The last time my friend and fellow blogger Jessica was in town, she told me that even though she had been to Chicago many times before, she never really saw the appeal of the city. I took this as a challenge. So last week, when she was in town again for business, I was convinced that with my patented five step program, I would make her fall in love with the city by the end of the week.
Step One: Begin on a full belly
You can’t really appreciate the beauty that is Chicago if your belly is rumbling, so I took Jessica to my all-time favorite restaurant, where I hope to become such a regular that they deliver my food before I’ve even ordered. However, as much as I’d love to tell you the name of this restaurant, Natasha made me swear to never again mention the name. Nat is convinced that the place has become insanely crowded ever since the last time I mentioned it on my site, even though she and I are the only ones who read this blog. But perhaps putting the name out into the universe somehow made it more popular, so I can’t risk it.
In any case, [restaurant name withheld] didn’t disappoint. I had to pace myself with the wine, though, because the last time I was there, I drank almost an entire bottle myself and started hugging co-workers. And with Jessica’s self-professed hugging tendencies, I just couldn’t risk a scene.
Every detail of dinner was perfect – from the wine to the main dishes to the desserts and coffee – that is, until Jess pulled out her credit card to pay for dinner. Her card had a strange design on the front of it, so I asked if I could get a closer look.
“Oh, isn’t it the cutest? It’s an Anne Geddes card.”
As I looked more closely, I saw that there were two babies dressed as flies sleeping peacefully on what appeared to be – pardon the disturbing imagery – a gigantic pile of shit. I literally tossed the card back at her plate and screamed, “Noooo! You DO NOT have an Anne Geddes credit card! She’s psycho! Why do you have pictures of baby maggots on your credit card?! All her pictures look like dead babies!”
“Wha- ? No they don’t! They’re cute! They’re not flies – they’re fairies, sitting on a toadstool! And a percentage of my spending goes to child abuse victims.”
“Um, you mean like those babies she drugs and hangs inside of pantyhose to hawk her calendars? Like those child abuse victims?”
“Whatever. I think they’re cute.”
I just prayed that the waiter didn’t think the card was mine. I couldn’t risk ruining the good thing I had going at [restaurant name withheld].
Step Two: Take in some live entertainment
After our fabulous dinner, I wanted to expose Jessica to some of the activities we common Chicago folk engage in on a regular basis, so I took her karaoke singing with some friends of mine.
“If you guys are really good, I’m gonna be so pissed.”
“Don’t worry, Jess. We’re not.”
I never knew quite how accurate a statement that was until I started out the evening singing Lionel Richie’s, Hello, about two octaves too high for my already limited range. Every attempt to recover resulted in a bloody mess of flats and sharps. It was the longest three minutes of my entire life, and I honestly think it really did hurt me more than it did them.
I tried to convince myself that maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought, until Jessica called me the next day and said, “Hey, so something’s been bothering me that I want to talk to you about.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“So, I was just thinking about yesterday at karaoke when you sang, Hello, and I’m thinking that you just pretended to sing that badly so that I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable going up on stage.”
“Uh… what?”
“I mean, I was telling my husband about it, and we both just thought that there’s no way someone whose voice was truly that horrendous would actually get up on stage, right? You were just trying to make me feel good, right?”
“Oh. Uh… yyyyeeahh. Yeah, you got me. That’s me, all right – just always trying to put people at ease…”
That evening, I discovered that Jessica is more than a little bit country. Her Missouri twang came out in full force as she chose one country song after another. I had never heard any of the songs she sang, so I can only assume that she did an outstanding job. I was a bit disturbed, however, at how excited she was to sing a song about a girl who was really poor and had cockroaches running across her feet and then her dad sold her into white slavery and then they all called her fancy.
I was all, “What the f*?” And she was like, “No really, I love this song! It’s a good ‘un. Mmm hmmm.*”
*Ed. Note: In reality, Jessica sounds nothing like Billy Bob Thornton from Slingblade, but I like to pretend that she does: “Mmm hmmm. Some folks calls it a weblog. I calls it a blogsite. Mmm hmmm.”
When I sent Jessica off in a cab back to her hotel at the end of the night, I had no idea what cast of characters awaited us the following evening.
[To be continued]

Filed under: General on March 29th, 2006 | 18 Comments »

[CHAPTER ONE]
[CHAPTER TWO]
[CHAPTER THREE]
Before we headed to breakfast, Vivian kept muttering something about wanting to go to church. This puzzled me, since I’ve never known her to be the religious sort, but the rumbling in my belly made me quickly forget her spiritual awakening. We got to the restaurant just in time because minutes after we were seated, the DC brunch crowd stormed through the doors and hovered around all of us early birds like a pack of hyenas.
We were famished after our late night of hitting it hard in DC, so as soon as the food arrived, all conversation ceased. I needed to focus my energy on finding the perfect balance of breakfast flavors and textures. It didn’t take me long to find my rhythm:

• French toast
• Scrambled eggs
• Bacon
• Juice
• Breathe

• French toast
• Scrambled eggs
• Bacon
• Juice
• Breathe

• Repeat until done

When we got the check, I nearly choked on my last crispy bite of bacon. $60 for breakfast? For three people? WTF?!
Okay, let me quickly do the math:
French toast = egg + bread
Scrambled eggs = eggs + butter
Bacon = bacon + grease
Juice = orange + pressure
If my calculations were accurate, this would have come to a grand total of $0.67 for raw materials. And they charged me $20 for that? But in a town where the government pays $700 for a toilet seat, I suppose I got off easy.
After a bit more complaining, Dee, Viv and I left the restaurant and started to head back to the hotel to check out. As we were walking, Vivian tugged at my arm and said, “There! That’s the church I was telling you about! I want to go check it out – come on.”
I stopped dead in my tracks when I turned my head and saw:

“Okay, are you insane? We are not going to a Scientology church! That’s a cult!”
“Jenny, don’t be so judgmental. You just know what you’ve seen on Oprah. A lot of cool people are into Scientology. Kirstie Alley is into it. Lisa Marie Presley.”
“They believe in aliens and that bad alien spirits are stuck to our bodies – that’s nuts”
“I heard Chaka Khan is a Scientologist.”
“Chaka Khan?”
“Chaka Khan.”
“Chaka Khan?”
“I feel for you if you can’t open your mind to new things a little, Jenny. Dee-Dee will come with me, won’t you, Dee?”
Vivian stomped ahead with Dee-Dee in tow, and I watched as they argued a bit outside the church.


Eventually, Dee and I just couldn’t convince her to come with us, so we had to leave Vivian in DC. I don’t really know what happened to her after that.

While waiting in the security line at the airport, I kicked myself for getting in the line behind the little girl and her stuffed tiger. Dee-Dee wisely chose the line with the harried businessmen and their laptops.
“Honey, I’m gonna need you to walk back through and set your tiger on the conveyor belt. Can you do that for me?” inquired the unusually sweet TSA rep. The girl just stood motionless with a puzzled look on her face. I was waiting for her father to tell her what to do, but instead he just waited for the security personnel to shove his daughter back through the metal detector.
“That’s it. Just go through there, and set your tiger up on the machine. He’s going to get an X-ray! Isn’t that neat?”
I looked at my watch and tapped my stocking-footed toes, hoping to god that the little girl hadn’t stashed a switchblade or heroin inside of her doll. She looked awfully nervous, though. As I walked through security and tried to reclaim my shoes, the little girl kept staring at the conveyor belt.
“Where’s Tigger?”
As it turned out, Tigger was stuck because Tigger only weighed two ounces and couldn’t push his way through the little rubber strips hanging in front of the conveyor. I reached in and yanked him out, handed him to the girl, and hurried to catch up with Dee-Dee because I was certain she had made it through security well before I had.
But when I looked ahead toward the gate, I didn’t see her anywhere. Did she go to the bathroom? Did she ditch me? I turned back around toward security and saw Dee-Dee standing by a glass wall. As I moved closer, I realized that she was, in fact, standing inside a glass box. I raised my arms up in the international sign for, “What the hell are you doing in that glass box?” and she waved her hands around wildly in the international sign for, “Please get me the hell out of this glass box.”
Eventually, a gruff looking uniformed woman grabbed Dee out of the glass box and led her by the arm toward what in layman’s terms is known as the pat-down area. My hand instinctively reached down toward my camera, but as I saw Dee being manhandled by a woman who I suspect was an extra on Prisoner: Cell Block H, I decided not to draw attention to myself. Instead, I called Vivian and left her a message with the play-by-play:
“Okay now Dee’s standing up for some reason, and the woman just told her to sit back down. Now she’s saying something about her sweatshirt. Dee’s totally yelling at the lady! Why is she giving her so much attitude? She’s gonna get an anal probe, I just know it – oh my god this is so awesome! Wait… oh, it looks like they’re letting her go now. Oooh, Dee looks pissed! Okay, I gotta go – bye!”
“Dee! What the hell was that all about?”
“Oh, I am so pissed off right now. When I was going through security, they told me that I had to take off my sweatshirt. I told them I couldn’t because I didn’t have appropriate attire underneath.”
“What are you wearing underneath?”
“A bra.”
“Oh. So you said no?”
“Yeah, and then I said that if I were a man, no way would they make me walk shirtless through security. And then I said what’s the difference between a black hooded sweatshirt and a huge bulky sweater? I said you could hide a lot more stuff under a big sweater than this yoga sweatshirt.”
“Uh, okay – you talked about hiding things under your sweatshirt?”
“To prove a point.”
“Never a good idea.”
We made it to the gate on time, and had a pretty uneventful return flight, aside from the woman next to Dee who kept smacking loudly as she ate her food, and then grabbed the bag of pretzels right out of Dee’s seatback.
“Oh, were you gonna eat your rabbit food?” she asked, once she realized that she had forgotten to wear her cloak of invisibility and that Dee could see her take the pretzels.
Dee-Dee just rolled her eyes and sighed, “No, go ahead.”
I turned up the volume on my iPod and thought about how my trip to DC ended exactly as it had begun, with shoulders shaking and eyes watering trying to fight back the laughter.

Filed under: General on March 25th, 2006 | 13 Comments »

[CHAPTER ONE]
[CHAPTER TWO]
“Vivian! Hey – perfect timing!”
“Hey gals, what’s shaking?”
Hugs.
“Ready to check out some Dada?”
“Oh yeah!”
I was pleasantly surprised to learn that all museums in DC are free. I thought it was a trick, but Vivian assured me that we would not be tackled as we walked up the stairs to the exhibit. As we headed into the exhibit, there was a crowd of people reading the description on the wall. I stopped to read it, but noticed Vivian and Dee-Dee walking ahead.
“Pshht. Reading is for suckers,” Vivian said, and stormed through the crowd.
The exhibit was packed with art lovers and haters alike. As we walked into a room with a sculpture of a pig-headed man in a Nazi uniform hanging from the ceiling, I heard a man say to his wife, “I hate this. I absolutely hate this. You know I hate this kind of thing. I’m leaving.”
She told him that she had read that the Dadaists wanted their art to make people uncomfortable. She said it would be over soon, and that he should just wait in the lobby. And then I saw a confused looking young boy – about five years old – scanning the crowds as he held onto his mother’s purse. I heard him say softly, several times, “Where’s Dada?”
After the exhibit, which we all agreed was amazing, we cleaned out the gift shop and then headed out. On our way to the Washington Monument, we decided that our desire for culture had not yet been sated, so we strolled through the sculpture garden. In it, we saw some sculptures.

And some more sculptures.

And some more sculptures.

And then we asked ourselves some hard-hitting questions.

Finally, being in our nation’s Capitol filled Vivian with all sorts of activist energy, so we went out in search of a peace rally. Fortunately, they are plentiful in Washington. Unfortunately, however, we stumbled across the saddest, most unorganized peace rally in the entire city. Our peace rally consisted of three hippies standing in the empty fountain in Dupont Circle, one man with a microphone, and another man in a wheelchair carrying a sign that said, “Make levees, not war.” Vivian bought a purple peace sign button from a man in tie dye for $1 and we headed back to our hotel.

After unsuccessfully attempting to replicate Baby G.’s whore eyes, the three of us hopped in a cab to meet up with our group at a Mediterranean tapas-style restaurant. Fortunately, in between the peace rally and whore eyes, we had stopped for pizza, because when we arrived at the restaurant, we were told it would take two hours to get seated.
There was wine and there were desserts, and everything in between tasted like goat cheese. And I mean that in the absolute best possible way.
After dinner, our numbers again dwindled. What once was twelve suddenly became four. But like any good general, Dr. Greene led the charge to continue hitting it and hitting it hard in DC. So he, Dee-Dee, Vivian and I stumbled off to a pool hall where we met up with some friends of his. I’m pretty sure that Dee, Viv and I won every game of pool, but only because Dr. Greene’s two friends kept disappearing at the bar.

Eventually, the smoke and beer and tapas got the best of us, so we decided to head home. Dr. Greene drove off with his pals, and the ladies and I shuffled back to the hotel. After the previous evening’s discovery, I warned Vivian that I apparently suffered from night terrors. According to all reports, I had punched Dee in the face the night before, so I tried to be extra careful about not moving around too much, as is my tendency.
This proved a fatal error, because Vivian, perhaps dreaming of skydiving, occupied the bed in such a dramatic spread eagle fashion that it took all my strength to hold myself on the edge of the bed. My body was contorted like an origami frog onto the tiniest plot of mattress – trapped in an isosceles triangle of pain formed by Viv’s arm, leg, and the edge of the bed.

I woke up unable to turn my head more than two inches in either direction. “Dang, Viv. Do you think you could take up any more of the bed? Sheesh.”
“Yeah, you really did take up the whole bed. At one point I looked over and Jenny’s body was shaking to try to keep from falling.”
“I can’t help it! I’m a big girl!”
“Oh yeah? Well then big girl buys breakfast!”
And off we went.
[Stay tuned for the highly overrated conclusion…]

Filed under: General on March 23rd, 2006 | 26 Comments »

[CHAPTER ONE]
It was like watching the ball drop on New Year’s Eve as we kept checking our satellite-synchronized cell phones to mark the exact moment when Alexis and I would turn a year older. At midnight, we cheered and hugged and clinked glasses, when suddenly I wondered aloud, “What the hell am I celebrating? I just crossed over into another demographic! No one cares about the 35-44 age group! The only junk mail I’ll get now is a bunch of coupons for antacids and wrinkle creams.”
My mind started swirling with the realization of what it meant to suddenly be 35. What had I accomplished in my life? What did I have to show for my 35 years? How had I made my mark on this planet? The bitter taste of failure started to bubble up in the back of my throat, or perhaps it was the Knob Creek, but either way, I knew something had to change. So I did the only thing that seemed right to me, and demanded that we find another bar. This one reeked of mediocrity.

Shortly after leaving the bourbon bar, we lost four of our comrades to excessive fatigue and pre-hangover headaches, leaving just Dr. Greene, Dee-Dee and me to forge ahead. I said I would hit it hard, and I couldn’t start out my new year by surrendering that early.
We ended up at a bar that served beer with a heavy dose of smoke. However, the combination of margaritas, bourbon, and self-reflection had left me feeling mellow.

After finishing half my beer, we decided to call it a night, but not before stopping in a scary 10’ x 10’ storefront that sold empanadas until 4:00am. Dr. Greene promised us that these would be the best empanadas we had ever tasted. And they were. They were also, coincidentally, the only empanadas I had ever tasted, but that didn’t detract from their deliciousness.

I would have taken a picture of our actual meal, had the cashier not been sporting a tribal tattoo right in the middle of his forehead. Even with my clouded judgment, something told me this was not a prudent photo opportunity.
It was far too late for Dr. Greene to head back to Maryland, so Dee-Dee and I doubled up in our hotel bed and offered the other to Dr. Greene. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Dee-Dee sharing a retched tale of her friend whose house was infested with bedbugs – international bedbugs nonetheless – and how all her furniture had to be burned.
Apparently, this story must have crept into my subconscious, because although I recalled sleeping soundly, the next morning Dee-Dee asked Dr. Greene if he heard me moaning in the middle of the night.
“Oh, you mean when she sat straight up and was like, ‘Ehhhhhhhhh, ehhhhhhhh?’”
“Shut up! I did not.”
“Oh yeah you did! And you totally hit me in the face, too!”
“I made a Frankenstein sound?”
“Kind of, but higher pitched, and not so drawn out. More like, ‘Ehhhh, ehhhh.’”
“Well, I’m glad you can both laugh at my night terrors. What if I was having a heart attack? It’s your fault, telling me those stupid bed bug stories when I’m sleeping in a hotel bed.”
Both Dr. Greene and Dee-Dee had splitting headaches, so I doled out ibuprofen and went to the bathroom to get some water. Just as I was handing the glass to Dee-Dee, I heard a crunching sound.
“Did you just chew up those pills?”
“No, I ate some pretzels to wash them down.”
“You chased pills with pretzels?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Freakshow.”
We had a full day planned. I had read about a new Dada exhibit at the National Gallery of Art, and really wanted to check it out. It was a sunny day out, and we had dinner reservations later that evening, so I wanted to spend some time seeing the city.

After a quick breakfast at a restaurant with the filthiest bathroom I had ever seen in my life – international bedbugs would have been a welcome addition – we bid farewell to Dr. Greene and made our way to the museum. Just as we headed toward the entrance, a cab pulled up and out walked Vivian. Right on time.
[To be continued]

Filed under: General on March 22nd, 2006 | 8 Comments »

“We’re gonna hit it hard in DC,” he said, as he handed me a small package, “And this mix CD I made for you is just the beginning.”

“Did you bring Greedo?”
“What do you think?”

I don’t know why I even asked – Dr. Greene always came prepared. And true to his word, we would hit it, and hit it hard in DC. Dee-Dee just sat innocently in the back seat, unaware of the adventures that awaited us.
“So do we get to know what the plans are, or is that a surprise?”
“All in due time, ladies. All in due time,” he said, as he turned up the volume on Fantasy.
It was my 35th birthday, so my friends and I flew out to DC to meet up with Dr. Greene and our friend Alexis, who shares my birthday. Vivian was taking the train in from New York and would meet us the next day.
The last time I was in DC on vacation, I was a wide-eyed 11-year old crossing guard captain, heavily crushing on a swarthy boy from Appleton, WI who was sitting three rows in front of me on the tour bus. We were on the same crossing guard field trip, he in his yellow windbreaker, I in my green. I took spy photos of him with my Kodak Disc camera and giggled with my girlfriends as we said his name and ducked behind the seats. Somewhere in the dark corners of my parents’ basement lies a single photo of that boy, his face blurred as he turned around to find the source of the laughter and camera flashes. I remember he had heavy eyebrows.
Our plane had been delayed, so Dee-Dee and I told Dr. Greene to drive us straight to the restaurant. The only freshening up we needed to do involved salt, lime and tequila. Our first pitcher went down very quickly.

As did the second.

Natasha and Alexis arrived somewhere in the middle of the second round, and we waited patiently for a table as we watched stubborn women start a fight with a mentally unstable man over a bar stool. DC is high strung, I observed.

We ate at a Mexican restaurant whose name I can’t recall, and I’m pretty sure I had shrimp, but really, these details are irrelevant. What is important to note is that we got what would be the first of several birthday desserts.

After remembering that I detest flan, I prodded the team to lead us to the next venue. The night was still young. I was still 34.
We ended up at a bourbon bar, where I was told that ordering bourbon on the rocks was not hitting it hard.
“Ice is for pansies,” Dr. Greene told me, but I wanted to last the night.
With each sip of whiskey, my body grew more relaxed, as did my memory. I needed to jot down some notes from the evening, but my notebook was immediately ripped from my hands.
“What are you writing?” Natasha slurred.
“Give me that!”
“No, let me see it!”
“What’s she writing? Are you writing about us?”
“Let me write something. I’m gonna write a haiku.”
Suddenly my notebook was being tossed from person to person, like a cruel schoolyard game of monkey in the middle. By the time I finally got it back, seven pages were filled with jibberish like:
Tops off in 2006
Live, live, live.
T-Con 2006!
and
Old man?
Oldsmobile?
Olds Cutlass?
and
Whore eyes, you will get
Some whore eyes they will be sexy
Whore eyes, whore eyes I see
Even my camera was hijacked. Although I’m not a fan of violence, I was drunk, and frankly, the only way to get it back was by force.

By the time I had retrieved that which was rightfully mine and polished off the remainder of my bourbon, I glanced down at my watch and realized it was just two minutes to midnight. Thirty-five had almost arrived.
[To be continued]

Filed under: General on March 21st, 2006 | 22 Comments »

Hey Viv, it’s Jen. Just wanted to make sure you got to your train okay. We’re still at the airport. Dee-Dee is currently being strip searched by an Amazon, so hopefully we won’t miss our flight. I’ll fill you in later. Bye!
Watching the typically mild-mannered Dee-Dee get belligerent with the security personnel at Reagan National was one of the highlights of my trip to DC. Getting to third base with a prison guard-esque woman wearing blue latex gloves was probably not a highlight for Dee-Dee. But man, was I tempted to pull out my camera…
DC stories and illustrations to come later this week!

Filed under: General on March 20th, 2006 | 8 Comments »

It’s not really my birthday yet, but I’m leaving for DC on Friday to celebrate, so I will be partying with some lobbyists and senators and interns all weekend, and wanted to be sure to capture a few important thoughts while I’m in a reflective mood.
As a Pisces, I am the oldest and wisest sign of the zodiac, but now that I’m turning 35, I don’t like to think of myself as old. I prefer the term “mostly dead.”
And while I believe in astrology, I have never been much of a fan of daily horoscopes. This would be why:

Pisces (Feb. 19 – Mar. 20):
The talent you’ve mastered has been neglected of late – get back to it! You’re happier and more fulfilled when you’re practicing your “thing,” and everyone around you will benefit.
– Chicago Sun Times, Tuesday, March 14, 2006

The talent I’ve mastered. Talent. I have mastered. Mastered.
Uh, hello? Little help?
Now, there are all sorts of “things” that I “practice” that make me “happier,” but how exactly am I supposed to know which one of these is “my thing?” Because now, not only is my happiness and fulfillment on the line, but I have to worry about everyone around me? So if I don’t practice “my thing,” none of you will benefit? This is bullshit. What kind of birthday horoscope is that?
God forbid I don’t do that one talented thing I do, because then the rest of you will have to suffer. Some birthday this is turning out to be.
Another thing I learned today, while watching the repeat of the premiere of the new cycle of America’s Next Top Model, is that if I ever go on America’s Next Top Model, I will make sure not to seem like I have any self esteem. Tyra doesn’t like it when people don’t find themselves hideous. Tyra gets very mad when you think you did well in a photo shoot. Tyra will not tolerate anything other than utter self-loathing. The most important thing to know about modeling is that there is always someone prettier and thinner and taller than you, so don’t you ever forget it. And in Tyra’s case, there is always someone with a less bulbous forehead.
Well, I guess the good part about getting older is I don’t have to have a point to my entries anymore. Old people are always starting stories and not finishing them, and I know for a fact that this is a talent of mine, so I look forward to cultivating this gift in my 35th year and beyond.
Oh yeah, and old people also tell the same stories over and over again. Like, did I ever tell you about the time I got locked in a basement? God, what a fright I had. Or when I got drunk and hugged a co-worker? Lordy, lordy, lordy. Oh! I know you haven’t heard this one yet! One time, I paid $7.50 to download really terrible ringtones for my cell phone. I was really reckless when I was 34.
Wait… what was I saying?

Filed under: General on March 15th, 2006 | 40 Comments »

“Now that I finally got that You’re Beautiful song out of my head, I’m happy to say a really good one has replaced it.”
“Oh yeah, what?”
“Din Da Da.”
“Huh?”
“You know – from Breakin’? Or is it from Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo? You know it: Din da da, dun doe doe, din da da, dun doe.”
“Never heard of it. Those are actually the words? I don’t think I ever really saw either of those movies. We didn’t have cable until I was older.”
“Nat! Tell me you’re joking! How is it possible that you have never seen Breakin’? It’s such a good movie! There’s like these two really good breakdancers – Turbo and Ozone – and they meet this rich white girl, Kelly, who’s studying to be a professional dancer. She falls in love with one of them – I think Ozone – and then her parents get mad. Ozone calls her Special K, and she wears fingerless gloves. It’s so good.”
“Yeah, sounds like it.”
“And it’s got the classic storyline that all movies should follow – ragtag group of neighborhood kids has to set aside their differences and band together to save the teen center. Big dance numbers and then it’s all din da da, dun doe doe, din da da, dun doe.”
*** Later that same evening, in car on way to bar ***
“Din da da, dun doe doe, din da da, dun doe. Hey – I should see if I can download that song off my cellphone.”
“Can you do that?”
“I don’t know – I never tried.”
“Maybe they have it as a ringtone.”
“Ohmigod! That would be the most awesome ringtone ever! Can you imagine? You call me and my phone just goes, din da da, dun doe doe, din da da, dun doe. Awesome.”
*** Ten minutes later, still trying to figure out how to download ringtones ***
“Well, it doesn’t look like they have Din Da Da, but they have In Da Club. Oh – I’m gonna download Push It! Wait – do I really want to spend $2.50 to have Push It as my ringtone?”
*** Twenty seconds and $2.50 later ***
“This doesn’t sound like Push It at all!”
“Seriously, Jenny – that’s the worst version of Push It I’ve ever heard. Do not even set that as the ring for when I call you!”
“Don’t worry, you’re still the theme song from Facts of Life.”
“Facts of Life? That’s even worse! Give me a better ring than that. What did Dee-Dee get?”
“Uh, lemme see. Oh, she’s Asian Jingle. Do you want to be crickets?”
“No, I want to be something good. Download the Doobie Brothers Black Water for my ringtone! I wanna hear some funky Dixieland, pretty momma gonna take me by the hand…”
“By the hand, hand…”
“Take me by the hand…”
“Pretty momma! But seriously, Nat – is it really worth another $2.50?“
“Are you putting a price on my friendship?”
“Oh, for the love of… fine. You’re Black Water.”
“And you should see if they have Rock Me Amadeus! That would be so cool – doo doo dee, doo doo doo doo, doo doo dee. Amadeus, Amadeus! Amadeus! Amadeus, Amadeus! Amadeus!”
“I don’t know if I want my phone singing in German. Just creeps me out a little. Oh wait, unless it was 99 Luft Balloons! Doo doo doo doo doo. Doo doo doo doo doo doooo. Dee bee daa bee baa beeda baa, bada bee bada bee ba bada bum… 99 eins zwei drei! 99 luft balloons go by!”
“That’s a psycho ringtone.”
“Like Black Water is cool?”
“You’re the one who just paid $2.50 for it, not me.”
“So that’s how we’re playing it, Nat? Fine, let’s see… Contacts… L, M, N, Natasha… Assign Personal Ringtones… okay… Black Water… Delete… and… Greensleeves… ASSIGN! YEAH! Hey, who’s that calling me? Oh it’s just Ye Olde Natasha McGreensleeves. Hey Renaissance woman, where’s your lute? What’s that? You want to go out for a turkey leg and some mead later? Uh, let me get back to you on that. Ha!”
“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about me calling you anytime soon.”

Filed under: General on March 13th, 2006 | 31 Comments »

I just don’t get it. I mean, what part of, “I got drunk and hugged another co-worker tonight,” do you not understand?
I know I’m a hypocrite. I know it violates nearly everything I stand for. But what do you want me to say – that I didn’t do it? I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not ashamed. Well, yes, actually I am, but that’s not the point.
It’s only Wednesday, and this has been one of the most stressful weeks of my entire working life. So maybe I convinced my out-of-town co-worker to come out to dinner to my new favorite restaurant (Avec – which you must all go to, now. E.V.E.R.Y.O.N.E. of you. Now!). And maybe we drank a bunch of carafinas of wine. And perhaps, just perhaps, one carafina of wine equates to half a bottle, and maybe I drank two and a half carafinas, which equates to… wait… let’s do the math… carry the one… I DRANK SEVEN BOTTLES OF WINE TONIGHT!
But why is that wrong? I don’t understand why everyone is judging me. Do you not recall that I was trapped in a fucking basement for 60 of the longest minutes of my life this past weekend? (And yes, I spelled out the whole swear… I’m that drunk.)
And here’s what else happened. My awesome and well-intentioned out-of-town co-worker expensed our expensive dinner, which means my company got me fat-bellied drunk tonight. And I noticed that my delightfully sweet but small-town co-worker left kind of a cheap tip, so I convinced him that he needed to go to the bathroom before getting on his plane, and while he was in the bathroom, I gave the waiter some more money, telling him that there was a mistake on the tip. He was confused at first, then smiled, and touched my arm in a way that told me that if his inclination didn’t lean in a different direction, he would most certainly have married me right there.
Since this is soon to become the only restaurant I ever eat at, I must treat the wait staff well, and they will return the favor in kind.
There was a moment tonight when I had the most perfect bite of pasta Bolognese, preceded by the most perfect forkful of artichoke and mushroom salad, followed by the most perfect sip of some Spanish red whose name I cannot recall, and at that exact moment, I felt jealous of myself. I wanted to be me so badly that I almost hated myself. Why did I deserve to be so happy when I was so very stressed? It just wasn’t fair.
And yet it was.
So now I am home, fat-bellied drunk on the company dime, and so green with envy that I can’t even look at myself. I hope you can all come with me next time. I promise to hug you.

Filed under: General on March 8th, 2006 | 16 Comments »

You really never know how you’re going to react in a life or death situation until you’re actually in one. Some people panic. Some people freeze. Some people become heroic. I mostly just kicked.

It was Saturday afternoon around 3:00pm, and I was doing my laundry. After pulling my clothes out of the dryer, I hugged them briefly for warmth, then folded them neatly in my basket. As I headed out of the basement and pulled on the door handle, it wouldn’t open. I yanked a few more times, rattling the door more violently. It then became all too apparent to me that the latch on the outside of the door must have slammed shut when I closed the door, locking me inside.

I was trapped.

In the basement.

In winter.

In a little red hooded sweatshirt.

My first thought, immediately after “Oh you have got to be f*cking kidding me,” was, “If I ever make it out of here alive, I’m so blogging this.”

I didn’t have my trusty notebook with me to record the experience, but I’ll try my best to recap my thought process as I endured what was both the longest and shortest hour of my life. Any bad swears are due to the post-traumatic stress disorder that I’m probably suffering from right this very moment.

************************************************************

Clean laundry – yay! Oh god, it’s so warm, and smells so good. I almost want to crawl inside the dryer. A lot of cats die by crawling into dryers. Didn’t Kerry’s cat die in the dryer? How do I have five unmatched socks? God, that drives me nuts.

[Balance laundry basket on hip, then pull on door, which doesn’t budge. Set laundry basket down to pull again with two hands. Still doesn’t budge. Think about it for a moment, then realize that the latch must have flipped shut when I closed the door.]

Oh f*ck.

You have got to be f*cking kidding me! Okay, just step back a second. This is so not a big deal. I’ll just kick the door really hard and someone will hear me. Yeah, right. Just like they heard my apartment door being kicked in when I was burglarized last year.

F*cking morons.

[Kick the door for about 10 minutes. Listen every few minutes for any signs of life outside. Hear nothing and resume kicking.]

Maybe I should try Morse code. Three fast, three slow, three fast is S.O.S. Who the hell knows Morse code? I mean, everyone knows Morse code for S.O.S. but who would actually pay attention to it?

[Look around basement. There are no windows, only storage lockers, benches, a broken stove, washers and dryers.]

A broken stove? What can I do with a broken stove? Coils, steel, metal racks… think, dammit, think!

Okay, maybe there are some tools down here. I’ll just have to break the door down. Crap, I’m totally gonna have to call my landlord to tell him I broke the door down because I was trapped in the basement. Godammit. I hate calling him. Then he’s gonna be all, “You did what? And hey, did you even pay your March rent yet?”

[Walk back up to door and slam shoulder into it, thinking this might jiggle the latch loose. This hurts a lot, and is nothing like when Bruce Willis does it in the movies. Return to girly kicking and door rattling.]

Let’s see, what else is down here that I can use? Here’s a wooden table leg. No, probably not. Bed frame? It’s heavy enough, and if I got a running start, it just might work. But as a last resort only. I could always just wait for someone to come down and do their laundry. But no one does laundry on Saturday night. I’ll be here until Sunday afternoon.

Oh god, I’m so thirsty.

There’s got to be something here that I can use to get out.

[Open random unlocked storage lockers, looking through neighbors’ crap. Broken lamp, ceramic plant pots, Christmas lights, game of horseshoes…]

Horseshoes! I could use those for something, definitely. Like a hammer. What am I hammering? Something. The broken stove maybe? What does that even mean?

Hey, that’s kind of a cool antique dresser! I sure wouldn’t keep it down here, though. It’s covered in cobwebs. Is that a dead cockroach? F*ck.

[Scan the basement walls. Look to see if windows have suddenly appeared. Notice a little crack in the third panel of the door. Did I do that? Look at the fuse boxes on the west wall.]

Fuse boxes! I could cut the electricity, then surely someone would come down here to check the fuses. Or are they all so stupid they would just assume it was a blackout, and light some candles? Yes, these people are all that stupid. I hate these people. I should smash all their stuff. Except that antique dresser – I’m just taking that if I ever get out of here alive.

[Kick door really hard, thankful I wore heavy shoes today.]

Oh, god. I’m dying of thirst. I’m really glad I went to the bathroom before coming down here, though. What if I had to pee on the floor, or worse? Oh, I don’t even want to think about that. Is there any food down here? My mouth is really dry.

[Hear car going through alley. Run to door and resume kicking.]

I think I hear a car slowing down. Oh, I can kind of see something through the crack. Hello?! Hello?! Oh crap – it’s pulling away. They’re pulling away! Damn you!

[Kick really, really hard. Alternate patterns of kicking. Kick to the beat of Push It. What seems like an eternity passes until I hear signs of life outside.]

Hello?!

I hear someone! Someone’s walking this way!

Hello?! Can you open this door please?

[Door opens, and I see my neighbors from two houses down. I don’t know them, but always wave to the man when he’s walking his fat-bellied dogs.]

Oh my god, thank you! The latch shut when I closed the door! I’ve been trying to MacGyver my way out of here for the past hour!

************************************************************

We shook hands and laughed, and I decided to never to do laundry again. I thought about how important it is to be nice to neighbors and wave to them when they are walking their fat dogs. And then I immediately called Natasha to tell her my tale. We spent the next 20 minutes playing through various fantasy sequences where my lack of human contact turned me into a savage:

“I love how you started going through everyone’s stuff after only being locked in for like five minutes.”

“I had to! I could’ve been down there for days! I was trying to figure out how I could short-circuit the whole building. Or carve a hole in the door, push a metal rod through, and wiggle the latch until it flipped open.”

“What if you went all Rip Van Winkle, and when they found you, your hair was really long, and your nails were like claws?”

“Totally! Or I would’ve turned all Lord of the Flies, and as soon as someone came through the door, I would have killed them with all the booby traps I had created from two bicycle tires and a milk crate.”

“And then you’d be eating bugs and catching rats to survive. Why did you just turn into Gollum?”

“I almost did! And I was so thirsty down there!”

“Aren’t there wash basins in your laundry room?”

“Uh… oh yeah, I guess there are. So I wouldn’t have died of dehydration, that much we’ve learned. But I almost forgot how to talk, I was down there so long. I was like Nell… tay ina winnnn…”

“Did you find a beachball and draw a bloody smiley face on it like Tom Hanks in Castaway?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I was all, WILSON!!!”

“Well, I’m glad you survived. You should always bring your cell phone with you to the laundry room from now on.”

“No doubt. All right, I need to go get some food. It’s like, you don’t even know how good food tastes until you’ve been deprived of it for so long. See you later!”

I just hope someday someone finds the self-portrait I drew on the wall using laundry detergent and spider legs. Otherwise it’ll be like I was never really there.

Filed under: General on March 5th, 2006 | 32 Comments »