: “Uggh. That sucks.”

Woman 2: “No kidding.”

[Ed. note: These were two employees from my company. Never in my entire career have I heard the words “not until” and “5:00” uttered in the same sentence, unless it was more like: When is the four-hour financial review meeting going to start? Uggh. Not until 5:00!

I love my new company. I love it so much that I might fly us both to Massachusetts so that I can marry it. And then my company and I are going to adopt some babies. Lots and lots of babies.]

A family affair

2004-10-22T03:13:00.000-07:00

I have to apologize for my recent absenteeism, but unfortunately, I’ve been having some problems at home lately. There are some issues going on with my family that are sapping a lot of my emotional and mental energy right now, so I’m afraid I haven’t had much time for writing.

I knew that this might happen once I got back into the workforce and stopped being a stay-at-home-mom-without-children. It’s my twins. They’re just not adjusting well to my being away from them all day long. Aside from Judy’s bulimia, I’ve had to deal with a daily onslaught of problems from these two precocious four-year olds, and it’s sucking the very life out of me.

Every day I come home to something new. I take a deep breath as I slide the key into the back door, just wondering what hidden treasure I will find in my apartment that day. Yesterday it was an entire roll of paper towels shredded on my living room rug. The day before that it was the remnants of the laces from my tap shoes, still damp from cat spit. The day before that it was a pile of cat puke on the quilt on my bed. And today, I came home to discover that one of my cats had decided that his/her current litter box isn’t big enough, so he/she decided to leave a foul little gift for me on the kitchen floor.

I don’t need this. I work hard all day, busting my hump to keep a roof over their heads, catnip in their pipes, and food in their bowls, and this is how they repay me? With a pile of cat crap on my linoleum?

I am tempted to get us into some family counseling, but I know from past experience that the trauma of putting them into a cat carrier and driving them even for just a few minutes is enough to push me into Girl, Interrupted territory. I almost drove us all off a cliff when I had to make the two-hour trek with them in my car when I first moved to Chicago. Even though they were both doped up on kitty Xanax, they screamed for the entire trip and frantically clawed at the door of the cat carrier until I just about lost my mind. My right arm was almost shredded down to a bloody stump by the time I pulled up to my apartment. It’s just a good thing for all of us that there are no cliffs in Chicago.

I’m thinking that maybe I need a nanny to watch them while I’m away during the day. Even though I thought they were ready for it, they clearly aren't adjusting well to being latch-key cats. I’m working on a formal job description for this position, but if you know anyone who might fit the bill, let me know. My sanity and blogging career may just depend on it!

Wanted: Experienced cat nanny to care for two rambunctious Siamese cats. Must be high-energy, caring, and resourceful. Ideal candidate will have experience dealing with feline eating disorders and ADHD. References required!

Oh the humanity

2004-10-19T03:03:00.000-07:00

The bird slaughter continues:

Monday: Wren

When will it stop? When will the madness end? The strange thing is that this time, the bird was covered in a purple shroud and wearing tiny Nike running shoes. What could this possibly mean? And why would a bird need to wear running shoes? It just makes no sense. No sense at all.

I will not rest until this mystery is solved.

New Product Launch

2004-10-18T03:43:00.000-07:00

CHICAGO, IL – October 18, 2004 – Run Jen Run, Inc. (Nasdaq: RJR) announced today that they are launching a new regular feature in their weekly blog. This feature is called Overheard in the Elevator, and is the result of extensive consumer research studying the ever-changing demands of the blog world.

“Overheard in the Elevator will chronicle the ongoing saga of Run Jen Run on her regular trips up and down the elevator at work. Will she overhear an attempted corporate takeover? Witness the grumblings of disgruntled employees? Learn where complete strangers are going for lunch? It’s really the unpredictable nature of the elevator experience that attracted us to this forum in the first place," said Jenny X., Chief Marketing Officer of Run Jen Run, Inc. "We are confident that this enhancement will deliver immediate and substantial value to all RJR stockholders, employees, suppliers, and customers. We feel that the addition of this new feature will help us further connect with our customers and build brand loyalty by remaining innovative and fresh.”

Jenny X. continued, “I see the elevator as the corporate version of the confessional. Leave your sins on the 15th floor. Going up, going down. Heaven, hell. Elevators are the great equalizers. Sinner and saint. CEO and maintenance man. We all use them. We all need them.”

In response to concerns from the public that this new feature might be violating people’s privacy by documenting their conversations, Jenny said, “Elevators are a public space. If people choose to reveal private details standing next to total strangers in an enclosed metal box, they accept an inherent risk that others may overhear them. Personally, I see elevators as miniature stages, where the audience is captive and the admission is free. Deep down, we all know that what we say on an elevator is a performance. I’m just taking this to the next level by actually publishing it. Plus, I change all the names, so my Legal Department has assured me that I'm covered.”

# # #

Overheard in the Elevator

Blonde Woman: “Hey, do you know when Girl Scout cookies come out?”

Other Blonde Woman: “Uhh… I’m not sure. But I think my husband just bought something from the Boy Scouts, so it should be pretty soon.”

Blonde Woman: “I hope so. I have to order some of those Samoans. Those are the best!”

Other Blonde Woman: “Now which ones are those?”

Blonde Woman: “Those are the ones with the caramel and chocolate and coconut.”

Other Blonde Woman: “Oh, yeah. Those are good! But I thought they were called Caramel Delights?”

Blonde Woman: “Umm, I’m not sure. Maybe. They’re good, whatever they’re called.”

Wild kingdom

2004-10-15T04:35:00.000-07:00

You know what’s weird? Now that I work downtown, I see far more woodland creatures than I ever did when I worked in the lush, tree-lined suburbs of northern Illinois.

The only difference is that in the city, all the animals are dead.

So far this week I’ve seen a dead bird every single day on my way out of the train station.

Monday: Nuthatch
Tuesday: English sparrow
Wednesday: Starling
Thursday: Yellow finch (Or possibly a wadded up McDonald’s bag. It was in the street so I couldn’t really get a good look.)

On Tuesday, I saw a woman in a business suit rip a piece of paper out of her fancy leather portfolio, pick up the sparrow, and deposit it in the trash can. I wonder if she does that kind of thing all the time. Maybe she canvasses the city looking for dead animals so she can give them a (semi) proper final resting place. Do I admire her or pity her? I’m just not sure.

This mass slaughter started to get me a little worried about what might be killing the small birds of Chicago. Is the air so polluted here that they are literally dropping from the sky? Is there a massive gas leak in the area that our inferior human senses just haven’t been able to detect yet? Is there a sniper on the loose?

As I stared up, looking for signs of a rifle or a high-powered slingshot, I realized that my train station is in a thirty story glass building, and these birds were just victims of their own poor eyesight. They saw the building just a few precious seconds too late. Oh, sweet little nearsighted birds. I think, if only I could mend those broken wings. Fortunately, this is a fleeting thought, and I quickly go back to sipping my BananaBerry Jamba Juice.

You know, if that woman really wanted to do some good, instead of daintily scooping up the bird carcasses and tossing them in the garbage, she would paint a gigantic picture of an owl on the building so the birds would stop slamming into it. That’s the problem with these do-gooders – they lack planning. Anyone can clean up the mess after it happens. But what those birds really need is someone who’s more proactive. Am I right or am I right?

Well, I’m off to work. What will it be today? Any bets? Even odds on sparrows. A robin will get you ten to one odds. Twenty to one on a hawk. Sixty to one on a swan. Takers?

The most important meal of the day

2004-10-13T02:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday

I ate two mini Twix candy bars
and three ghost shaped marshmallow Peeps
for breakfast.

And I defy anyone to tell me that was wrong.

Then I washed it all down
with some Diet Pepsi.

That was just plain wrong.
I’m so sorry.

Floating

2004-10-12T03:48:00.000-07:00

Now that the pressure of the job hunt is behind me, I’m looking for ways to release the stress that built up in my body during my sabbatical. It’s high time I treat myself to some pampering to channel my stress energy out of my pores and into the universe, where it belongs. And since I’ve never been one for Tae Bo, or any physical activity that resembles hand-to-hand combat, what I really need to do in order to bring my mind and body back into balance is spend an hour in a flotation tank.

Shortly after I moved to Chicago, Natasha added this activity to my list of must-do’s. This item fell just below tap dance lessons and just above dog shows in terms of priority. She did all sorts of research and found out that the oldest flotation tank facility in the US just happens to be right here in our own backyard. For those of you who are unfamiliar with flotation tanks, here’s the description from the Space-Time Tank site:

“A flotation tank is a 8'x4'x4' enclosed structure which diminishes light and sound. Each tank holds 10 inches of water with 800lbs. of Epsom salts enabling a person to float effortlessly. The water is heated to an average skin temperature (93.5°) reducing the sensation between body and water. The tanks are fully ventilated and the solution is sterilized after each use with concentrated Hydrogen Peroxide and Ozone.”

Who wouldn’t want to spend a few hours in that?

After signing on a few more adventuresome friends, we scheduled our appointments for the tanks. Initially, I had a few concerns that I discussed with Natasha. Some of the key ones were:

1. What does one wear in a flotation tank?
2. Will I get claustrophobic?
3. What if I just obsess about work issues for the entire hour?
4. What if I get locked inside?
5. Can I get typhoid fever from floating in a tank?
6. Will I revert back to my Neanderthal origins and emerge as part monkey, a là Altered States?

With my list of concerns in hand, Natasha headed out to research all the facts she could find about flotation tanks, and returned with the confidence of a pro. She addressed my questions one at a time:

Attire
Now, I’m no prude, but when it comes to fashion, I’m pretty modest. I just didn’t know – was I supposed to wear a swimsuit? Underwear? Scuba mask and snorkel?

As I would quickly learn, unless you want to be known in the floating community as a complete freak, you wear the same outfit you were born with, sans umbilical cord. At first, I was a little uncomfortable with this. I mean, is that sanitary? Although, I don’t suppose a Speedo ever really served as any true protection against water borne diseases.

Plus, Nat sent me all sorts of links to websites that discussed the purification process used after each person floats. Apparently, not even a prehistoric water parasite could survive in that level of salt content. So there I was, naked as a jaybird. But without feathers.

Claustrophobia
A valid concern, I thought. Will I have a panic attack? If I scream, will anyone hear me? Our charming and informative guide told us that if we did get claustrophobic, we could prop open the door with our towel and leave a dim light on.

I must admit that I did have a very brief panic attack when I first crawled into the tank, although I’m not sure if that was due to the enclosed space, or due to the fact that I was buck naked sitting in 100 degree salt water. It was really the humidity that freaked me out more than the darkness. Because it’s enclosed and so warm, the air is very thick, and for a moment I thought both my lungs had collapsed. They hadn’t. I made myself calm down, put out my cigarette, and then the panic quickly subsided.

Work
A week before going to the tanks, I had to fire one of my more emotionally unstable employees, and it was a fairly unpleasant experience for us both. I had this fear that during the entire time I was floating in the tank, all I would be able to think about would be her, and all of the other crazy people I had to deal with at work.

Fortunately, an amazing thing happens in the tank – you cannot concentrate on anything, even if you try. Your mind just keeps wandering from thought to thought in a seemingly random pattern. It's exactly the same phenomenon that would occur whenever my old boss would talk to me about his philosophy on the benefits of micromanaging employees.

Trapped
I suppose this goes hand in hand with the claustrophobia concern, but I had a genuine fear of being locked inside this tank. In my mind, the tank had a giant deadbolt on the outside that they needed for some security reason.

Of course, there are no locks on flotation tanks. There are no latches, and there aren’t even any handles. It’s just a little door that you could easily push open with one finger. I know because I tested it out several times.

Disease
My doctor assured me that I could not catch typhoid fever from a flotation tank. And then she asked me to find a new doctor. Apparently she’s still upset about when I paged her at home on a Sunday because I thought I had a rare combination of polio and gout.

Monkey
If you’ve seen the movie Altered States, you understand what I mean by this. For those of you who haven’t seen it, here is the edited version: William Hurt’s character is a scientist researching different states of consciousness and one of the techniques he employs is a sensory deprivation tank. After spending some time in one, he turns into a caveman. I can’t really explain it any better than that, so you’re just going to have to rent it on your own.

I thought I was being pretty clever when I joked with the owner about this fear. Apparently, a few other (hundred) people have seen this movie, and they all thought it would be hilarious to make this exact same joke to the owner. Since the film came out in 1980, he has heard this joke approximately 628,408 times. It was perhaps funny the first two thousand times he heard it, but evidently it has worn thin. Is it my fault that he works in an industry with limited material to pull jokes from?

So the flotation tank experience was amazing, and one that I must repeat soon. And the best part is that I did not, at any point, turn into a monkey. But I am typing this with my feet right now.

If I'm dreaming, don't ever wake me!

2004-10-11T03:33:00.000-07:00

The weirdest thing happened to me at work last Friday. The administrative assistant for the marketing department came by my desk with an envelope, handed it to me, and walked away without saying a word. When I opened it up, I saw that it was a check from the company written out to me.

I saw that all my co-workers also had similar envelopes in their hands, so I leaned over to my neighbor’s cube and asked what this was all about.

“It’s Friday. You know – payday.”

Payday? I explained to my colleague that I had been out of the workforce for a while, so I wasn’t quite sure how everything worked. After I assured her that I was serious, she kindly explained the procedure for me. Apparently, we come to work every day and do stuff, say stuff, write stuff, and then after two weeks of that routine, the company sends us money.

But that’s not even the best part! I hope you’re sitting down, because the rumor going around the office is that in another two weeks, they’re going to send us more money! I promise you I’m not making this up.

I swear, I’m just waiting for that bald guy from Candid Camera to pop out of the supply closet and let me in on the prank. But my co-workers assure me that it’s no joke, or if it is, it’s been going on for 30 years with still no punch line.

Then, later that day when I was in the elevator, a woman was telling this other woman about a trip she took to Hawaii for two weeks. I couldn’t help but chime in by saying that I was so impressed that her boss would allow her to take time off during the week. Then she told me the strangest thing. She said, “Well, he doesn’t have much choice. I’ve been here so long that I get six weeks of vacation a year. Gotta take it sometime!”

I guess there’s this thing called “vacation pay” where the company actually gives you money to NOT work for a couple of weeks during the year. I know it sounds absolutely insane, but at least three different people told me the same story. All I can say is that I feel like I hit the jackpot with this company!

I’ll let you all know if the company actually sends me more money in two weeks. I mean, can you imagine? Well, I guess I should get going – I have some forms to fill out for something called a “corporate benefits plan.”

Let’s see here… medical, dental, vision… what the? You mean to tell me the company pays for most of my benefits? I don’t have to worship at the altar of COBRA, evil goddess of healthcare, anymore?

Ohmigod. Somebody pinch me!

The spitting image

2004-10-08T03:37:00.000-07:00

Picture this: October 7th, 72˚ and sunny, slight breeze, one of the last nice days before the brutal Midwestern winter takes hold. Before I head back into the office after lunch, I decide to collect my thoughts while leaning on the railing and looking out at the crystal brown waters of the Chicago River.

Over to my right, I notice three nice looking young professional men – probably in their late twenties or early thirties – who seem to be enjoying this setting as much as I am right now. As I’m watching one of the last sightseeing boats of the season cruise by, my peaceful afternoon is disrupted by a horrific sound. It’s the unmistakable sound of someone “hawking” and then spitting into the water.

I don’t turn to see where the sound came from, because I already know. Okay, maybe he has a cold. This behavior is still unacceptable, but I’ll excuse it just this once.

Then I hear laughter, more hawking from multiple sources, and more spitting.

All three of these grown men wearing important ID badges and dress pants and ties are spending the last ten minutes of their lunch hour watching each other spit over the railing. I try to ignore them and am fairly successful until I hear one of them say, “Dude! See if you can hit that duck!”

I look down and, to my horror, see an innocent tiny brown duck desperately paddling her way toward our side of the river. Turn back now, little duck! Turn back!

This is not possible. I cannot be standing next to three men who probably have MBA’s from fancy colleges and who earn $100k a year at their financial services company and who have important jobs where people call them boss and who are currently having a contest to see who can spit on a duck.

But alas, ‘tis true. I leave before they succeed in hitting their target, but not before shooting them all the dirtiest “What in god’s name is wrong with you pathetic losers?” look, as well as slipping them a minor Sicilian curse as I walk by. Their tongues should be swelling up. Right. About. Now.

This is an alarming trend – look around you – people are spitting at an unprecedented rate. And it’s now an equal opportunity filthy habit: I see men, women, children, grandparents – all spitting their way through the day.

What is wrong with these people? Either learn how to swallow, or get that post nasal drip problem looked at by an expert, pronto! You’re making me sick, people!

I’m only days away from calling in some favors and forming an anti-spitting vigilante street gang. You do not want to mess around with my homies. They catch you spitting and not only will they politely ask that you wipe it up with an anti-bacterial handiwipe which they will provide free of charge, but they will also give you a plastic bib that says, “I’m a big drooling baby. Spank me.” Wearing the bib is a totally voluntary thing, but you should see the look on people’s faces when we hand it to them. You can totally see that they feel ashamed right before they throw the bib on the ground and spit on it.

Okay, so I didn’t say that these were tough vigilantes, but cut me some slack. I’m a tap dancing cat owner from a small town in Wisconsin. Exactly what kind of favors did you think I could call in?

Ask the Professor V

2004-10-07T04:54:00.000-07:00

Just when I was ready to retire Ask the Professor, I received a package that, like all good mail, both intrigued and disturbed me. It was an unmarked brown padded envelope that contained a small voodoo doll, complete with pins and an instruction booklet.

Also enclosed was a typewritten letter with the following request for Professor Plum (Note: I had to edit the letter because it rambled on for two pages, named names, and was clearly the product of a slightly unstable individual):

Dear Professor Plum:

I left a very unpleasant work environment earlier this year, and although I have come to terms with my anger through meditation and aromatherapy, several of my co-workers who also left have not been able to overcome their feelings of hatred toward our former employer. I want to help them out, but I’m not sure of the best way to do that.

I came across this voodoo kit and am wondering if you think it would be a healthy way for them to deal with the anger they feel. I would hate to inadvertently contribute to the rage they already harbor. I have enclosed a sample kit so that you can get a real feel for what they would be using. I look forward to your response.

- Wanting to Help, Cambridge, MA

Dear Wanting to Help –

Although mildly disturbed by the fact that you somehow discovered my home address, I am glad that you decided to write in. But before I get to the question of your former coworkers, I want to back up a bit. Although you say that you have come to terms with your anger, the fact that you’re sending voodoo dolls to strangers tells me that you might have a little self-exploration to do.

As you know, I have a PhD in jobology, not to mention over 48 years of management experience. So with that sort of résumé, you didn’t really think I would fall for the, “my friend has a problem” routine, did you? Let’s just call a spade a spade: by "friend," you mean you; by "meditation," you mean vodka-induced blackouts; and by "aromatherapy," you mean recreational drugs. Am I right?

Look, I’m here to help, but don’t yank my chain. Professor Plum has been around the block a few times in her day.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, you definitely came to the right person with this problem. So you want to relieve some of your pent up rage by stabbing sharp pins into an effigy of your old boss. But you’re also afraid that if you allow yourself to actually focus some of these violent emotions outward into the universe, they may consume your life, and you might end up on the ten o’clock news wearing fatigues and camped out in a clock tower somewhere near Lubbock, TX. Sound pretty close?

Well let me calm those fears once and for all. There is no better way to deal with rage – particularly corporate rage – than to release it out onto others. Keeping anger deep inside you is highly counterproductive and can be very damaging to the stomach lining. Once you let it out, a sense of peace and resolve will immediately pass over you. Trust me on this one.

So in short, releasing your anger is good, but I’m not sure you’ve got the right tools for the task at hand. In the immortal words of former president Ben Franklin, “A job worth doing is worth doing right.” Anyone smart enough to discover electrolysis is smart enough to dish out job advice, I always say. So if you are going to open up your hate valves, which, incidentally, are located slightly below your pituitary glands, you need to have the right tools. And trust me, no mass-produced voodoo kit made by Hasbro is going to do the job.

I’m not saying that I have any first-hand experience in this area, but I guess if I wanted to make my former boss feel some of the pain he/she inflicted upon me for so many years, I might first book a ticket to New Orleans under an assumed name. Then I might go to a taxidermist at 167 Bourbon Street. Once I found the shop, I might want to wander over to the back entrance, knock on the door four times quickly, and say “I'm here to have my gator stuffed” to the woman who answered the door. Her name might be Madame LeChevre. If you happen to have a lock of your former boss’ hair, I’d suggest bringing it along. For a small fee, my guess is that Madame LeChevre might be inclined to stitch you up a real special voodoo doll that could actually do some damage.

That’s just something I might try if I were you. Hope all works out well for “your friends” – I’ll be waiting on pins and needles to hear the outcome. Pins and needles! Get it? And to think I almost retired!

[And if you have a work-related question for the Professor, please email it to runjenrun2004@aol.com. My old heart can't take much more anonymous mail, and I don't want to have to file a restraining order. Again. You know who you are.]

A very special Run Jen Run

2004-10-05T04:01:00.000-07:00

I’m really getting worried about my roommate, Judy. She’s just not herself lately. She’s moody, constantly yelling at me, never wants to hang out anymore. I was talking to her brother the other day and he said that she’s been really weird with him as well. Apparently they used to get along really well, but now he said it seems like he can’t do anything right around her.

She’s been sleeping all day, pacing around the apartment at night. I just don’t know what’s going on. The scariest thing is that I’ve caught her throwing up in the bathroom a couple of times. And once she just threw up right in the living room in front of me.

I think Judy might be bulimic.

Oh yeah, did I mention? Judy's a cat. She’s Siamese, a breed known for its slender physique, but I think maybe she has been taking the pursuit of a perfect 10 body a little too far.

I know that I’m at least partly to blame. Ever since I started working again, I haven’t had much time for her. I’m sure she’s tried to talk to me about her problems, but I was too busy watching Survivor or reading blogs to listen. And it probably doesn’t help that there have been so many extreme makeover type shows on TV. After a while, even a trim feline like Judy is bound to develop self-esteem issues.

In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have bought that 2004 Cat Fancy Desk Calendar. I like to look at pictures of cats wearing sunglasses – I mean, who doesn’t? – but I never thought about the impact it might have on my own cats. What kind of message am I sending them when I make such a big fuss over a bunch of airbrushed pictures of cats I don’t even know, all gussied up and hamming for the camera? God, what have I done?!

I probably wouldn’t have even found out about her disease if I hadn’t walked in on Judy in mid-binge. On Sunday night, I heard a strange rustling coming from the kitchen, and when I went to see what all the ruckus was about, I saw Judy's slender tail sticking out of the cupboard. As I went over to get a closer look, I found her in the middle of eating almost an entire box of pumpkin shaped Halloween marshmallow Peeps. An entire box! I didn’t even get to try them yet! I’ve never even tasted the pumpkin shaped ones before! I had just cut open the plastic wrap a few hours earlier to let them dry out a little (that’s the way I like them).

She turned around as soon as she heard me screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Not my Peeeeeeeeeeps!!”

Judy tried to act nonchalant, but her face said it all – orange marshmallow sticking to her whiskers, blue-eyed guilt at being caught in the act. The one thing I’ve always read about bulimics is that the binge and purge cycle causes a great deal of shame, which throws them into a deeper depression, further fueling the disease.

I cannot let Judy spiral downward any further than she already has. So as soon as this year is over, I’m going to throw out my 2004 Cat Fancy calendar. But maybe I’ll just keep the June picture as a motivational tool for all three of us. I think we all have a little healing to do, and this may just give us the inspiration we need.

Oh, June. I don’t know if I could have made it through all my months of unemployment if it hadn’t been for him. Every time I felt like I couldn’t go on, I’d just flip open that calendar to June, and somehow I just knew that everything was going to be all right. I mean, if that little guy can make it, then there’s hope for us all. Don’t you give up, little buddy! Hang in there!

You down with T.A.P.? Yeah, you know me!

2004-10-04T03:44:00.000-07:00

Fall.
New job.
New attitude.
New hair color.
New tap dance class.

My friend, Doubting Seamus, was eagerly anticipating the start of the next tap class so that he could ridicule Natasha and me when we didn’t sign up. After he dropped out, and Nat and I decided to take a brief hiatus from tapping, Seamus was positive that we would never return. He just didn’t believe in himself and his manliness enough to stick it out for another session, and he wanted to bring us down with him.

I’m not angry, though. I pity him. It saddens me to see such raw talent as his go untapped, so to speak. But as countless episodes of Dr. Phil have taught me, you have to want to be helped before you can accept assistance from anyone. Once he has seen the error of his ways, Nat and I will be there to help him with his Maxie Ford combinations.

But getting back to the first tap class – Nat and I were a little hesitant going in because we never told Teacher we were taking a break. We weren’t sure what kind of reception we would receive.

Would she snub us?
Would she welcome us?
Would she remember us?

As we cautiously entered the studio, dusty shoes in hand, we were pleased to see several familiar faces. And when Teacher came in, her usual fifteen minutes late, she greeted us both with a huge smile and a, “Hey! They’re back!”

Everything was going to be just fine.

In addition to the four or five “regulars,” there were also about five new students in the class. Gosh. It seems like just yesterday that I was one of those awkward, needy Tap I graduates, trying to keep time with all the Tap II pros.

We started out with the usual tap bar exercises to warm up our ankles. Then, Teacher surprised us by diving right into some much more advanced moves.

Single double time step.
Double triple time step.
Soft shoe essence with break.
Grapevine combination.

Nat and I actually surprised ourselves by effortlessly falling back into these routines we hadn’t practiced for two months. Hey! It really is just as easy as riding a log. Or falling off a bike.

Teacher could see that some of the newbies were struggling, so she asked Nat and me to switch places with them so they were closer to her. Then, Teacher asked me to step in front of the class and demonstrate a few different steps while she went to her car to get some more CD’s.

“See how Jenny does the military cramp rolls? She’s not dragging her feet – watch her ankles. Good! Good!”

This positive reinforcement and unexpected position of authority triggered something inside me. Suddenly, I was drunk with power. As soon as she walked out the door, I grabbed Teacher’s cane and started pounding out the rhythm on the floor.

“Come on people! With the beat! You sound like a herd of elephant right now!”

The newbies alternately stared at the floor, and at my feet, which were just a blaze of shuffles and flaps. They were intimidated and intrigued all at once.

“New girl! Yes, you in the back! Look. If you can’t tell the difference between a shim-sham and a flim-flam, I hear there’s still room in Tap I! This is embarrassing! The holiday pageant is coming up in less than eight weeks and not one of you knows the ‘Happy Feet’ routine yet! I hope you like disappointing orphans and senior citizens!”

Just as I was about to have them all drop and give me twenty, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror:

My knuckles, white from clenching Teacher’s cane.
Little spit bubbles forming in the corners of my mouth.
My eyes tightened and wrinkled with frustration.
The thick veins bulging from my forehead.

Oh god. I’m her. I’ve become that girl. I am Midge. The most hated of all tap students. What have I done?

So right there, in the middle of a flawless Cincinnati, I dropped the cane, grabbed my bag, and ran out of the studio. I’m not sure how Nat made it home that night since I drove, but I had to get out of there to collect my thoughts and lower my blood pressure.

I’m still planning on going back this week, but this time, I’m going to lay low. Teacher’s going to have to burden someone else with the job of demonstrating for the class. I clearly cannot be trusted with such a huge responsibility. At least not until I make it to Tap III.

By doze id all ztuffed ub

2004-10-01T03:35:00.000-07:00

My head is pounding.
I’ve gone through two boxes of Kleenex in two days.
I’m popping chewable Vitamin C pills like they’re peanut M&M’s.
My throat is so scratchy that I sound like Brenda Vaccaro’s chain-smoking brother.

It’s only my second week on the new job, and I’m pretty sure I have SARS.

It would appear that after four months of near isolation, spent socializing with no one except my two cats, my two friends, and my mailman, my body’s tolerance for foreign germs has dangerously plummeted.

Now, as I squeeze into overcrowded train cars each day, breathing stale air, clutching damp poles, and sitting on seats that are the equivalent of vinyl Petri dishes, my immune system is being overwhelmed. I thought I was being careful. I wash my hands about fifteen times a day. I sterilized my new phone and keyboard at work before using them. I make people use Purell before I allow them to shake my hand. Yet still, here I sit, hopped up on Theraflu and Echinacea.

When I had to cancel my dinner plans with Natasha last night due to the onset of double vision, she got all Susan Powter on my ass: “Of course you’re sick! You’re weak because you don’t exercise! You need to get out more! You don’t see Seamus and me getting sick! We run 5K’s! We drink Vitamin Water! You’re like the boy in the bubble! Stop the insanity!”

At first, I was offended by her mockery of my malaise. But then I started to think about what she was trying to tell me. Sure it was tough love, but she was trying to help me out. She really did make a good point. Maybe I did need to take charge of my life and stop the insanity.

So I’m currently researching this whole “bubble” suggestion that Nat gave me. Why not a bubble? I recall seeing nothing in the dress code policy prohibiting giant plastic germ suits. I think as long as I don’t wear cutoff shorts or open toed sandals underneath it, I should be just fine.

In fact, through the magic of Google, I just found out that Land’s End now makes a business casual giant plastic germ suit (currently available in Melon, Nude, and Pewter), which I plan on ordering as soon as I can find my credit card underneath this colossal pile of Kleenex. I just hope it gets here before flu season.

Ode to the woman on a Segway

2004-09-29T03:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, savvy business woman standing straight and tall
Atop your new Segway, lording over us all.

With your pin-striped grey suit and Coach briefcase in tow,
You think you’re superior – say walking’s too slow.

“Gangway! Step aside! I’ve a meeting to attend,
Vast proposals to craft and blast emails to send!”

With utter contempt you ran us off the sidewalk,
Quite oblivious to all our bitter jive talk:

“Who does Miss Segway think she is?! Who made her queen?”
Such unified hatred – the best I’d ever seen.

A man near me frowned and muttered, “Oh, how absurd!”
I said nothing aloud, just inflaming my GERD.

We’ll soon find out just who is the Queen of West Loop.
You doubted that down to your level I would stoop.

This story’s not over. The plot, it does thicken.
I challenge you now to a real game of “chicken!”

One day, someday soon, crowds will part like the Red Sea
As I speed right toward you in my new ATV.

My name, they will praise. It is the stuff of folklore.
Generations to come will be eager for more.

“Tell me again, mommy, how the battle was won,
That day when foolish Segway challenged Run Jen Run.”

So... very... sleepy.

2004-09-28T03:02:00.000-07:00

After my long sabbatical from the working world, I am experiencing some severe challenges with reprogramming my body to meet the grueling demands of a traditional 9-to-5 job. It seems that, although I need to wake up at 6:30am, my body still doesn’t want to go to bed until about 1:30am. I don’t do well with five hours of sleep on a consistent basis. I’m not a kid anymore. I needs my sleep.

I thought that maybe I could catch up on some sleep this weekend, and kind of stock up for the week ahead of me. The best laid plans of mice and men. I got home pretty late on Friday night after an evening of karaoke hijinks, and had to get up early on Saturday to drive to my parents’ house because my brother and his family were in town. Then, after spending the day Saturday chasing after my nephews, I was all tuckered out and ready to fall into a deep, rejuvenating sleep that would carry me through this week.

That was the plan, at least. Until I noticed that there was a TV in the room I was sleeping in. A TV with cable. Digital cable. My mom knows that I have issues with a mild TV addiction, which is why I refuse to get cable! Why would she put me in that room? Why not leave me a crack pipe, a bottle of scotch, some chocolate cake, and a Playstation 2, while you’re at it?

I told myself that I would only watch a little bit of TV, and then go right to sleep. But then I flipped past the TV equivalent of a train wreck: The Surreal Life, starring Brigitte Nielsen, a guy from New Kids on the Block, and Flavor Flav. It was gruesome and disturbing, but I just couldn’t look away. As I watched the former sex-symbol star of Rocky IV roll around on the floor in a leopard swimsuit in her saggy 70-year old body and make blatant passes at the still gold-toothed and giant clock-wearing Flavor Flav, I just felt funny inside. Kind of like I needed a shower. When Flavor Flav serves as the moral compass on a reality TV show, you just have to ask what the world is coming to.

So here I am, Tuesday morning of Week Two, and I can barely drag myself out of bed. I think I have developed a mild obsessive-compulsive disorder because my exhaustion has made me afraid of sleeping late and missing work and getting fired and ending up right back where I started so many months ago. To combat that fear, I am now using two alarm clocks, which I check and re-check no less than four times each night to ensure that they are, in fact, set for 6:30am and not 6:30pm.

I only drink decaf, so I can’t count on coffee to pick me up in the morning. I am contemplating taking up smoking, because isn’t nicotine a stimulant? I’ve heard that exercising is supposed to give you energy, but that defies all logic to me, so I suspect it’s just a propaganda campaign launched by Bally’s Total Fitness. I saw what my friends looked like after they ran that 5K the other night, and let me tell you, “refreshed” and “energetic” are not two words that come to mind.

I guess I’ll have to rely on what my friend Seamus told me gets him through the day: shotgunning a couple cans of Red Bull first thing in the morning.

The 5K that almost was

2004-09-24T03:34:00.000-07:00

If there’s one good thing about having a violent stomach parasite for a week, it’s that your friends aren’t quite so hard on you when you tell them that you’re not going to join them in the 5K race you had all been planning on running for months.

Unfortunately, my friends are clever, so it didn’t take long before they realized that I had never actually signed up for said 5K race, which we had “all” been planning on running in for months. But again, I played the sympathy card and said, “Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough for my mistake? Don’t you think I see now that I never should have lied to you? Don’t you think I wish I were as healthy as all of you so that I could join you? You should just be thankful that you are all blessed with iron stomachs.”

I just hope they bought that load of crap. I think they did, because before they left me sitting on a grassy knoll surrounded by their smelly gym bags, they all clasped hands and said they were going to run this race for me.

“Let’s win this one for Jenny, guys!” shouted Seamus, as he rubbed Vaseline on his nipples and tried to decide whether his shirt looked cooler hanging out or tucked in.

“Yeah, let’s do it for Jenny! And all the other women around the world suffering from weak constitutions!” yelled Natasha, as she popped a piece of Gatorgum into her mouth and adjusted her Adidas headband.

My heart swelled with love. And pride. With prideful love. And perhaps a bit of jealousy. They now all shared a bond that I would never know. A bond of sweat and Vitamin Water. Our friendship will probably never be the same. Now when we get together, I’ll feel so left out as I listen to story after story about how they felt the “runner’s high” kick in at Mile 2, and the rush they felt as they saw the finish line just a few yards away, and how soundly they slept that night, their muscles still burning and twitching from their accomplishment.

I guess I really learned a lot from this whole 5K experience. I learned that I shouldn’t lie to my friends, because they always find out the truth in the end. And I learned that setting personal goals and accomplishing them can give you a high like nothing else, not even animal tranquilizers washed down with some scotch. But most of all, I’ve learned that any time I screw up, all I have to do is spend five days trapped in my apartment suffering from a rare Amazonian intestinal parasite and my friends will forgive almost anything. If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.

Will you bee my friend?

2004-09-23T03:15:00.000-07:00

It was 1976. The bicentennial. The town I grew up in held a contest to see which neighborhood could paint the fire hydrants in the most patriotic theme. My mom, my brother and I took our civic duty seriously and spent a week planning out the most patriotic hydrant we could imagine. It would be just like the American flag. The bottom half was blue with white stars and the top half was covered in red and white stripes. Around the very bottom we painted the words, “1776 – 1976. America the Beautiful!”

Unbeknownst to us, this seemingly unique theme was replicated by most every neighborhood in the city. We didn’t win, but I remember feeling a real sense of pride and accomplishment when I’d see the hydrant as I looked out our living room window. I think it was about 1981 before the city finally came by and painted all the chipped and faded hydrants blue.

But back to 1976. Aside from celebrating 200 years of freedom from the oppression and meat-centric diet of the British Empire, I also reached a personal milestone. Kindergarten. Big girl school. No more hanging around the house watching As the World Turns with my mom anymore. It was time for me to learn. Stuff you can’t pick up watching Sesame Street or even Electric Company. I remember being so excited about my first day of school. I could see the school from my house – it was just across the park – and had always watched with great envy as my older brother would walk to school while I had to stay at home.

My mom walked me to school on the first day, and within minutes of stepping into Mrs. LeBlanc’s class, I saw her. The girl who would become my new best friend. I would later find out that her name was Casey. Casey had long, stick straight blond hair and enormous blue eyes. Her hair was in pigtails, which was quite the rage at the time. She looked just like Marcia Brady. But that wasn’t really what drew me to her. It was her shoes. As soon as I walked into the classroom, I quickly scanned the room for familiar faces. I didn’t know anyone there, but as my eyes rapidly jumped from student to student, something caught my attention. Casey was wearing the exact same shoes as I was.

My first day of school shoes. I loved these shoes so much, I couldn’t wait to wear them on my very first day of big girl school. They were tan leather with rubber soles and had a little yellow bumblebee stitched on the sides of them. I remember running my finger across the bumblebee when we first picked them out. I liked the way the bee felt. It felt thick, not like a decal, but more official. Like a badge.

When I looked across the room and spied Casey’s shoes, I nearly pulled my mom’s arm out of its socket as I yanked on it and yelled, “Mom! That girl has the same shoes as me! She has the same bee shoes!” You have to understand – these were simpler times, and relationships were built on simpler foundations.

Friendships form for all sorts of reasons – common interests, common backgrounds, even common enemies. But a bond forged over a common sense of style is one that can never be broken. Never, that is, until one of those friends turns thirteen, starts smoking, wears black eyeliner that has been melted with her cigarette lighter, and gets a fifteen year old boyfriend with a tattoo on his forearm. Then somehow the bee shoe bond seems less important. So I shuffled my Buster Brown clad feet through several more years of school, always fondly remembering those days of innocence.

And here I am today, many years older, a little bit wiser, and still unfamiliar with the magic of eye makeup. But this week, as I find myself crossing a new threshold – the critical milestone this time being a new job – I wonder if old tactics can still prove effective. Now that I have a new career, maybe I might stumble across a new friend. One who will share the most intimate of bonds that two women can share: footwear. I haven’t found her yet, but I just feel it. I know that one day, soon, I’ll be sitting in the lunchroom eating a bag of guacamole flavored Doritos when I will look down and see a woman wearing the exact same thick soled shoes as I have on. Only this time, the role of Buster Brown will be played by Steve Madden. Until then, I just hope my co-workers don’t get the wrong impression if they see me walking down the halls with my head to the ground. I’m not shy – just trying to find some bees.

Train wreck

2004-09-22T03:07:00.000-07:00

People I hope to never again encounter on the "L"

Woman with silver boom box and headphones who kept singing more loudly and more off-key with each stop.
Diagnosis: Desperate attention seeker
Secondary diagnosis: Crazy

Woman allowing infant son to suck on the same pole that over 1,000 sweaty, filthy hands had grasped earlier that day.
Diagnosis: Irresponsible
Secondary diagnosis: Oblivious

Teen girl walking onto the train wearing enormous black and red angel wings.
Diagnosis: Desperate attention seeker
Secondary diagnosis: Drama student. Oh wait, that’s pretty much the same as the first diagnosis, isn’t it?

Woman reading Catch 22 while silently moving her lips and picking at imaginary bugs in her hair.
Diagnosis: Insane
Secondary diagnosis: In the membrane

A fowl first day

2004-09-21T04:20:00.000-07:00

I reported to HR right on time Monday morning, all smiling and eager to learn all about the new company I hope I can call home for a while. After spending the morning in general orientation (“The company was founded in 1498; we have 49,034,987 employees worldwide; we generate $12,098,909,200 in revenue annually; the bathrooms are located to the left of the elevators…”), we were then informed that our new managers would be taking us out to lunch.

Oh crap.

I was really hoping to avoid any fancy lunches for at least another few days, given the fact that I’m finally recovering from what was most likely a week-long case of dysentery. But there was no way I could bow out of this one. All the new hires were going out to lunch with their respective bosses. I couldn’t be the only one who said she didn’t want to eat lunch. And I wasn’t really eager to tell my boss why I couldn’t eat lunch with him. Does he even know what the B.R.A.T. diet is?

So noon rolled around and I had no choice but to pack up my bags and head out to lunch with my new manager. He asked if I had any preferences, and I just said that I was open to anything, but preferably nothing spicy. Or greasy. Or Asian. Or fried. Or rich. Do you have any good toast restaurants around here?

He suggested a little corner restaurant known for its burgers. Great. That’s not rich or greasy at all. But I was trying to be agreeable, and I was sure they must have had other things, so I said that it sounded great to me. When we arrived, I immediately noticed that there really wasn’t anything on the menu other than burgers. Except chicken wings, deep fried potato skins, and deep fried mozzarella sticks. Basically, we were in a bar.

I ordered the entrée that I suspected would be the gentlest on my currently delicate constitution – the chicken breast sandwich. No mayo. No barbeque sauce. Just chicken on a Kaiser roll.

Our lunches arrived very quickly – so soon that I hadn’t had adequate time to mentally prepare myself for the first solid food I’d had in a week that wasn’t rice or… rice. This was clearly a restaurant that catered to the male crowd because the hamburger my boss ordered had to have been at least 16 ounces of pure beef, and my chicken sandwich took up almost my entire plate. The chicken extended well past the bun on all sides of the sandwich. It was the Dolly Parton of chicken breast sandwiches.

Everything was going along fine at first – we were talking, eating, talking, eating. I was pretty sure that I was going to make it out of this lunch unscathed. But then it happened. I got cocky and took a fairly large bite of my sandwich, when I heard a noise that you really never hope to hear when eating a chicken sandwich.

Something went crunch.

It sounded really loud in my head, but my boss just kept talking, so he must not have heard it. I had bitten into something incredibly hard and bony in my chicken sandwich, and my throat immediately closed.

My first thought was, “Ohmigod. I just ate spine.”

Now, sometimes when you bite into something you know doesn’t belong in whatever food you’re eating, you can just quickly swallow it whole and pretend you never noticed it in the first place. Unfortunately, this was not the case for me. I had such an enormous mouthful of bread and chicken and spine in my mouth that I couldn’t possibly swallow it without needing an emergency tracheotomy.

Up until that point, my boss hadn’t made overly intense eye contact with me, but for whatever reason, he chose that moment to start talking about a really important marketing initiative we were launching, and didn’t avert his eyes from mine for what seemed like ten minutes. I tried desperately to find a moment when he might glance down or take a bite of his food so I could quickly deposit the chicken skeleton into my napkin, but he never looked away.

So for ten minutes, I just held the vertebrae in my mouth, trying to hide the mass in my cheek, hoping it might dissolve if I took a sip of my Sprite. But after a few minutes, I couldn’t concentrate on anything he was saying. I knew he was telling me some critical information that I needed to remember, but I didn’t hear a word he said. I could only think about the bone in my mouth and how I was going to get rid of it.

My boss: “Pokslinm aknd licno marketing plan inlds nlcon diocna corporate-wide initiative cpnmd…”

My brain: [Oh god. Look away. Please just look away right now!]

My boss: “So Jenny, ikcuny ksyajrpc alsi sj ikkdpsh direct mail campaign kcisl unytobok…”

My brain: [Please David, please, just take a bite of your food. Oh god. Some vertebrae just touched the back of my throat. I’m going to gag. Don’t gag. Do not gag.]

This went on for what seemed like hours, until finally I knew that I was just moments away from vomiting right on the table. I had no choice but to spit the gigantic wad of half-chewed chicken and bones and soggy bread out in front of him. It looked like a baby gerbil had crawled into my napkin to die.

I’m not sure if he looked away just as I was spewing this out, or if he saw me do it and looked away in horror. Either way, the carcass was now no longer in my mouth, and it no longer sounded like he was speaking Klingon.

So there you have it. Only my first day on the job and I almost coughed up a chicken backbone in front of my new boss. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Clean slate

2004-09-20T04:58:00.000-07:00

Today is my first day of work at the brand new job that I spent so many months searching for. As I was planning my first-day-of-work outfit last night, it struck me that I have an amazing opportunity here. Not the job itself, although I am just thrilled about that. My realization was that I have the rare chance to decide who I want to be to these new people. They know nothing about me or my past, other than what was on my resume, and who really remembers any of that? I can create and live out any persona I want. No pre-conceived notions of who I should be, no judgments. It’s what we all dream of – a clean slate.

Maybe I’ll part my hair on the side from now on. They never knew me when I parted my hair in the middle. Or I could wear earrings. Now I’m the kind of woman who wears long, dangly earrings to work.

I might claim that I grew up in Phoenix originally, but don’t have fond memories of the Southwest. I never say why.

I could be a vegetarian. Or Canadian. I’m Jewish. Or divorced. Maybe I’m an orphan. I have a twin sister. Maybe I’m all these things: a Jewish Canadian divorced vegetarian orphan twin. Too much? You’re right – lose the vegetarian part.

I could be left-handed. No, that’s too hard to pull off. Instead, I’m ambidextrous, but I favor my right hand.

I lost 175 pounds after getting gastric bypass surgery.

I used to ski moguls before I blew my knee out. Now I can’t do anything physical anymore.

I wasn’t allowed to eat sugar or watch TV until I moved away from home to go to college. Now I’m addicted to both.

I have two children, but don’t like to talk about them. Or show their pictures. But I often have to leave work early to pick them up from daycare.

As these fantasy lives are swirling around in my head faster than Hurricane Ivan (or is it Jeanne now?), I suddenly remember that I really like this company, and I think I can see a positive future here. What am I thinking? I can’t lie to all my co-workers! I can’t fabricate a life built entirely on falsehoods! I can’t build a successful relationship based solely on lies and deceit! That’s what my personal life is for.

So that’s that, I guess. I am who I am, and frankly, I’m pretty happy with that. I’m a thirty-something recently employed amateur tap dancer. I have two cats, no children, and have never been married. I’m right handed, and have no athletic ability. I ate a lot of sugar and watched a lot of TV as a kid, which is why I’m currently addicted to both. I was born and raised in the Midwest, and I like to eat meat sometimes. Earrings bother my ears.

But I really might try parting my hair on the side. Don’t even try to stop me. I’ve got a clean slate, people, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to totally waste it.

This doctor’s visit has been brought to you by…

2004-09-17T03:00:00.000-07:00

After dealing with [unpleasant illness that is best left unnamed] for the past week, I finally got in to see my doctor yesterday. Although I was right on time, I spent the perfunctory 20 minutes reading three-month old People magazine in the waiting room before they finally called my name.

Then I spent the perfunctory 10 minutes sitting on a piece of tissue paper while wearing a piece of tissue paper until the doctor graced me with her presence. Our entire conversation lasted about nine minutes, and went something like this:

Dr. X: “So… what brings you here today?”

Me: “Nothing really. I just wanted to say hi, see how you were doing. You look great! Did you change your hair? It looks a little darker. God, these new gowns are really comfortable! Read the flipping chart, woman! What the hell do you think I’m here for?”

(Okay – that part was all just in my head.)

Real Me: “Well, for the past five days, I’ve had [indescribably disgusting symptom] as well as a little [equally repulsive symptom], so I’m hoping you can tell me what the problem is.”

Dr. X: “Mmmm hmmm. Okay. And have you traveled anywhere recently?”

Me: “Uhh – I went to Milwaukee on Saturday.”

Dr. X: “Okay. No, I meant anywhere out of the country.”

Me: “Oh. No. Unless you count Wisconsin as a foreign country. Ha ha. Heh. Hmm. [nervous cough]”

Dr. X: “All right, well let’s just take a quick peek.”

Considering the nature of my [repugnant ailment], I really wasn’t sure what part of my body she planned on peeking at. I was quite pleased, however, when she simply reached for the blood pressure cuff.

After a few pokes and prods, and several dietary questions, she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said it seemed like I probably could maybe might have something that potentially could possibly be something like a gastrointestinal virus. Or something else. But only time would tell.

Never have I witnessed such confidence and conviction ooze out of the mouth of a medical professional. It’s exactly like they show on ER!

Based on a few quick Internet searches I had done during my 5-day sentence, I was pretty certain I had either colon cancer or a rare Amazonian intestinal parasite, and was already picking out outfits that would camouflage the colostomy bag, but if she wanted to go the viral route, I was happy to tag along for the ride.

Dr. X: “Well, since I kind of am thinking that I may suspect your [nauseating illness] could or might probably just be something that could possibly be kind of like one of those stomach virus type things, there’s really nothing I can give you. You’ll just need to ride it out. It should go away in a week. If it’s the virus thingy. If not, let me know and we’ll go from there. Until then, I’m going to recommend that you stick to a bland diet for the next 3 to 5 days.”

And this is where the conversation got weird.

Dr. X: “Drink some Gatorade Sports Drink to balance out your electrolytes. You’ll also want to have some Jell-O gelatin, now in convenient ready to serve Jell-O cups! I’d suggest you also eat a few cups of Uncle Ben’s rice and some Chiquita bananas each day. Oh, and you should also drink some clear broths. Campbell’s chicken broth is the best choice.”

Wait a minute! So not only did I get no real medical advice in this $150 visit, but now I’m part of some massive product placement conspiracy?! This was outrageous! I swear to you, she plugged no less than seven brands in the nine minutes I was in her office. I know she’s getting a kick-back for that. I just know it.

Then after dispensing some worthless dietary suggestions that I could’ve found on the Kraft recipe board, she left me with this one last piece of medical advice:

Dr. X: “Oh, and if you start to get a high fever, feel dizzy, have severe abdominal cramps that are at least an 8 on a pain scale of 1 to 10, lose vision in one eye, bleed from the ears, experience sudden and excruciating joint pain, or notice your intestines sliding out of any part of your body, we always recommend going to the emergency room right away. Thanks, and hope you feel better!”

Well, after those final words of wisdom, I could not stop myself from pulling into the grocery store on my way home to pick up two flavors of Gatorade*, some Mott’s apple sauce, and some Jell-O Gelatin Cups – now in Berry Burst! Flavor. I’m so prone to suggestion. I’ve never been so ashamed.

[*On a side note, I can now add Gatorade to the growing list of reasons I am not athletic. That stuff is N-A-S-T-Y! Now I understand why football players primarily use it as something to dump on their coach’s head after a good game. Tastes kind of like Kool-Aid mixed with sweat. Yum!]

D.I.E.T.

2004-09-16T05:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve been feeling a little sub-par for the past week, so yesterday I called my doctor to see if I could get into her office. Her nurse said she was all booked up that day, but told me until I could get in, I should follow the B.R.A.T. diet. For those of you who are uninformed – like I was – the B.R.A.T. diet is:

B.ananas
R.ice
A.pplesauce
T.oast

I guess these are all the foods that babies are supposed to eat when their stomachs bother them, hence the B.R.A.T. acronym. Apparently, the other diets I tend to follow are not good for upset stomachs. I don’t see what the big problem is – I mean, just because I don’t have some clever little acronym for the way I normally eat doesn’t mean it’s bad.

Heck, I think I’ll come up with a few special diets of my own. See what my doctor thinks of these:

C.hips
R.ice, fried
A.bsolut & tonic
P.epperoni pizza

Or

F.rench fries
L.emon bars
A.pple martinis
B.urgers

Or

U.nusually large doughnuts
L.ots of cheese
C.abernet Sauvignon
E.ggs Benedict
R.are skirt steak

I’m going to suggest these to her today to see if she wants to start using them to categorize her patients. I knew that medical field just needed a good marketing mind to help make it more relevant.

O Beanie, where art thou?

2004-09-15T03:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday as I was sitting in my car waiting for a traffic light to turn green, I casually looked up at the car in front of me and noticed the strangest bumper sticker. It said, “I brake for Beanie Babies.” What made this bold claim seem even more curious was that on the other side of the car was a sticker that said, “Proud member of the NRA.” This sticker-laden bumper was attached to a black Ford pickup truck, which I suppose must come in handy for loading up all those Beanie Babies. And, of course, the guns.

This unique combination of pastimes made me wonder, though: does the driver brake for Beanie Babies so he can buy them, or blow them to pieces with his 12-gauge shotgun? Because if it’s the latter, I may be tempted to follow this truck around for a few days in hopes of seeing him use a stuffed turtle for skeet practice. It would at least help solve the mystery that’s been plaguing me for years: are they really filled with beans, or is that yet another bait-and-switch marketing ploy?

But really, exactly what neighborhoods are these folks driving through where they tend to run across Beanie Babies along the side of the road?

“I brake for garage sales” – sure, who doesn’t?

“I brake for pedestrians” – hey, it’s the law!

But, “I brake for Beanie Babies?” Does that really come up all that often?

I just imagine myself, driving along with some friends, chomping down some french fries and absentmindedly flipping the radio stations when someone in the passenger seat screams: “OHMIGOD STOPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!! Jesus, Jenny! Pay attention to the road, would you? You almost ran over that Thimbles the Bunny, circa 2001! Oh, I think I almost peed myself!”

Personally, I’ve never been too fond of bumper stickers. They’re kind of like tattoos, in my opinion – sometimes I think they look cool on other people, but I can’t imagine finding anything I’d really want to permanently decorate my body with, or my car for that matter.

A friend of mine who also hates bumper stickers always says that there are enough reasons for crazy people to want to run you off the road without advertising a few more on your car. Who knows – your Grateful Dead bumper sticker just might be the trigger that sets off a road rage spree that runs six cars into a ditch. Is declaring to the world your appreciation for some hippie band really worth taking that risk? I think not.

Even I must admit, though, that whenever I see a bumper sticker on a car, I feel compelled to pull up next to the car to see who is driving. Just out of idle curiosity, I guess. I mean, what does the parent of a Shorewood High School Honor Student actually look like? Well, what do you know? She looks proud. Real proud. Just like it says on her bumper sticker.

And what does someone whose “other car is a Rolls-Royce” look like? Surprisingly, not at all like someone who owns a $300,000 car. And if their other car is a Rolls-Royce, why the heck are they still driving around in that rusted out 1986 Renault Encore? It just doesn’t make sense to… oh wait a minute! I totally just got the joke! Ohmigod, that’s hilarious! The irony!

Whew. That one really got me.

But back to the Beanie Baby lover. I had to know – what does a card carrying NRA member/Beanie Baby enthusiast look like? All I could see was the top of his head. Heck – maybe that’s a woman. Hard to tell from this angle.

So I followed the truck for a few more blocks, racing to catch up with him. He was dodging through traffic, possibly on a quest for more Beanie Babies. Or more assault rifles. I had to know which one.

But alas, the elusive Beanie Baby collector would escape me. For now. But I’m still on his trail. I must know who this enigmatic soul is. What makes him tick? How many Beanies does he own? Does he think they'll bring Kingly the Lion out of retirement? Has he ever met Charlton Heston? Maybe I’m making this out to be far more interesting than it really is. Maybe guns and stuffed animals aren’t all that strange a combination. Maybe this creature I’m hunting isn’t all that rare.

Well, only time will tell. In the meantime, I have returned to that intersection and placed a 1999 mint condition Porridge the Bear on the ground, poised seductively under a trap I made out of an old refrigerator box, a stick, and some string. Now, the hunter becomes the hunted.

We’ll see who brakes for Beanie Babies. We’ll just see.

Ask the Professor IV

2004-09-14T03:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Professor Plum:

One of my employees has been severely underperforming, so next week I am going to have to fire him. Although I’ve been a manager for several years, I have never actually had to fire anyone, and I’m a little nervous about it. Is there any advice you can give me?

- Sheila E., Los Alamos, NM

Dear Sheila:

It’s a natural reaction to be nervous about firing an employee for the first time. It just means you’re concerned about your employee’s feelings, which can occasionally be a good thing for managers to be focused on.

Throughout my many years of managing others, I’ve certainly had to fire my share of employees. Quite frankly, you could staff a small company with the people I’ve had to get rid of. It wouldn’t be a very successful company, but a company all the same.

Whenever I had to fire an employee, I remembered one key rule of thumb: terminating an employee is no different than breaking up with a boyfriend or girlfriend, so the same strategies should be utilized for both. It really just comes down to finding the technique that suits your personal style, and/or the particular employee you are firing.

Here are the core strategies you can use, and how they relate to both personal and professional situations:

1. Reverse psychology
In the dating world, this strategy can be summed up by the following phrase: “You’re too good for me.” It’s a great technique to use when you’re dating someone with a big ego, who will clearly believe that he/she is, in fact, too good for you.

So, when applying this strategy to firing an employee, it should go something like this:

“Andy, I really wanted to talk to you about your role here at XYZ. You’ve been with the company for three years, and during this time, I’ve really been able to identify what you’re good at. And the truth I’ve had to face is that we don’t do any of the things you’re good at here at XYZ. I just really feel like there’s a company out there that is so much better for you, and will be able to really appreciate and reward your talents. In fact, with your strong Internet surfing skills, I’ll bet there’s a dot com out there that is dying for an employee just like you. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t give you the opportunity to find that company. So, as hard as it is, I have to let you leave XYZ and follow your true dreams. It’s just not fair for me to keep you here. Please pack up your desk and turn in your badge immediately. Thanks, Andy. Keep in touch!”

2. Laundry list
This is the technique people typically use when they have just absolutely reached their emotional limits with the antics of their significant other. So, the strategy here is to overwhelm the person with an extremely long list of things they have done wrong. By the time you’ve finished your list, the person you’re breaking up with is so angry at you that they have absolutely no desire to stay in a relationship anymore.

From a work perspective, this is a really good approach to use if your employee has been underperforming for a really, really long time, but you’ve never gotten around to addressing any of the issues. It allows you to vent all your frustrations at once, and fire the employee, thereby killing two birds with one stone.

A typical example:

“Sharon, we really need to have a serious discussion about your performance. I’ve put together a list of some of the things you do that are either direct violations of company policy or simply really annoy me.

For the past two years you have been coming in at least 20 to 30 minutes late every day. I have noted at least 15 occasions where you were not wearing nylons with a skirt, a clear violation of our corporate dress code. You eat smelly food at your desk which irritates your neighbors. You have been late with the sales report six times in the past two months. You park in the visitor’s parking lot. You still don’t know the difference between gross and net profit. You never take notes in meetings and then ask your colleagues what the action items were. You have never once remembered Boss’ Day. You take a sick day every time you have your ‘woman problem.’ You were clearly drunk at the holiday party when you knocked over three people while doing the Electric Slide.

Based on this, I’m sure you’ll agree that I have no other option but to fire you. No, you’re right, I didn’t ever mention these issues before, but you’re a smart woman, and clearly should have known that this type of behavior could not go on. Please pack up your desk and turn in your badge immediately.”

3. Avoidance
In the dating realm, this technique is usually executed through a series of unreturned phone calls and unanswered emails. It also often involves keeping the curtains drawn and lights off whenever he/she stops by to “try to work things out.” Eventually, the person you’re trying to break up with will take the hints and just give up.

The main difference when dealing with a professional setting is the first and most critical step: deactivating the employee’s ID badge and/or alerting security that this person should no longer be allowed into the building. Some employees only need to experience this first humiliating stage before assuming they have been fired. Some more persistent ones may try to call or email you, or they may try to contact HR. Just stick to your guns, delete all their emails before reading them, and make sure you have caller ID. Again, even the most tenacious employees get the message after a few months of no paychecks.

4. Replacement
I find this to be one of the most practical techniques to use in both the personal and professional worlds. In the romance arena, the replacement strategy can be summarized like this: since you don’t want to hurt the person’s feelings, you just start dating someone else on the side. You intentionally let your current boy/girlfriend find out so that they will end up breaking up with you. Then you don’t have to be the bad guy, and you have a backup already prepared.

In the job market, it plays out quite similarly. Let’s say the position you want to terminate is a Sales Manager. What you need to do is hire another person and give her the exact same title as the person you want to get rid of. Ideally this new person should be a slightly more attractive and younger version of the person you’re firing. Have the new person train under the bad employee so she can learn all the trade secrets. Be very vocal about praising the new person in public, saying things like, “I can’t believe how quickly you’ve caught on! It took Sarah two years to figure out how to read a P&L!” or “Gee, Kelly, if you keep up this great work, I don’t know how I’m going to keep the both of you busy!”

After a few months of this, the bad employee will typically quit. If she refuses to take the high road and resign, however, then you just need to say something like, “Sarah, I had no intention of firing you, but now that I have Kelly here and I know what it’s like to have a good employee, I just don’t see how you and I can continue this relationship. Please pack up your desk and turn in your badge immediately.”

Well, Sheila, I hope you found this helpful. All you need to do is determine which category your employee falls into, and then use the appropriate technique. And trust me, it only gets easier. Eventually, you may even come to enjoy firing employees. Until then, you may want to submit your request for caller ID as soon as possible.

Foster Files Part IV: Bullies

2004-09-13T03:13:00.000-07:00

A few blocks away from the house I grew up in was a small creek that fed into a lagoon. My friends and I used to spend hours playing in the creek, turning over rocks and trying to catch bluegills with our hands.

One day, my friends Don, Stevie, and I were hanging out down by the creek catching crayfish. We found an empty coffee can in the creek and were using that as a bucket to hold the crayfish in as we caught them. While Don and Stevie were wading in the water, two boys saw us and came down to see what we were doing. They were on the opposite side of the creek from me, and I remember feeling a little worried as they walked over because I saw them pointing at my friends and whispering to each other as they came closer.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” one of the boys yelled.

Don looked over at Stevie, and then without looking up said, “Nothing. We’re just trying to catch stuff.”

“Well, who said you could do that? I didn’t tell you that you could catch anything here. How old are you punks?”

I told them we were eleven, and that we came down there all the time to catch things.

The shorter boy picked up some rocks and started throwing them into the creek next to Stevie, splashing water all over him. He said that since they were thirteen, they could tell us what to do. He tried spitting on Stevie, but missed. Then he told my friend Don to dump out the can with the crayfish in it.

Don looked up and said, “We’re not bothering anybody. We’re just catching crayfish.”

The boy sneered at Don and said, “I said, dump out the can or I’ll come down there and beat the crap out of you.” Then he picked up a big clod of dirt and threw it at Don’s head.

Don quickly dumped the crayfish out and started to walk toward my side of the creek.

“Ha! Look at the little sissy! What? Are you gonna cry? I didn’t even kick your ass – yet!”

Feeling slightly safer since I was a girl, and on the opposite side of the creek, I said, “Well, wouldn’t you be scared of kids two years older than you?”

The bigger kid said, “Hell, no. I’d beat the crap out of them, too.”

Hmm. Let’s see. Who did I know that was two years older than these bullies? Of course! The Fosters! This was my cue to call in the cavalry. Don and Stevie climbed up to my side of the creek and went home. I quickly ran over to the Fosters’ house and found Aaron and Sol sitting on the porch eating Popsicles. At the time, Aaron was twelve and Sol was about fourteen. Not quite two years older, but I figured he’d do just fine.

I told them that some big kids were picking on my friends and me down by the creek, and that they said they could beat up anyone – even older kids.

“But you could totally beat them up,” I promised.

That was all the encouragement the Foster boys needed, so they chomped down the last bites of their Popsicles and ran down to the creek with me. Before he left, though, Aaron grabbed a broken hockey stick that was laying in their front yard, just in case I had underestimated the bullies’ strength. When we got there, the two bullies were walking on the big rocks in the creek, looking into the water where Don dumped the crayfish.

After quickly sizing up his opponents, Sol was the first to act. He stepped down onto the rocks and said, “So why are you picking on my friends? They said you made them dump out their crayfish, and said you were going to beat the crap out of them.”

Before the kid on the rocks could answer, Sol quickly walked over to where he was and pushed him into the water. It was only about a foot or two deep, but got the kid’s shoes all soaking wet. The soggy bully jumped up onto the other side of the creek, and Sol and Aaron immediately followed.

“Jenny said you said you aren’t afraid of anybody, and that you’d even beat up older kids. Well I’m fourteen. Why don’t you come here and kick my ass?”

The bullies started to slowly walk away and said, “We didn’t say that. We just told them to put the crayfish back in the water.” Sol was never one for conversation, so he grabbed the tall kid by the back of his hooded sweatshirt and yanked him to the ground. Aaron went after the short kid and tackled him to the grass as well.

“You like picking on little kids? See how you like it!”

Then Sol grabbed a big handful of grass and dirt and told the tall kid to eat it. When he wouldn’t, Sol grabbed the boy’s head and shoved the dirt into his mouth. Aaron must not have been feeling overly creative, because he told the shorter kid to eat some willow leaves that were on the ground by the creek. Then he grabbed a whole pile of them and jammed them into that kid’s mouth.

As the four of them were wrestling around on the ground, I just remember quietly standing on the other side of the creek and feeling very safe and protected. Like justice had been served. But then something happened. As the boys tried to spit out the dirt and leaves from their mouths, the taller one started to cry. Not a lot, but a few tears were coming down his face and mixing with the dirt smeared on his cheeks.

Then, the shorter one said, “We’re not thirteen – we’re only eleven. We’re in fifth grade. I’m sorry we picked on your friends. We were just joking around.”

Aaron and Sol could see that there was no more fun to be had with these two boys, so they gave them both one final shove goodbye, and then walked across the rocks to my side of the creek. As the Fosters walked home, I watched these broken bullies wipe their faces on their shirtsleeves.

Revenge didn’t feel like I thought it would. I thought I’d feel happy that someone taught these mean kids a lesson. They threatened to beat up my friends when we weren’t doing anything but minding our own business, having fun on a summer day. But watching them just made me feel kind of sad. And guilty.

I still thought the kids deserved to be scared since they were so mean to me and my friends, but seeing them cry, and admit that they weren’t as old or as tough as they claimed to be really bothered me. I guess I learned something that day that most adults already know – bullies are just scared little kids, desperately hoping that no one calls their bluff.

Open sesame

2004-09-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I developed an allergy to, of all things, sesame. This wouldn’t seem like a very debilitating problem, but you would be amazed at how many foods contain some form of sesame these days. I don’t dare eat unfamiliar Asian food, and did you know that almost all Mexican molé sauces contain sesame seeds? I didn’t, until one unfortunate birthday dinner at a gourmet Oaxacan restaurant.

But worse than dealing with the actual allergy itself is dealing with the looks of pity and disgust I receive from waitstaff when I tell them I am allergic to sesame. It’s like I just told them I have leprosy. First comes the eyeroll, then the deep sigh, then the dramatic search for the red pen to highlight “allergy” on the order pad. I went to a Korean restaurant once and there were truly only two items on the entire menu that didn’t contain sesame. And they were both squid. I mean, allergies aside, what if some people just don’t like the taste of sesame? I guess it’s kind of like trying to order something without garlic in an Italian restaurant.

I’ve decided to start my own support group for people who, like me, are battling their own inner allergy demons. Some place where people can go and not be judged for their body’s weaknesses. A place where people can find a buddy – someone to call on lonely nights when they’re thinking of ordering shrimp fried rice.

As part of my efforts at demystifying food allergies, I am sending out a plea to all celebrities in the world to finally come out of the closet and admit that they have allergies. There are other disabilities that seem to be ultra cool to admit, so why not allergies? Dyslexia, for example. That was the learning disability du jour a few years ago. Tom Cruise is dyslexic. Whoopi Goldberg is dyslexic. Even Theo Huxtable was dyslexic. Suddenly everybody’s dyslexic!

“Oh, we should really give him the Oscar. It must have been extra hard for him to learn his lines.”

So why is it hip to have trouble reading, but not hip to have trouble digesting shellfish? I’ve had it, I tell you. I’m mad as hell, and I'm not gonna take it anymore!

I want to try and help people shake the stigma that is associated with allergies. I just feel like a loser when I have to special order everything at restaurants. I guess it goes back to my childhood - anytime I think of a kid with allergies, I remember Francis - the weak, pasty-skinned boy with slouched shoulders and oversized glasses who was constantly grasping for his inhaler. He always had to be the scorekeeper when we played softball because he was allergic to grass. But I want to fix all that - I want to change the face of allergies, and make it chic to be lactose intolerant.

I defy you to name a celebrity that will actually admit to having an allergy (seasonal allergies don’t count). You cannot do it, because allergies are equated with the ultimate of nerdy dorkdom. I am quite certain that loads of celebrities and public figures have food allergies, but their publicists know that it would be committing career suicide to leak that to the press. Celebrities would rather cop to a heroin addiction than admit that they carry an epi-pen around in their purses.

In fact, I believe there has been a massive conspiracy to cover up the allergy-related deaths of several major stars. I am convinced that Mama Cass was actually allergic to Dijon mustard, but somehow her agent thought that choking on a ham sandwich would make for a less humiliating explanation for her death. And Elvis? Drugs? Please. There’s only so long that you can pump your body full of peanut butter and bananas before that lethal combination throws your system into overdrive. This Hollywood conspiracy is an outrage!

People just don’t take allergies seriously, which they certainly should in this litigious society that we live in. I was at a sushi restaurant with some friends about a month ago and told the waiter that I was allergic to sesame, and asked him to make sure there was no sesame in any of our food. I began eagerly gulping down my tuna sashimi and caterpillar rolls when suddenly my face started to burn and my head started to itch.

“Huh. That feels like an allergic reaction,” I thought, “but it can’t be, since I specifically requested no sesame in anything.”

So, I stepped into the bathroom and sure enough, I had hives forming on my stomach, arms, and neck. When I came out, I asked the waiter if there was sesame in anything he served us, since I was clearly having a reaction.

“Well, there’s usually some sesame oil mixed in with the spicy tuna paste, but no sesame seeds. Geez, you must really be sensitive. Most people are just allergic to the seeds.”

I like to call that strategy the "blame the victim" technique. I’m sure that same defense would hold up well in court: “Well, sure I knew little Timmy was allergic to peanuts, but I gave him peanut butter, not peanuts. Geez, he must have been really sensitive. I’ve never seen anyone swell up quite like that.

Apparently, I need to educate waiters all across the greater Chicagoland area because clearly at waitstaff school, they do not teach them that all oils come from the ingredient they are named for. Sesame oil? Comes from sesame seeds. Peanut oil? Comes from peanuts. Olive oil? Comes from olives. Baby oil? Comes from… okay, I seem to have found an exception to the rule. But you see my point.

So now when I order food, I have to tell waiters that I am allergic to sesame, sesame oil, sesame seeds, sesame bread, sesame paste, sesame sticks, sesame extract, and sesame flavoring. I’m sure there’s a loophole there somewhere that I’ll unfortunately stumble upon someday as I lay writhing on the floor, choking on my own swollen tongue: “I didn’t know you were allergic to toasted sesame seeds. Most people are only allergic to the raw ones. Geez, you’re really sensitive.”

Anyway, now I’m focusing my efforts on organizing the first branch of my new Al-Anon support group. All I need is for one celebrity spokesperson to come forward, and soon, everyone will start claiming their allergies. I’ve got my eyes on Woody Allen right now, but his publicist has clammed up. If anyone is allergic to shrimp, it’s got to be Woody - I know a fellow “allie” when I see one. At our first meeting, we will be serving bottled water and wheat gluten free crackers. And the best part is that when you reach the one month mark of being allergic reaction free, you will receive a key chain with a bronze Benadryl on it! I just know that eventually these key chains will be more en vogue than the ubiquitous red Kabbalah bracelets, mark my words.

Hi, my name is Jenny, and I have allergies. I’m allergic to penicillin and sesame. I haven’t had an allergic reaction in over one month…

For Immediate Release

2004-09-09T05:37:00.000-07:00

CHICAGO, IL – September 9, 2004 – Amidst rumors that the Run Jen Run blog is being discontinued due to the author’s newfound financial freedom in the form of a real job, Blogger.com has interviewed the founder to confirm or deny these outrageous claims.

Several readers have expressed some concern that Jenny’s new job will interfere with her true priority, which clearly is this blog. While flattered by the concern, Jenny told Blogger representatives that she wanted to calm any fears people may have, and give her solemn promise that she will work hard to ensure that nothing changes. "I refuse to let some job interfere with the routine I have worked so diligently to establish for these past few months," said Jenny, CEO and author of Run Jen Run. "No job is ever going to prevent me from singing karaoke, tap dancing, blogging, drinking scotch, eating Pop Rocks and Coke, staying out until 2:45am, waking up at 10:27am, picking up hitchhikers, fighting the power, running with scissors, mixing bleach and ammonia, or sticking it to the man. I mean it. I’m the same Jen you knew a few months ago. But now I will be able to look my landlord in the eye when he comes pounding at my door."

According to Jenny, these four months of unemployment have given her something she never had before. "I’ve gained knowledge that you can’t learn in any corporate seminar or online continuing education course," exclaimed the newly employed blogger. "Now, I’ve got street smarts. I’m a scrapper. I can make one bag of ramen noodles last for three days. I know which phone booths typically have forgotten quarters in them. I remember exactly which friends are most likely to forget that they lent me money."

A recent interview with the author confirms that now that she has tasted this kind of ultimate freedom, she cannot be caged into some corporate routine. Jenny went on to say, "Oh, I’ll play the game all right, but just don’t try to lay some heavy set of rules on me. I’ll chew off my own leg to escape if I have to. But just on the outside chance that my new boss doesn’t admire my conviction and decides to send me packing after a week, can I borrow $10 and a pack of smokes? I’ll pay you back, I swear!"

# # #

The naked truth

2004-09-08T06:04:00.000-07:00

All this time away from the hustle-bustle of corporate ladder climbing has made me re-evaluate my priorities. Before I dive back into the world of trying to convince people to buy things they don’t need, go places they’ve already been, and use things they don’t want, I’ve decided I need to create something all my own. With that in mind, I’ve determined that I need an outlet for my underutilized creative energy, so I’m going to take an art class.

I like to think that I have just enough artistic ability to allow me to appreciate that which I can never create. Nevertheless, every so often I try to keep the right half of my brain stimulated (or is it the left? I always forget.) by taking some sort of art class like drawing or painting or film.

I’d like to try another figure painting class, but I guess I’m still a little gun shy from the last time I dealt with a live model. It was a few years ago, before I moved to Chicago. Although I had never even taken a life drawing class before, I decided to jump right to the head of the class and take a figure painting course I saw listed in the local art school’s continuing education program.

Almost immediately, I began to rethink that decision as the instructor asked everyone to go around the room and discuss why they were taking her class. Nine out of the ten people in class were either full-time art students, or art teachers eager to get some highly coveted studio time.

I had never worked with a live model before, at least not one that was, you know, naked, so I wasn’t totally sure what to expect. Do they walk into the room naked? Do they come in fully clothed and then slowly strip while we wait? Am I supposed to make eye contact? How much do I tip? Is it inappropriate for me to smoke a cigarette and drink Harvey's Bristol Cream? Fortunately, the first model came in wearing a robe, and then waited for the instructor to set up the chair in the right position while she told her how to pose.

During this class, I learned that there is a severe shortage of male models willing to pose nude, which I guess surprised me a little. This means that the ones who do pose nude have acquired a pseudo-celebrity status in the art world. Everyone in the biz knows their names and availability.

I happened to take this class during the Nude Male Model Drought of 1999, so there was really only one guy on the scene. I’ll call him Ray because I blocked his real name out, along with most other memories of that class. But I do recall that Ray was severely balding, but completely disguised that fact by growing the back of his hair really long, in a sort of homage to Hulk Hogan. Other than that, he was just a regular looking guy with a pot belly, which actually made for a fairly interesting subject matter.

So where, then, is the problem? Well, the class started promptly at 6:00pm every Thursday, and I worked about 30 minutes away. I rarely was able to leave work with enough time to go home, change, get my art supplies, and make a peanut butter sandwich to last me until 9:00pm when the class let out. By the time I would race into class, all the prime spots to set up a canvas had long been staked out by the other students. This meant that the only spot that was consistently available was facing the model dead-on.

Ray had a tendency to choose poses that involved sitting back in his chair, putting one leg up on a block, and the other leg straight out. If you were one of the shrewd students who was able to establish a side view, this pose made for a highly interesting composition. If, on the other hand, you were relegated to my undesirable real estate, the pose left something to be desired. It was kind of, well, dirty.

I know, I know – grow up, Jenny! The human body is a beautiful art form that has been celebrated through paintings for centuries. I get all that, but there was just something a little creepy about having to spend three hours looking at this guy in his naked nudeness. I didn’t like the way he was so comfortable sitting there spread-eagle, all unclothed like that.

I mean, come on, even Adam had the decency to sport a fig leaf. In my opinion, being uncomfortable in one’s own skin is important. It sparks our instinct to put on clothes. It serves as a self-preservation sort of reflex, kind of like pulling your hand away from an open flame. You don’t have to think about it – you just do it. Shame is good, and really the only thing that separates us from the animals.

But really, worse than having to paint Ray in rather unflattering poses for three hours a week was what happened during the breaks. He would step off the platform, drape his robe loosely over his nakedness, and walk around to look at our progress.

There is something uniquely unsettling about touching up a painting of a nude creepy man while said nude creepy man is hovering over your shoulder saying things like, “Wow – interesting composition” or “I really appreciate the bold strokes you use.”

Eww.

But after a 10-week long class, I must admit that I did come away with a much stronger appreciation for the human form, and a pretty solid understanding of color theory. Unfortunately, I also came away with six nude paintings of some strange nude man in random nude poses.

I stored these paintings in a pile in the back of a closet for a few years, and frankly, had forgotten all about them until I started packing to move to Chicago two years ago. When I found them, I was suddenly faced with an agonizing dilemma – do they stay or do they go?

Here were my options:

A. Take the paintings with me to Chicago, possibly allowing a bunch of grunting, sweaty movers to think that I’m obsessed with some bald pot-bellied naked man.

B. Throw the paintings away, possibly allowing a bunch of grunting, sweaty garbage men to think that I’m obsessed with some pot-bellied naked man.

C. Destroy the paintings, possibly allowing some nosy neighbor to peek in my window, witness me slashing up the canvasses, and think that I’m dangerously obsessed with some pot-bellied naked man.

D. Hang the paintings on my wall in Chicago, possibly admitting to myself that I’m obsessed with some pot-bellied naked man.

So I did the only thing a reasonable person could do in this situation: I hid the paintings in the attic of my old house, slipping them behind a stack of old drywall and insulation. Now the next tenants can find them and think that my old landlord was obsessed with some pot-bellied naked man.

Work Jen Work

2004-09-07T09:03:00.000-07:00

Labor Day – the day we recognize and honor the contributions of workers across the country, and the traditional signal of the end of summer. It is only fitting that shortly after this most celebrated day, I get to utter those four sweet words that have been swirling on the tip of my tongue for the past four months: I got a job.

Yes, it’s true. Run Jen Run is Done Jen Done with the agonizing and demoralizing process known as the job search. I have just accepted a job offer and am now in my final week of inactivity before I get to start my cool new job, where I will wear some snazzy new shoes, walk into a tall fancy new building, that I will commute to via a slick new train, and where I’ll interact with stimulating new co-workers.

So what do I do now? What if I’ve forgotten how to function in a corporate environment? I’ve spent so much time telling people what I can do for them, what if I burnt out the part of my brain that controls my ability to actually do those things? Now, after selling myself for four months, I actually have to deliver the finished product. Some assembly required.

Frankly, I’m far more worried about going overboard when I start the new job. I have felt so idle and ineffective for this whole summer that I’m about to bust out of the gates at the first chance I get. I may have to reel myself in so that I don’t freak out my co-workers.

“Uhh, Dave? Who’s the total spaz you hired in marketing? She just introduced herself to all 800 of our employees, individually. And then she read our annual reports from 1984 to 2003. And now I think she’s scanning all our old marketing plans and posting them on the Intranet for easy access. Nice hire, dude.”

I can’t help it if I’m a bit eager to get started on this newest chapter in my life. If you’ve ever gone to an animal shelter, then you know how I feel. Let me tell you a little story about a dog I once knew, that may help illustrate my situation. Chopper ran away from his previous owner because he found the home to be an unhealthy environment, and one that didn’t appreciate all his talents like Frisbee catching and newspaper fetching. He ended up in the animal shelter, and sat patiently in his cage every day, desperately waiting to find a new home.

Chopper was older than a lot of the other dogs in the shelter, a little mangy, and had been kicked around a bit by his previous owner. Some days, people would come over to his cage to pet his nose, but then they quickly were drawn in by the lure of the fat-bellied German shepherd puppies in the corner. Chopper never stood a chance.

For over four months he watched them walk by, peek into his cage, and turn away without so much as a, “Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy!” Chopper tried to adopt many different personas, hoping that one would attract an owner: the happy-go-lucky black Labrador type that families love, the demure and sophisticated Afghan Hound that would be a status symbol, the strong and outspoken Rottweiler that was fiercely loyal and would protect the family, the spunky and high energy Jack Russell Terrier that made everyone laugh.

Nothing seemed to work, but Chopper never gave up. Sure, he felt depressed and desperate at times, and occasionally contemplated leaving with a family as bad as the one he had escaped, but he never let the families see that. He just worked on keeping his cage clean and his teeth white, and barked enthusiastically at every family who walked by. Eventually, his tenacity paid off and he found the family that needed a reliable and experienced Frisbee catching, newspaper retrieving mutt. And the best part of the story is that this kind family also agreed to let Chopper wear jeans every day, immediately contribute to a 401k with company match, and pay Chopper more than he had ever made at that mean, nasty house he ran away from.

So why am I telling this story about some silly dog? Well, there’s a lesson to be learned here. Sometimes the search for a new home takes a long time, and you may sit in that cage for months, staring at families walking out with their new puppies, wondering why they didn’t pick you. But as I have discovered, with enough time and persistence, every dog has his day. Ruff!

Clear indications that I need a job very, very soon

2004-09-05T14:50:00.000-07:00

I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about winning the lottery, but can’t bear to part with $1.00 for the ticket.

The breadcrumb-to-meat ratio in my meatloaf keeps increasing. I’m only a few weeks away from making meat-scented bread.

I came in the other day to find my cats eating Kleenex because I had to buy them generic cat food instead of Science Diet. True story.

When I flipped on the Maury Povich Show the other day, I found myself actually caring who that lady’s baby’s daddy was.

I switched from Starbuck’s lattes to White Hen drip coffee. Oh the humanity!

I bought potpourri.

I have rearranged my living room furniture seven times in the past month, but I only have a love seat and one chair. They just keep swapping places.

I am spending too much time role-playing job interviews with my cats. On my last interview, I hissed at the recruiter, coughed up a hairball, and then started licking my shoulder.

Now when I watch The Price Is Right, I actually know how much Tuna Helper costs.

Yesterday I walked past a half-eaten bag of McDonald’s french fries on the ground and for a split second thought, “Huh. I’ll bet some of them are still good.”

Foster Files Part III: Grounded

2004-09-03T06:42:00.000-07:00

The Fosters were the kind of family that always had broken down cars in their driveway and old mattresses behind their garage. As kids, playing in old cars was a blast, but I never really understood the true appeal of an old mattress, until one weekend when both my brother and I were grounded. Matt was 14 and I was about 12. I don’t really even remember why we were grounded, but it must have been something pretty bad, because my parents rarely grounded us.

One summer day, Ruth and Aaron Foster stopped by to see if my brother and I could hang out with them later that night. They wanted to go to a movie and maybe hit the video arcade for a few games of Galaga. I had to tell them that unfortunately, both Matt and I were grounded, so there was no way we could go out with them.

Now, the Fosters were very single-minded, so when they got an idea in their heads, they pretty much wanted to stick with it. Their immediate response was to tell us to just sneak out. Sneaking out was standard procedure in the Foster household, but it really wasn’t all that difficult for them since their parents never seemed to really care where their children were.

My parents, on the other hand, were active members of Neighborhood Watch, and my mom was the Treasurer of the PTA. These were people who took pride in knowing where their children were at all times, so sneaking out was a bit more difficult for us. Besides that, my mother was a bit of an insomniac, so she would always have to watch TV or read on the couch until she fell asleep, and then sometime around 2:00am she would wake up and head upstairs to her bedroom.

So, although a daunting task, my brother and I were never ones to shy away from a challenge. The Fosters hatched a plan that, at the time, seemed airtight. At around 9:00pm, my brother and I stuffed our beds to make it look like we were still in them, just like we had seen all the kids in movies do when they’re running away from home. I had a ventriloquist dummy that I decided would suffice as my body double, so I shoved him under my covers with a few additional stuffed animals for legs.

Thank god my parents never made a habit of checking in on our rooms at night because a) no one would have believed this was me and b) if they had pulled back the covers, they would have found a demonic grinning ventriloquist dummy, and I’m certain they both would have had massive coronaries on the spot.

Next, the Fosters dragged a ratty, stained, rain soaked mattress from their back yard down the alley, and into our yard. They threw the mattress on the ground next to our sunroom, and then threw stones at our windows. This was our signal to come out onto the sunroom roof. My brother’s bedroom was in the remodeled attic, and my bedroom was directly below his on the second floor. Right outside of my bedroom window was the roof of our sunroom.

It was easy enough for me to step out onto the roof since I just had to climb through my window. My brother, on the other hand, had to hang out of his third story window and drop about five more feet to land on our slanted sunroom roof without tumbling off the edge. In retrospect, I’m sure he could have just quietly snuck out of his room into mine, but dropping from his window lent a real Mission Impossible feel to the evening.

Phase One was complete. Now we had to jump off our sunroom roof onto the mattress, and skulk off into the night. My brother was wise beyond his years even at 14, and he knew that if he jumped first, I would chicken out and climb back into my room. So, he made me hang off the gutter and drop onto the mattress first. I was a little freaked out by this, and had a hard time letting go, until I heard Matt scream, “Let go, you big baby! You’re gonna rip the gutter off!”

That was all the positive encouragement I needed, so I let go and dropped down onto the mattress with a resounding slosh. My brother quickly followed, and then we were off on our adventure. By this time, it was too way late for us to get into a movie, so we decided to buy snacks at the corner grocery store. After fueling up on Twizzlers and Funyuns, we spent the rest of the night carousing around the neighborhood, playing ding-dong ditch, and climbing onto the roof of the Catholic high school that was a few blocks away.

As it got close to the time my mom would be heading up to bed, Matt and I crept outside our living room windows to see if she was still on the couch. She wasn’t, so we waited outside for about another 20 minutes just to make sure she was in bed, and then went back in through the front door. We snuck back into our beds, filled with pride at the stunning caper we had just pulled off.

Yes, this plan was airtight all right. The Fosters dragged the mattress out of our yard and back into theirs, and no one was the wiser. Airtight. That is, of course, if they had actually remembered to drag the mattress back. Which they didn’t. The next morning my brother and I went about our business like any other weekend, until we heard our mom yell for us to come outside. We pulled ourselves away from the TV long enough to catch a glimpse of her through the sunroom windows.

Oh crap.

So of course, Ruth and Aaron never took the mattress back. It lay exactly where they left it – on top of the smashed up pile of leaves and petals that used to be my mother’s flower bed.

Oh crap.

Matt and I must not have been overly observant as kids, because we never really paid much attention to the fact that there was a big flower bed outside of the sunroom. Nor did the Fosters as they plopped the water-logged mattress down on top of them.

Just as we were almost ready to be released for good behavior, we each had another week tacked onto our sentences. The good thing is that my mother just thought we were jumping off the roof onto the mattress for fun. She never figured out that the mattress was just a means to an end, and that we had spent an entire night running around the neighborhood like a bunch of hooligans. Had she known that, I might have spent the better part of my youth staring out that bedroom window, scratching lines in the wall to mark time, and holding on to the distant memory of the thrill I felt that day I let go of the gutter and tasted freedom.

Call off the dogs!

2004-09-02T03:00:00.000-07:00

The great Hot Dog! Bubble Gum mystery has been solved. And let the records reflect that I single-handedly cracked this case in less than 72 hours. I’d like to see CSI top that one! After unsuccessfully trying to utilize complex forensic evidence to identify the criminal mastermind behind the Hot Dog! Gumming, I decided to get back to the basics. I hit the streets with my list of suspects and kicked it Columbo style. Nothing fancy, no DNA evidence, no crime scene re-enactments, just good old fashioned grilling.

I was always so impressed with the way Columbo could trick the suspects into confessing their crimes just by asking them simple questions. As you’ll see from my exchange below, I think I would’ve made the Lieutenant proud:

Me: “Hey, did you send me some gum in the mail?”
Suspect #1: “Me? Ha! I don’t even know your address. Nope, wasn’t me.”
Me: “Okay, thanks.”

Me: “Hey, did you send me some gum in the mail?”
Suspect #2: “Yeah – did you get it already? I thought you’d get a kick out of that.”
Me: “Ah ha!!!! Caught in your own web of lies! Why don’t you tell that one to the judge?! Hope you know how to play the harmonica, because you’re gonna be singing Folsom Prison Blues for a long, long time. ”

So I know you’re all dying to know – who did it? What twisted psycho could have plotted such an evil crime? To those of you who know her, this will probably come as a bit of a shock, but it was Natasha, in the library, with the candlestick. And the frightening thing is that I wasn’t her only victim. She sent a similar package to Seamus. The disturbing thing is that Seamus just happily ate the gum as soon as he opened the package, without ever giving a thought to who might have sent it. That kind of trust is just begging to be taken advantage of.

Now that the mystery has been solved, the Natasha I once knew is gone forever. I can’t look at her without thinking of the torturous mindgames she put me through. From this point on, she will be known as the Unagummer. I just thank god that she was stopped before she gummed again, or worse, moved on to something more dangerous like taffy. All in a day’s work.

Ask the Professor III

2004-09-01T03:19:00.000-07:00

Dear Professor Plum:

I have recently been promoted to a management position, so I’m still new to having people reporting in to me. Some of my employees have been coming to me to discuss issues that I consider to be personal, not work related. I want to be a caring manager, but where do I draw that line?

- Kenny G., Boston, MA

Dear Kenny:

Congratulations on the promotion! The fact that you’re coming to me for advice already tells me that you’re going to make an outstanding manager.

It is inevitable that when you begin managing people, eventually you will run into a few employees who want to share too many personal details about their lives. I admit that this can sometimes be a challenging problem to deal with. Fortunately, you have come to the right person, Kenny.

Early in my management career, I, too, had a hard time dealing with one particular employee. This employee – we’ll call her Tina – had a tendency to share stories with her co-workers that were highly personal. Whether it was a disturbing anecdote about the homeless man who used to expose himself to her when she worked at a hardware store, or a graphic description of the oozing lump on her back, she always found a way to interject the most inappropriate details into a seemingly normal day.

On one particularly stressful afternoon, Tina came into my office to discuss some issues she was having with a customer. We had what seemed to be a productive discussion about the client, and then Tina started to walk out. But just as she reached my doorway, she turned back on her heels and started to tell me a story about her son. She told me that she was really frustrated with her son and had to ground him because she caught him urinating all over their bathroom walls. What made this so exceedingly disturbing was the fact that her son was 17 years old.

It was at that moment that I perfected my best approach for dealing with similar situations, so this is where you’ll want to start taking notes. I put my head down a little, hugged my arms around my body, and started rocking slowly. Then, I just stared at the floor and let myself go to my happy place. For me, that place was a forest on a clear, autumn day. I could almost smell the pine, feel the leaves crunching beneath my feet, and hear the chickadees chirping. Kenny, your happy place may be somewhere entirely different – it may be a sunny beach or a ski slope – but that’s why you have to approach managing people from an individual perspective.

You’ll find that when you consistently utilize this technique, eventually the offending employees finish their stories and walk away. But remember that consistency is the key. In order to successfully manage a team of people, you must acquire these simple survival skills and coping mechanisms. Only then will you be a true leader.

*********************************************************

Dear Professor Plum:

What are your thoughts on office romance? I have started to develop feelings for a co-worker, and I think he might be interested in me as well, but I’m a little worried about dating someone I work with. It’s a big company – over 800 employees – if that makes a difference.

- Hope D., Omaha, NE

Dear Hope:

Oh, what a can of worms you have just opened up, my dear. And believe me, I’d love to be able to tell you that this is the one topic with which I have no personal experience, but I’d be flat-out lying to you. This is a very tricky topic, so I’ll try to break it down into the key components.

I will begin by saying that I understand the temptation to date your co-workers. Most people spend far more time at work than they do with family or friends, so it’s just logical that you might start to be attracted to someone you’re spending that much time with.

As with any tough decision, you need to calculate the risk versus the reward. Office romances are not always a bad thing, but you have to make smart choices. One critical choice to make is what department you should target for your dating pool.

Here’s a quick breakdown of some of the pros and cons of each department that I have personally had dating experience with:

I.T.
Pros: They can get you a bigger monitor.
Cons: If you break up, they can easily hack into your computer and send a defamatory blast email to the entire company from your user ID.
Risk Level: High

Accounting
Pros: They like to read.
Cons: If you work in a department that is responsible for meeting budget goals, accounting can make your life miserable.
Risk Level: Low to Moderate

Finance
Finance is really just Accounting with attitude and bigger salaries, so please refer back to the Accounting guidelines.

Marketing
Pros: They tend to be very stylish.
Cons: They are typically egomaniacal and think they run the company, so you’ll constantly have to listen to them drone on about how no one in the company understands the brand platform, blah, blah, blah.
Risk Level: Moderate

Sales
Pros: They are on the road a lot, and they can make a lot of money.
Cons: Sales people typically lack discretion, so expect your breakup to be broadcast at the company picnic.
Risk Level: Moderate

Human Resources
Pros: You won’t have much competition.
Cons: They will never call you back.
Risk Level: Insignificant

Customer Service
Pros: They will always try to work things out with you.
Cons: They will always try to work things out with you.
Risk Level: Low

If you are looking to date someone within your own department, my personal recommendation is that you only date your direct supervisor or his boss, because then it really benefits you not only from a personal level, but also from a professional level. Sure, dating an employee can be very empowering, but ultimately you may have to fire that person, and then they may be hesitant to continue dating.

If you follow these simple guidelines, you’ll see that interoffice romance is really as simple, as fun, and often as messy as shooting fish in a barrel. Best of luck to you, Hope!

[To submit questions to Ask the Professor, please email to runjenrun2004@aol.com.]

The Gumshoe Gazette

2004-08-31T03:12:00.000-07:00

It’s Tuesday morning, the air’s a little chillier than I’m used to, my back’s a little stiffer than I’d like it to be. I wake up early, real early. Couldn’t sleep last night, because the questions just kept running over and over again in my head. Why? Who would do this? What motive could they have? But let me back up a bit and explain: I received a disturbing package in the mail yesterday: a plain white envelope with my name written in neat, block letters. For a return address, there was simply a large red question mark.

My immediate thought was, “Anthrax!” But then I remembered reading in Us Magazine that anthrax is so five minutes ago. Still, I held my breath as I carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. Inside the envelope was a blank piece of plain white card stock carefully folded around a small package of gum. But it wasn’t just any kind of gum – it was a little plastic wrapper containing two red pieces of hot dog shaped bubble gum, aptly labeled “Hot Dog! Bubble Gum.” I immediately noticed that there was an exclamation point after the word “dog,” which seemed to be mocking me.

Ha! Does someone really think I’m stupid enough to eat gum I received in the mail in an unmarked envelope? But what sort of deviant would have sent this to me? Who knows I like hot dogs? I suppose anyone who has read my blog, so that gives me at least three suspects right off the bat. Do I have any enemies? That list is substantially longer. Fortunately, my time away from work has left me with many hours to learn the finer points of criminal investigations by watching Law & Order, Law & Order: SVU, Law & Order: Criminal Intent, CSI, and CSI: Miami, so I knew exactly what to do.

The postmark was from Chicago, so it seems that this was an inside job. That potentially rules out a long list of East Coast suspects, unless they had an operative working here in Chicago, which I suppose is certainly possible. I dusted the envelope for finger prints, but most were too smudged to get a good read. The card stock and the gum wrapper both tested clean for prints, so I suspect that the perp wore gloves. I therefore deduced that the prints on the outside were most likely made by my grubby mailman.

Clearly, this was not the work of an amateur. What kind of a sick, twisted mastermind would do something like this? Sending anonymous bubble gum through the US Postal Service? That very well could constitute a federal offense.

A closer inspection of the gum wrapper revealed my first big clue. Printed right on the plastic, plain as day, was a phone number. It said, “For nutrition information, questions, or comments about this product, call toll-free weekdays 9-4 EST.” This was exactly the lead I was looking for. I immediately called the number and a smoky-voiced woman named Joyce answered.

Joyce: “Thank you for calling Hershey Foods consumer hotline. This is Joyce, how may I help you?”

Me: “Joyce, hi. My name isn’t important right now, but I have a few questions I’d like to ask you. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

Joyce: “Uhh… no. This is… this is my job. What can I help you with today?”

Me: “I’m inquiring about one of your products – it’s called Hot Dog! Bubble Gum. There’s an exclamation point after the word ‘dog,’ if that helps. I’m interested in the nutrition information. Does this gum, to your knowledge, contain any rat poison?”

Joyce: “I’m sorry, did you just say rat poison?”

Me: “I’m asking the questions here, Joyce. Does it contain rat poison, or any poison of any type?”

Joyce: “Of course not! This is bubble gum, ma’am. Intended for human consumption. I can read you the list of ingredients if you’d like.”

Me: “Fine, you want to play it that way, let’s go. Sure – read me the list.”

So Joyce went on to read some long list of ingredients that included corn syrup, gum base, FD&C Red 40, but nothing that sounded particularly deadly. I do have a call in to a lab, though, to find out what exactly BHT is. Once Joyce rambled through this long list, I continued with my line of questioning.

Me: “Okay, here’s my next question. I need to find out exactly where you distribute this gum in the Chicagoland area. Can you fax that list to me today?”

Joyce: “You want a list of every single store where this gum is sold in Chicago? I don’t have access to that type of information. I mean, I don’t even know where you would get that from. Did you maybe want to see a brochure on how the Hot Dog! Bubble Gum is manufactured? It’s actually made in Canada at a state of the art fa-“

Me: “Joyce, Joyce, Joyce. Look, honey. We can make this easy, or we can make it hard. Personally, I like you, Joyce. You seem like a smart dame, and I sense that you really want to help people. Just tell me where the gum is sold, and I’ll be on my way. Simple as that.”

Joyce: “Ma’am, I really don’t have that information, and even if I did, it’s not something I could just hand out to people. Hold on please, I’m going to let you talk to my supervisor, Adam.”

During the two minutes I was on hold, Joyce and Adam obviously did a great job of getting their stories straight because Adam fed me the exact same line of bull that Joyce did, complete with the offer to send me their brochure. The only difference was that Adam tried to sweeten the deal by throwing in a free pass for a tour of their Toronto plant.

Now that Joyce and Adam had lawyered up, I knew I would have no choice but to do this the old fashioned way and start pounding the pavement. So today I’ve been working on a list of all the possible locations that might sell this type of gum. I know that I’ve seen it for sale at a few of the hot dog stands in Chicago, so that’s where I’m going to start. A quick Google search on “hot dog stands” + “Chicago” revealed that there are over 2,257 hot dog stands in the city, and I’ll hit every one of them if I have to. Next I’ll move on to grocery stores, corner pharmacies, and gas stations. I will not rest until this mystery is solved.

In fact, if I don’t post any new entries for the next few weeks, it’s because my focus needs to be on catching this criminal. I don’t know, maybe that’s what they were hoping for. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has broken the law in a vain attempt to stifle my writing.

Is that what you wanted? Was that your master plan all along? To lead me on a wild goose chase so that I would stop speaking the truth? Well, then I guess your plan just might work, but only temporarily. Only until I pick up your scent and track you down like a mongoose after cobra eggs. (Point of clarification: in this analogy, I am the mongoose, and you are the cobra eggs. Or possibly the cobra. Either way, I’m tracking down you and/or your eggs.)

I will consider calling off my hunt if you post a comment here coming clean, and tell me if it’s okay for me to eat the gum. Barring that confession, the mongoose gloves are off!

You messed with the wrong person, anonymous gum sender. The wrong person, indeed!

Jenny + Max 4Ever

2004-08-30T03:21:00.000-07:00

I hung out at my boyfriend’s place this weekend. His name is Max. Actually, that’s his last name, but that’s what I like to call him. His full name is OfficeMax. We met quite a few years ago, when I was in college. We’re not dating each other exclusively, but I see him at least once a month. Usually when I need something. Does that sound bad? I don’t know, I guess it works for us.

I’ve actually been seeing more and more of Max lately. This is our favorite time of year right now – the sweltering heat of summer is about to end, leaves will soon begin changing color, there’s a certain crispness to the air that signals the beginning of fall. And most of all, I love it because it’s a very special time of the year for Max and me – he likes to call it the Back-to-School Sale.

When I was a kid, I would get so excited as the new school year began, not at the thought of seeing old friends, or making new ones, and certainly not at the prospect of learning something new. No, what got me more thrilled than anything else was when we would finally receive the school supply list, and my mom would take me to K-Mart to buy my supplies for the year. There were crayons, lunch boxes, rulers, and pens. And as I got older, I needed a compass, a calculator, a back pack, and binders!

Back-to-School was like a religious holiday to me – the most sacred time of the year. This was the one and only time when school supplies would finally get the respect they deserved. Front page placement in the Sunday circulars. Special signage in the entry of every store directing customers to the right aisles. For once, school supplies would leave their tiny trailer park excuse for an aisle, wedged unceremoniously between generic greeting cards and duct tape, and for a few glorious weeks, they would get to live in the penthouse suite of the department store. Three full aisles with end caps devoted solely to meeting my Back-to-School needs!

As I got older, my love for school supplies never waned. It just blossomed, really. But now I call them office supplies to reflect our more mature relationship. In fact, if I could own any kind of store in the whole wide world, it would be an office supply store. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be able to walk down the aisles after hours, and just know that everything there was mine. Although, I guess it technically wouldn’t all be mine, because I’d need to sell it in order to make money to keep the store open.

I wonder if it would bother me to see people buying up all of my office supplies. I’d have to keep ordering more and more, and strangers would just keep taking them all away. And I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate the supplies the way that I do. They’d just hound me with questions about why I didn’t have any highlighters that were cheaper than $0.79 each, and why Liquid Paper only came in packs of three. And then I’d have to sink to the lowest common denominator and stock fruit-scented glitter gel pens for all the tweeners who think it’s cool to write boys notes that smell like strawberry.

Boy, I guess owning a store is really a lot of work, and it seems like you have to compromise your ideals in order to turn a profit. I don’t know, maybe what I meant to say is that if I could rob any kind of store in the whole wide world, it would be an office supply store. That’s probably a more realistic goal. But of course, I’d never do that because prison orange really washes out my skin tone, and I highly doubt I’d have access to top-shelf office supplies in Cell Block H.

I know it’s kind of a weird thing to be so passionate about, but if loving the feel of a Uni-ball Vision Exact Medium Point pen in my hands is a crime, then lock me up and throw away the key. I mean, I’m more likely to notice the kind of pen someone is writing with than their hair color or facial features. I guess it’s just more important to me. Anyone can have a winning smile, but pull out an Ultra Fine Point Sharpie to sign your check at the grocery store and my heart is yours forever. Whip out a Bic disposable blue ink pen with teeth marks on the end, however, and you might as well just keep your phone number. Trust me – I’ll never call.

So some people call me eccentric, some call me a snob, but I really don’t care. I just tell them that I know what I want, and right now, Max has everything I need.