1. Turkish Delights
Why, oh why, dear Internet, hast thou forsaken me? Why did no one tell me how disgusting Turkish Delights would be? Why did you all tell me that they would be every bit as delectable as they appeared to be in Narnia? Why did you promise me that my life would feel complete with Turkish Delights?
Okay, actually, they weren’t totally disgusting, but I think the texture got to me after a while.
My brain was like:
“Hmm. That first bite was firm, but chewy. Good. Okay. I can do this. Oh! And there’s a pistachio – how unexpected! [swallow] Oh, now the second bite tastes sweeter for some reason. Did I get more of a hint of honey with this one? Yes, maybe that’s it. [swallow] Well this third bite is… is this even the same candy? What does it feel like… a rubber eraser? Head cheese? Oh, oh gross. That coconut feels like fur! [throat closing]”

2. Fat Tuesday
Co-worker #1: “Hey everyone! I brought in paczkis for our department! I had to wait in line at 5:30 this morning to get them.”
Co-workers #2-15: “Ooooh! Aaaaah! Yayyy!”
Me: “What’s a paczki? Is that like a tchotchke”
Co-workers #1-15 and the elevator repairman: “WHAT?!?!? You don’t know what paczkis are? Only the most traditional Polish Fat Tuesday jelly filled treat! What’s wrong with you?”
Me: “Uh, well… I… my mother was a heathen gypsy?”

3. Dr. Travis
Why do I care about The Bachelor: Paris so? I told my friend Natasha that I couldn’t join her at her apartment for a Bachelor finale party because I had to work on an important presentation for work. But then I ended up watching it anyway and calling her during every commercial break.
Best line ever [spoken through intermittent sobs]: “When you look at someone, and realize that you’re staring back at your soul… aboo hoo hoo!”
I am convinced that this bachelor is the spawn of Maria Shriver and a pit bull. Just look at the jaw on that kid! If he latches onto you, he’ll crack your skull.

Based on the natural physical evolution of previous Bachelors, I predict that next season we will see RoboBachelor: Silicon Valley – which woman can jumpstart his heart?

Filed under: General on March 1st, 2006 | 18 Comments »

He’s been screaming at her for the past hour, and she’s almost at her breaking point. She tries to get him to be quiet, afraid of what the neighbors must think. Why does she put herself through this? But then she remembers – sometimes when he’s asleep, she watches him breathe, wonders what he’s dreaming about. He can be so sweet at times.
“You want to leave? Then go already! Why don’t you just f*ing go?!”
He paces back and forth across the living room, ignoring her questions.
“What the hell is keeping you here? If you’re so unhappy, why don’t you walk out the door? And take all your shit with you, while you’re at it.”
He walks back over to where she is sitting on the couch, and she thinks that maybe he’s calmed down until the screaming starts all over again. This time she’s had it. She stares right back at him and laughs, cruelly.
“Oh that’s right. You can’t walk out that door, can you? Because you don’t have opposable thumbs! Scream all you want, but you’re not going anywhere, are you?!”
He paces in front of the door some more, tries to peer underneath the crack, then stretches up to rattle the doorknob.
“Tapping it’s not gonna work. Just turn it, you big baby! All you have to do is turn it to the right a little. I don’t know why you’re yelling at me – I’m not stopping you!”
He gives up, for the moment, and she hears the crunching sound of him eating some food in the kitchen.
“I should, you know. I should let you leave.”
He’s drinking some water now.
“You think it’s fun out there? You think there are bowls of food just lying around on every street corner? You wouldn’t have the first clue what to do if I actually let you outside. I mean, look at how fat you’ve gotten. Christ, it looks like you’re pregnant!”
But deep down, she knows that she’s really trying to convince herself of this. In reality, he would do just fine on his own. He’s very resourceful and quite charming when he wants to be. And he’s not afraid to ask for what he wants. He is the squeaky wheel that will always get the oil.
He tries to leave her every chance he gets. He’s made it down the stairs a few times, but she always gets him back. She thinks about not chasing after him this time. Still, though, the thought of losing him terrifies her. She tries to reconcile.
“Look, just come over and sit with me, will you? Come on. Come here, please? I’m sorry I said your ass looked like an Easter ham. You’re really in pretty good shape for being neutered.”
She strokes his face and holds his thumbless hands. He lays his head on her chest and they fall asleep together.

Filed under: General on February 27th, 2006 | 16 Comments »

I’m sitting in the food court at the train station, carelessly flipping through what is a very uninteresting newspaper. Across from me sits a table of young professionals – five in total – and I suspect that wherever they work is most likely their first job out of college.
It is their enthusiasm for lunch that betrays them – like they are still expecting there to be recess as soon as they finish their cartons of milk and scrape clean their pudding cups. The two men: bright-eyed, with just a hint of acne, and necks a bit too skinny for their big-man shirts and ties. The three women: bubbly, with nighttime makeup, and more than a bit of discomfort in their skirt suits.
Seeing these youngsters in their business attire reminds me of when I first met my friend Dee-Dee. We had both just been hired on as interns in the marketing research department at a company in Milwaukee, and were eager to make a good impression. Me with my nude pantyhose and long skirts, and Dee-Dee with her shoulders. Well, shoulder pads, really, but the image of her grand entrance into the office was that of a Donna Karan linebacker sashaying down a catwalk.
I was in earth tones and tasteful pearl earrings, but Dee-Dee meant business in her head-to-toe black. On her initial tour of the company, she was mistakenly led into the CEO’s office as he was meeting our new General Counsel.
“Dave! So nice to see you again! Great to have you as part of the team. We’re going to have to get you involved in our annual golf outing – we could use some fresh blood! And hello, I’m sorry… I don’t think we’ve met yet…”
“I’m Dee-Dee… the new intern in the marketing research department.”
With her powerful handshake extending from her even more powerful suit, it was clear from that moment that Dee-Dee would quickly climb the ladder at this company.
Years passed and dress codes grew lax. Professional Attire led to Casual Fridays which became Business Casual Always and finally Jeans Fridays. But still, Dee-Dee kept the suit. It hung in her closet like Excalibur, the source of her strength and symbol of her rise to power. She couldn’t give it up, nor the flowy chiffon pants that she and her college roommate Natasha bought on sale at Banana Republic in 1990, convinced that they would cut them up and sew them into curtains for their first apartment.
A few years ago, when Dee-Dee was rearranging her apartment, she decided to finally clean out the closet in her spare bedroom. Natasha, who had long since traded the rolling meadows of Milwaukee for the towering skyscrapers of Chicago, was in town for a visit. I was at home watching TV when Nat called me in a semi-coherent panic, yelling at me to come over to Dee’s house immediately. I expected to discover a fire or flood, but instead, found a fashion show. Natasha’s eyes were puffy from crying, as she sat in a heap of clothes on the floor of Dee-Dee’s bedroom, a half-empty bottle of wine at her side.
“Ohmigod! Jenny – get in here now! Dee’s trying on her old work clothes!”
I walked in just as Dee-Dee was buttoning up her pirate blouse. I immediately let out a most unflattering cackle, and made a bee-line to the closet. Rifling through her clothes like a madwoman, I threw one outfit after another at her.
“Here – put on this paisley vest with that collarless shirt! No wait – this short jacket with the gold buttons – try this one on!”
There were bursts of hysterical laughter followed by long periods of silence as we tried hard to pull air into our lungs. By the end, every square inch of Dee’s floor was covered with a period piece of some sort. Just as we started to pack things up and put them into bags for the Salvation Army, Dee-Dee yelled for us to stop. She crawled deep into the darkest corner of her closet and emerged bearing the pièce de résistance: hounds tooth plaid stretch pants. I blacked out shortly thereafter.
The table of young upwardly mobile professionals is laughing loudly, nearly choking on burgers and Chinese food. Lunch is still a thrill for them. One of the men has packed a lunch from home and takes big bites of his sandwich followed by gulps of Dr. Pepper.
I look down at my Caesar chicken wrap and blame Dee-Dee for my own inability to pack a lunch. During the near decade that we worked together, I can count on one hand the number of times we brought in our lunches. Even when I would try to be healthy and save money, Dee-Dee would tempt me with soup and sandwich specials at the local deli, or sushi lunch boxes in the strip mall. I grew to need the physical escape more than the food itself.
I am finishing up my lunch as the table of future executives crumples up wrappers, straightens ties, and shuffles back to work, laughing the entire way. I continue flipping through the paper and notice a headline: “Stretch pants are back!”
And so the cycle continues.

Filed under: General on February 24th, 2006 | 19 Comments »

All this Olympics fever has made me more aware of the fact that there are other countries in the world besides the United States of America (USA! USA! USA!). While watching the ice dancing competition, I was thinking about how amazing it is to see all these talented people from different countries come together in one place, when I realized that I really didn’t need to go to Torino to find such diversity – I simply had to look at my own blog. But while reviewing the overall demographics of the people who stop by my site, I discovered an unexpected and confusing trend:

Could this really be true? Is it possible that visitors from Canada outnumber my own countrymen? This really got me thinking – what is it about Canadians that draw them to this site? Do they come here by accident? Maybe my web address is really similar to a hip Canadian record store, and they just stumble here on their way to buy the new Celine Dion album. Because when I was a kid, our phone number was one digit off from an auto supply store, so we would constantly get calls asking for Napa Auto Parts. I would then tell them the correct phone number, right after I quoted the sale price of windshield wiper blades for a 1976 Buick LeSabre.
But maybe it’s more than just happenstance. Is it possible that I connect with Canadians on some emotional or philosophical level? Do we have a psychic bond that transcends international borders? I can honestly say that I have an unnatural affection for my neighbors to the north. I guess it all started when I visited Toronto as a teen. That city has everything: an opera, museums, a subway, a zoo, tall buildings, Chinatown. You can’t get that kind of stuff in Chicago.
Really, you could ask anyone who knows me and they’d tell you about my fondness for the Canadians. Go ahead – ask my friends what country I love almost as much as my own, and see what they say:

Vivian: “Uh, France? It has to be France, because she’s obsessed with French stuff. Yeah, definitely France.”
Dee-Dee: “Hmm. Probably Mexico. We’ve gone there on vacation a bunch of times, and I know she really likes tamales.”
Natasha: “Germany. She does this thing called the German Dance – it’s hysterical – and she likes chocolates. Or wait… did she hate her trip to Germany? Maybe that was it. I don’t know – probably somewhere in Europe, though.”

Okay, clearly my friends know nothing about me, because the answer is Canada. I think part of my love for Canadians might be due to the fact that they are just so darn nice. And clean. People always said that about me in school: “Jenny is pretty nice and in general, seems to have good grooming habits,” so I guess we have a lot in common.
And just like me, I think Canada is often underestimated. Well, you know what? Canada and me – we’re a lot more than just nice and clean. Frankly, we’re really tired of people always taking advantage of us, and we’re not going to take it much longer. To prove my solidarity with the Canadians, I sent off a letter to the Canadian Citizenship and Immigration Department requesting that they make me a Canadian.

Dear Emperor of Canada:
Your highness, I am writing you to request permission to become an official citizen of Canada. I like your people a lot, and think they’re really nice and clean. I would fit in well because I’m originally from Wisconsin, which might as well be Canada. Also, I really like whiskey, and growing up, my dad would always eat these little candies called Maple Nut Goodies. Are those Canadian? Probably. I didn’t like them that much, but he really does. And although I’ve only seen one hockey game in my life, and thought it was pretty boring, I’m sure I could get into it if I had to.
Enclosed please find an assortment of Canadian coins that look deceptively like real money, but will not work in any American toll booth or vending machine. I trust this will cover the cost of my new Canadian passport. Thank you!
Best regards,
Jenny Amadeo

Once I’m a Canadian, those people who underestimated me all my life had better watch out, because becoming a Canadian citizen is like joining the largest street gang in the entire world. The cleanest, nicest street gang you’ve ever had the misfortune of crossing. And if it ever came to blows, each and every one of my Canadian gang-brothers would hold your arms for me if I asked them to.
Yeah, once I’m a Canadian, all I’ll have to do is say the word and mes amis will be on you like white on rice. Do you really want to be on the bad side of Peefer? Carrington? P-Sass? Sween? There are tons more, but I’m not going to tell you their names because then it will be a surprise when you wake up in a bed filled with maple syrup. Zing!
***********************************************************************************************************
UPDATE:
Apparently a) Canada is not ruled by an Emperor, and b) you cannot simply request Canadian citizenship. The Canadian Citizenship and Immigration Department sent me a packet of information on how to become a Canadian citizen, and it looks really complicated! There’s a whole long test I have to take and like, more forms to fill out than for my taxes. Well, I suppose I’d better get started on these questions if I’m going to join the motherland anytime soon. Wish me luck, eh?
A Look at Canada: Citizenship Questions
1. Who are the Aboriginal peoples of Canada?
[Mounties]
2. Which trade spread across Canada, making it important to the economy for over 300 years?
[Baseball cards. No wait… Beanie Babies. Is it Beanie Babies?]
3. What did the government do to make immigration to western Canada much easier?
[Filled in the moat]
4. Name two fundamental freedoms protected by the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.
[Drinkin’ and whorin’]
5. What will you promise when you take the Oath of Citizenship?
[Never to do that one thing again. In public.]
6. Where do most French-speaking Canadians live?
[In hiding]
7. What does the Canadian flag look like?
[Kick-ass]
8. Give the first two lines of Canada’s national anthem.
[Oh Canada, la la la la la la.]
9. Which animal is an official symbol of Canada?
[Centaur]
10. What is the capital city of Canada?
[Toronto]
11. Name all the provinces and territories and their capital cities.
[Toronto, Toronto Territory, and New Toronto City]
12. Which region covers more than one-third of Canada?
[Middle Earth]
13. What are the three main types of industries in Canada?
[Whiskey making, maple syrup making, hockey stick making]
PS – I tried my best on these questions, but if any of my Canadian brethren and sistren out there know the answers, please let me know. Merci!

Filed under: General on February 20th, 2006 | 44 Comments »

I was reading Ashbloem’s blog recently when she made reference to boquerones, and then Neil talked about how much he loved boquerones, and then Ash replied that she can get boquerones at the little store across the street from her house. My first thought was, “What the hell are boquerones?” My next thought was, “I should Google boquerones to find out what they are.”
I clicked over to Google and started to type boquerones, when something made me stop mid-click.
As I sat in front of my computer, all alone in my apartment except for my cat Zahara who was staring at me from atop my monitor, and her brother Maddox who was sitting quietly on the radiator, I had a sudden realization. It used to mean something that I could quote the entire poem, Jabberwocky, from memory, or that I knew all the lyrics to the theme song from the TV show The Banana Splits. These seemingly useless facts that lodged in my brain for one reason or another gave me some odd sense of accomplishment and endeared me to others. But the Internet, particularly Google, changed all that.
With my cursor hovering over the “Google Search” button, it hit me like a ton of bricks: Google is the reason I am alone.
The supply and demand of knowledge is what once drew people together. If I wanted to know how to make a pot roast, I would ask my mother. If I couldn’t remember the name of the actor who played the bad guy in LA Confidential, I would call Seamus. If I needed to find out how to cook up some crystal meth in my basement, I would talk to my friend Dr. Greene.
Now I don’t need any of them. I have Google.
As convenient as this may seem, it also means that none of them need me either. Whatever unique knowledge I once was able to impart is now available online on at least 60,000 different pages within nanoseconds. Google is the reason that no one needs me.
If this were 1984 and I had received a letter from a young pen-pal who made reference to boquerones, I would have just called her and said, “Hey Ash! Ohmigod – did you see Mary Lou Retton win the gold? She’s awesome! I kind of wish she were my best friend – is that weird? Anyway, I was reading that letter you wrote, and was just wondering, what the heck are boquerones?”
Then she would have told me what they were, and shared a wonderful story about the first time she tried them (or wore them, or played them, as the case may be) and a cherished memory would have been created. But it is not 1984. Mary Lou Retton is not my best friend. I do not call people when I need information and they do not call me. We have all been robbed of these bonding life experiences by the über-convenience of the Internet.
And so now, in 2006, I have decided to boycott Google. Starting today, if I need to know something, I am going to communicate with live human beings and ask them. If they don’t know the answer, then maybe I’ll go to the library and use a card catalog, if they still exist. I’ll pull a dusty encyclopedia off the shelf, Volume Aa-Ce, and look up boquerones. If that doesn’t work, I will exclusively watch UniVision, because I think that boquerones sound Spanish, and perhaps I will hear the word and be able to figure out its meaning through visual context. Or maybe I will subscribe to National Geographic on the outside chance that there will be an article about boquerones, which may or may not be small flightless birds found only in the Azores.
As unnecessarily time consuming and inefficient as this process will be, I will stand my ground. Despite the fact that it is agonizing to type the word boquerones over and over again without knowing what it means, I will never, not ever, Google this word. I will force myself to need people. If I am ever to learn what boquerones are, I will have to wait for the day when Ashbloem tells me about them herself.
I just hope it’s a really good story, because otherwise, holy crap, this all will have been a colossal waste of time.
********************************************************************************************************
[And in other news, thank you again Kevin! It was so great to see you and Ryan again – you are both as funny and charming as ever. Sorry I missed you Chris – were you there?]

Filed under: General on February 17th, 2006 | 28 Comments »

Dee-Dee poured some more wine from the tiny carafe into her glass. She continued her conversation without looking up from the piece of bread she was buttering.
“You have to do it, Jenny.”
Natasha agreed, “Seriously, Jen. I mean, what are you, heartless?”
“But guys… it’s just. I don’t want to cross tha-“
“It’s not a matter of want. There are some things you just have to do in life.”
I went to my friends seeking advice on a matter that was troubling me, partly because I thought they would support my decision. I was caught a bit off guard when they both told me that my actions, or lack thereof, were categorically wrong and possibly indicative of a severe emotional shortcoming on my part.
Earlier in the evening, while we were waiting for our appetizers to arrive, I told Dee-Dee and Nat that I needed to run something by them. As my trusted companions, I felt they would help me see the situation more clearly.
“So… I need your advice. Someone I work with has been kind of upset lately – I think over family problems – and I feel like she wants to confide in me. I don’t really know her at all… I mean we don’t chit-chat, we don’t hang out, we don’t do lunch… but I just feel like something’s coming.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I feel like fairly soon, I’m going to be put in a position where I’m going to have to hug her.”
“What’s so wrong with that? So hug her.”
“C’mon, guys! You know I don’t hug co-workers. It’s just a policy. Remember when my first boss hugged me at Christmas? Ugh, god. It was so awkward and forced… my back is tightening up just thinking about it! I just want to do my job, and it doesn’t involve touching other people.”
Natasha nodded as she perused the menu for her dinner choices. She gave Dee-Dee a knowing glance and said, “Yeah, Jen. You’re really not a hugger, are you?”
“I am so! I hug my friends all the time!”
“You never hug me.”
“What are you talking about? When am I not hugging you? Nat, I hugged you yesterday on the train for god’s sake. You just couldn’t feel it under your enormous Army-Navy snorkel jacket.”
Dee-Dee stepped in, “Look, Jenny. We never really want to hug co-workers, but sometimes it’s the only thing we can do. I mean, look at me. I was hugging people every week at my last job, in between taking them for walks around the building to calm down.”
“Yeah, but that’s because you and everyone you worked with were only one executive budget meeting away from a nervous breakdown.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that, but all the same, I hugged a LOT of people. And you know I’m not a hugger!”
This was true. I think I had been friends with Dee-Dee for five years before we finally hugged, and that was just because her house had been robbed and she was happy to see me arrive with lumber and a toolbox to fix her door.
I think people are innately huggers or non-huggers, and Dee-Dee’s family, being of Nordic descent, lean more toward the non-hugger side of the hugging continuum. Once, she described the image of hugging her sister as that of two Daddy Long Legs embracing, a visual which still brings me great joy.
I’m not entirely sure where I fall on this hug spectrum. I suspect that I carry the hugger gene, but that it is recessive. Or maybe it’s environmentally triggered – the gene completely shuts down the moment I swipe my ID badge through the reader at work.
“But Dee, you know I’m not a cold person at work. Remember when we had to take those personality tests at work that one year? You’re the one who scored low in ‘Caring,’ not me. I was off the frickin’ charts in ‘Caring’ and you know it!”
“Well, I may have scored low in ‘Caring,’ but which one of us is hugging our co-workers? Me or you?”
“I wish Vivian were here. She’d support me – she’s super professional at work. She knows all about drawing lines between personal and professional.”
“Vivian? Are you joking? Viv has worked in the non-profit sector all her life. All those people do is hug each other all the time. Why do you think they can’t turn a profit?”
I tossed my menu down, gulped back the last sip of wine in my glass and signaled to our waiter that we were ready to order our entrees.
“All right, fine. You and Nat are both so compassionate and hug everyone and I’m an ice queen. Hug, hug, hug. Care, care, care. You’re just hugging and caring all day long! I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s get some more wine.”
EPILOGUE:
To: Natasha
CC: Dee-Dee
From: Jenny
Subject: Hugs
hey. so i did it. i hugged her. it was fine. i hope you’re happy.
– j
************************************************
To: Jenny
CC: Dee-Dee
From: Natasha
Subject: Re: Hugs
what are you talking about?
– nat
************************************************
To: Natasha
CC: Dee-Dee
From: Jenny
Subject: Re: Hugs
what do you mean what am i talking about? the hug. dinner last week? you and dee-dee both told me i had to hug her so i did.
************************************************
To: Jenny
CC: Dee-Dee
From: Natasha
Subject: Re: Hugs
are you kidding? i was on my third glass of wine that night! never listen to me when i’m drunk. you should *never* hug a co-worker.
– nat
ps – wanna go to the gym tonight?
************************************************
To: Natasha
CC: Dee-Dee
From: Jenny
Subject: Re: Hugs
you’re dead to me.

Filed under: General on February 13th, 2006 | 24 Comments »

“Three tickets for the 7:15 Walk the Line, please.”
“You mean the 8:30?”
“No, the 7:15.”
“There is no 7:15. Just 8:30.”
Seamus turned around and looked at us with a guilty expression, shrugging his shoulders as he walked back to where his girlfriend and I were waiting. I was trying to cram in another critically-acclaimed movie before the Oscars so that Brokeback Mountain wouldn’t be the only nominated film I had seen, but apparently it wasn’t meant to be.
“I don’t want to wait until 8:30. What else is playing now?”
We looked up at the marquee:
Munich at 7:20? Seamus had seen it already.
Match Point at 7:30? Eh, maybe.
Glory Road at 7:05? Isn’t that about basketball?
Big Momma’s House 2 at 7:40? Aw, hell no, you did not just suggest that!
Chronicles of Narnia at 8:00? Narnia! Narnia! Narnia! YES!
So Narnia it was. After killing some time at the Starbucks across the street, we got our tickets, grabbed some snacks (medium plain popcorn and bottled water – $7.75), and settled in to a near-empty theatre.
I don’t want to spoil the film for those of you who haven’t seen it, but I came away filled with desire. Deep, burning, passionate desire. Ever since we saw the movie, I find myself madly covetous of the following:
1. A fancy fur coat – all four of the children got to walk around Narnia in full-length fur coats, and they never seemed the slightest bit cold, even though they were wearing tiny little British summer shoes. If fur can keep someone that warm in a land of eternal winter, imagine what it would do for me in Chicago!
2. Turkish Delights – I want these more than all the Marshmallow Peeps in the world! Turkish Delights! Turkish Delights! I didn’t know if they actually existed until Jen at Nobody Here shared the story of when her husband brought her some from England. She told me they were horrible. She told me they tasted like roses. She told me not to eat them. I do not trust this woman. Why would someone work so hard to make me think something so clearly wonderful was, in fact, disgusting? Either a) because they truly are disgusting or b) because they are, in fact, clearly wonderful and she wants to keep them all to herself. I choose to believe the latter.
3. A centaur boyfriend – Did you check out the guns on that man-horse? Hubba hubba! Can you imagine how cool it would be to have a centaur boyfriend? I suppose I would have to get used to sleeping in the stable, but he could give me a ride to work every day. I’d be all, “Look at me riding on my new centaur boyfriend. Your boyfriend just has two legs. LAME!” And then you’d be all, “Uh, yeah. Well, at least my boyfriend has a real job. Your boyfriend pulls a Hansom cab and poops into a bag.” And then I’d say, “SHUT UP!”
So my Valentine’s Day wish for myself is this: a date with a fur-coat wearing centaur bearing a bejeweled box of Turkish Delights. I don’t know why it is so difficult to find a date for this stupid holiday!

Filed under: General on February 10th, 2006 | 26 Comments »

This past weekend, I was telling a group of friends about my recent bar room interrogation, and how I realized that I’m not really quick enough with the lies. One of my friends revealed her secret weapon for dealing with such situations: make up an absurd profession and the rest of the lies will just flow like water.
“So what do you tell people you do?”
“I say I’m a dolphin trainer.”
“A dolphin trainer? Okay, you’ve got to be joking. Who would believe that?”
“Lots of people. I tell them I work at the Shedd Aquarium.”
“What if they ask you how you train dolphins?”
“I say they’re actually really easy to train. They’re a lot like dogs. Really intelligent, they have very distinct personalities. It’s really rewarding work.”
“Okay, that’s insane.”
“Works every time.”
As outlandish as this seemed, I was intrigued. Maybe I needed a fake career, too. It would have to be something normal enough to be believable, yet complex enough that people wouldn’t ask too many questions. So I consulted my friends:
“Hey guys – maybe I want a pretend job, too.”
“All right – what do you want to be?”
“I’m not sure… I think I’d like it to be kind of scientific, but a little uncommon. Maybe something that ends in -ologist.”
“Like a cosmetologist?”
“No, more scientific, like an ophthalmologist. My brother’s an ophthalmologist, so I could probably fake my way through that one. No, wait – I want to work at the Field Museum! What are those people who study bugs? I could say I’m in charge of the butterfly displays at the Field Museum!”
“Entomologist.”
“Yeah. I’m totally going to be an entomologist.”
“Sick.”
“Yeah, that’s sick, Jenny. How about a paleontologist?”
“No, that’s lame.”
“Bugs are better than dinosaurs?”
“At least bugs still exist. Paleontologists are just living in the past. Oh! I just read about this new kind of scorpion they discovered, along with like 20 different species of bugs, in some caves somewhere. I could use that anecdote to prove I’m an entomologist!”
“Somehow I think people will believe you’re an entomologist without any help.”
“Thanks! Hey, wait a minute!”
[In the event that I pick a fake career like an entomologist, for example, and then someone says, “Really? My dad is an entomologist. What’s your area of specialization?” I’ll need to have a backup career. That way I can say, “Entomologist? No, you heard me wrong – I said endocrinologist.” I am now amassing a list of fake –ologist careers to keep in my back pocket, so let me know if you have any to add to the list. Thanks!]

Filed under: General on February 1st, 2006 | 29 Comments »

The entry you are about to read contains references that may be upsetting to the weak-stomached. Parental discretion and eating cessation are advised. Rated M for Mature due to disturbing imagery and mild drug reference.
Last week, I was on the phone with my friend Vivian, having what was I’m sure an important philosophical debate, when I heard a sound that is all too familiar to cat owners. It starts with a wheeze, followed by a chuk-chuk-chuk, and then the inevitable explosion of cat puke, which in my case, typically lands on an important document or new pair of pants.
Normally I wouldn’t be so worried about a hairball, since it comes with the territory, but ever since the last health scare I had with one of my cats a few months ago, I’m a little overprotective. I hung up with Vivian and immediately started the search.
I went to all the usual locations:

• Bathroom rug? Checked out fine.
• New gym shoes? Still untouched.
• W-2 forms? Clean as a whistle.
• Living room sofa? Vomit-free since 2003.
• Great Aunt’s Oriental rug? Oh for the love of all that is holy!

And there it was – the entire contents of my cat’s stomach laid out for me to behold. But…why was it blackish-green? I started to freak out a bit. Why did my cats keep getting sick? Was it possible that, like canaries in a mine, they were reacting to some toxic chemicals in my house that had yet to affect me? I ran around the apartment looking for Maddox and Zahara* to determine which one was sick. Zahara was fast asleep in my underwear drawer (which now explains all the claw marks in my bras) so I knew that Maddox had to be the culprit.
I found him on the linoleum floor of the kitchen, curled up next to the now empty container of catnip I had forgotten to put away after refilling their cat toys earlier that day. Maddox had essentially consumed half a kilo of high-grade catnip in one sitting (street value estimated at $4.99), vomited the majority of it back onto my rug, and was now coming down off the biggest buzz of his life.
As soon as I picked him up, Maddy let out a squeaky, green-toothed meow, looked up at me with dilated pupils, and then immediately began purring and kneading my arm. I gently set him in his cat bed, turned on a soft light, covered him with a blanket, and sang him to sleep with a little, “No Woman, No Cry.” I then brought a bowl of food next to his bed, knowing that he would wake up with a case of the munchies like he’d never had before. It had all the makings of a Public Service Announcement: This is your cat. This is your cat on drugs. Get the picture?
*I’m so excited to announce that I recently got court approval to officially change my cats’ names to Maddox and Zahara. Now I am just trying to decide between Amadeo-Jolie-Pitt, or Jolie-Pitt-Amadeo.

Filed under: General on January 26th, 2006 | 17 Comments »

Well, I haven’t found my Latin lover yet, but I am pretty sure I know what the Spanish Inquisition was like.
On Saturday, I went out with Nat and her sister Baby G to listen to some boy music because Nat’s boyfriend is in twelve different bands, one of which was playing that night. Prior to the band starting, we all made a quick run to Walgreen’s to pick up earplugs and candy bars, because that’s how we party. We opted for the flattering blue earplugs that were noise reduction rated up to 33 decibels. Oh, and I got a new Hershey bar with caramel. It was extra creamy, just like the wrapper promised.
Shortly after arriving at the bar, Nat and I saw an empty stool and set our coats on it. The gentleman next to us teased us about there being a one coat minimum per stool. I laughed. And thus began the Inquisition:
So are you ladies here to see the bands?
Yes. How about-
Are they any good? Who are the bands?
Actually, I don’t really know. My friend’s boyfriend is in one of them.
Reeeeallly? [It’s important that you understand the way this man said the word “really.” There’s a movie character from like, the 1940’s or 1950’s, who had a pencil-thin mustache and would drum his fingers together while working at some front desk somewhere and say, “Yessssss?” and “May I help yoooooouuuuu?” and “Oh, reeeeeeally?” in an overly dramatic and high-pitched manner. Because it was exactly like that guy.]
[Nat had just handed me my beer when I turned to her to draw her into what I suspected could be a strange conversation, yet she had somehow completely vaporized. Her body had reappeared halfway across the bar, next to her sister and boyfriend. I was all alone.]
Uh, yeah. So he’s in the band, but I’ve never heard them. Are you here to see any of the bands?
No. So where are you from? Were you born and raised in Chicago? Have you lived here all your life?
Uh, no. I’m originally from Wisconsin. [MORON! Why did you say that?]
Reeeeallly? Wisconsin? You’re kidding? Where in Wisconsin?
Milwaukee. [Why are you saying these things? Stop answering!]
Reeeeallly? Milwaukee? So is your family still there? Do you have a big family? Brothers? Sisters?
I have three brothers. [Good, Jenny, you’ve found your lies.]
Reeeeallly? Three brothers? And so are you the youngest? Do they call you the baby? I mean, would they actually say that you’re the baby of the family?
No, they would say I was the girl.
Mmm hmm. And so how long have you lived in Chicago? Do you like Chicago?
Yes, I like Chicago a lot. Do you live here? [Maybe if I ask a question he’ll stop asking me questions. Flawed logic, I now understand that.]
Yes. So what do you like to do for fun? Do you like movies, the arts, literature, what?
Uh… sure [glancing over at Nat, who is engaged in some hilarious conversation with a group of friends].
Okay, so if you had to pick just one of those things to do, and you could only do one thing, what would it be?
Uh, movies, I guess. [Seriously, Jenny. WTF? Why are you still answering these questions? Are you doing this just to have something to write about, because that’s really f*d up.]
Reeeeallly? So what movies do you want to win the Oscars? Have you seen Brokeback Mountain? How about Walk the Line? Who are your favorite actors?
Brokeback Mountain was good. I didn’t see Walk the Line – was it good?
Huh? I don’t know, I didn’t see it. But if you had to pick one movie to win the entire Oscars, what would it be?
King Kong.
Reeeeallly?
Yes, really. It was brilliant.
Did you cry?
Of course.
Reeeeallly? Now, had you seen the original? Did you know how it ended?
Sure.
Reeeeallly? Well, who was it who got you to see the original? Did you just watch it on your own, or did someone tell you to watch it? A friend? Mother? Father? Boyfriend?
[Oh please tell me that this 10 minute rapid fire question session was not just one really elaborate prelude to asking me if I have a boyfriend.] You know, it’s been so long, I just can’t remember. And speaking of a long time, I should really go join my friends now.
Okay, I just have two more questions.
[Are you f*ing kidding me?] Okay.
So how would you describe your musical tastes?
Eclectic.
Reeeeallly?
Yes, really. Okay that was two questions – gotta go, bye!
I quickly grabbed my drink and rejoined Baby G and Nat, who had a guilty look on her face.
“Sorry Jen, I didn’t know what to do.”
“Oh you knew exactly what to do. Abandon your friend in enemy territory. Godammit, Nat! You just disappeared!”
“Jenny, I said I was sorry. Maybe you were enjoying his company, how do I know?”
“Um, I think you heard him say ‘Reeeeallly’ at least three times if I’m not mistaken. I could’ve been clubbed and thrown in the back of a van for all you knew.”
“I was keeping an eye on you. You seemed to be doing just fine.”
“Yeah, I was just on a frickin’ speed date, and I didn’t even know it. Nice. I won’t forget this, you know.”
“Look, Jen. I didn’t know how to get you out! We never came up with an exit strategy for these types of things.”
“How about you yank me away with a cane à la Sandman?”
“Hey, maybe that’s it. Just work the word ‘sandman’ into a conversation, and I’ll know to pull you out.”
“So when I turn to you and scream ‘Sandman! SANDMAN!!!!’ as I’m being chloroformed and dragged out on my heels, then will you know to come get me?”
“I’ll be there immediately. Are we good?”
“All is forgiven. Alright, let’s head in. I think the bands are starting.”
“Reeeeallly?”
“Now you’re pushing your luck, Nat.”

Filed under: General on January 23rd, 2006 | 17 Comments »