“Whatever you do,” she sighed, “if you decide to get married someday…”
I stood next to her in silence for a few long seconds while she played with her ring, gathering her thoughts. She measured her breathing, taking control.
“Just make sure he loves you more.”
Filed under: General on January 21st, 2006 | 11 Comments »
As is our typical ritual, my friend Dee-Dee and I exchanged Christmas gifts nearly a month after the holiday had passed. Maybe it’s our way of prolonging the season, but more likely, it’s just forgetfulness. It is nice, though, to have some splash of festivity after the holiday fanfare has died down. Especially now that we will go months without a corporate sanctioned day off, through bitter January into bleak February and still brutal March.
There is, of course, St. Valentine’s Day. I have not had the best of luck with this holiday, I should admit. Last year I almost got chocolates, but that is as close as I’ve come in ages to actually celebrating this day.
But this year is all about more love, and I intend on making Muriel Rukeyser proud. This more love mantra can inform and inspire so many areas of life: platonic love, familial love, self love, and yes, Latin love.
It came to me like a bolt of lightning as I was strolling through the candy aisle at Target this weekend: I must find a Latin lover. I had one once, you know, so many years ago. His name was Raymundo, a Panamanian exchange student who lived in my dorm. It was a brief affair, as it was meant to be, but I never forgot how much he loved the band Heart. I ran into him years later, and his once thick accent was but a hint that only slipped out after several Cuba Libres. He had become so very ordinary.
My new Latin lover will be anything but ordinary, and probably won’t even know who the band Heart is. I will tell him, “They are called Corazon in your language. They are sisters. I think that one is Nancy… oh, it doesn’t matter. Just kiss me.”
And so begins my quest:
Step One: Bait
I sift through this box carefully, and examine each heart with jeweler’s precision. If I had a loupe, it would be firmly affixed to my eye right now. They must be perfect. My Latin lover deserves only the best, so I devour any heart that is not up to my standards. Slightly misshapen? Chomp! Blurry letters? Chomp! Adios? Chomp!
Why would I want to tell my Latin lover goodbye? I will never tell him goodbye, not even when we part. I will only tell him, te amo. Or perhaps I will call him mi vida, or one of the other seven phrases I have learned from these hearts. He will not mind that the only Spanish I speak comes courtesy of Necco, so strong is our amor.
The rest of this week will be spent placing these hearts in strategic locations throughout Chicago, with my phone number written neatly on the back in non-toxic ink. I must never poison my Latin lover.
It is no accident that this is the last heart I pull from the box:
I hope
Filed under: General on January 18th, 2006 | 22 Comments »
After a depressing evening of sitting at Natasha’s house watching the Bears lose to some other team, which apparently means they can’t go on to the World Series, I was a little agitated.
“Why did you make me come over here? I don’t even care about football to begin with, I haven’t watched a game all season, and now my stomach’s all upset. I feel angry and I’ve got nowhere to direct it.”
“Don’t take it out on me! I didn’t think it would be like this. It just seemed like something we should do. Here – maybe something good is on TV and we can forget all about that game.”
After flipping around for a few minutes, we caught the tail end of Extreme Makeover – Home Edition, which just made us angrier because they just kept flashing to the shot of that one guy with glasses as he would wipe away tears.
“Maybe if they would stop crying so damn much and just work on the house, they wouldn’t be so worried about not finishing on time!” Nat screamed.
“Yeah, stupid bunch of crybabies.”
“I did totally cry at that one a few weeks ago, though, where the mom had died.”
“Oh yeah, and they made that memorial for her? I totally cried.”
Once the big reveal was over, we flipped through a few more channels – trough full of cow’s blood on Fear Factor, period piece snoozefest on Masterpiece Theatre, sci-fi teeny-boppers on Supernatural – before almost giving up.
Nat was circling back to the beginning of her limited non-cable channels when suddenly we heard something that stopped us in our tracks.
“I’m a 57-year old menopausal lady, which most of you know brings things like fatigue, insomnia… I would get migraines, and in between migraines I would get daily headaches, and then I really reached the climax. I got cluster headaches. I thought there was no hope whatsoever, until I discovered Dr. Ho.”
Dr. Ho? We were immediately hooked.
During the 20+ minute infomercial, Natasha and I learned that Dr. Ho had devoted his life to the study of natural medicine. He was disappointed in the limited results of many therapeutic devices on the market designed to help patients with chronic pain, so along with a group of very innovative engineers, he developed Dr. Ho’s Muscle Massage System!
Although skeptical at first, as I watched unpaid testimonial after unpaid testimonial, I started to become a believer. Within twenty minutes, these people were relieved of the chronic pain that decades of highly addictive painkillers had not assuaged.
It all seemed so easy to use – simply attach the electrodes with gel pads to the area of your body that is bothering you, and Dr. Ho’s revolutionary invention sends electrical shocks in controlled bursts to the afflicted area. The number of uses for this magical machine were mind-boggling:
I elbowed Nat in the arm and said, “You know what use they keep leaving out?”
“What?”
“Sexual frustration.”
Nat rolled her eyes and said, “Whatever.”
“Oh, please. Like this thing wasn’t invented for that? Give me a break. Controlled bursts of electricity? Why don’t they just come out and say that you can use it on your hoo-ha?”
“You mean your cha-cha?”
“Yeah, your gee-gaw.”
Nat paused for a second, then asked, “Isn’t a gee-gaw like a knick-knack?”
“Is it? I don’t know – I got confused. I mean like your privates.”
“Okay, you did not just say ‘privates.’ What are you, twelve?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Ho. I didn’t realize that ‘cha-cha’ was the official anatomical term.”
A few more testimonials went by, and I started to feel a pinch in my shoulder. It’s where I always hold my stress, I’ve been told. I looked over at Nat and said, “Hey, maybe we should get one of these things. I’m kind of intrigued.”
“Yeah, me too. But it’s like $200 – I’m not paying that!”
“We could split the cost, go halfsies maybe?”
“Uh, yeah I don’t think so. Especially now that I know what you want to do with it…”
The infomercial ended, I packed up my things, and headed home. I still felt a bit of the pent up rage from earlier in the evening, but clung to the knowledge that if I made it home within the next 30 minutes, Dr. Ho would reduce the price and offer me his wonderful system for just three easy payments of $49.95 each.
It turned out to be a good night, indeed.
Filed under: General on January 16th, 2006 | 21 Comments »
Do not be alarmed! We interrupt this beat-tastic groove to draw your attention to the first official Comment Orgy of 2006.
And I can think of no better person to carry the torch than my good friend Peefer. Peefer and I met on a German ocean liner back in 1957, where he was working as a cabin steward and I was hired on as a waitress. Peefer began performing magic for some of the passengers, eventually being allowed to host his own show, with me as his assistant. Unbeknownst to the crew, I had smuggled a cheetah named Chico aboard the vessel. My love for Peefer and Chico grew with time, although it was forbidden and misunderstood. We eventually moved to Las Vegas… wait a minute. No, no. Something’s wrong. Oh my god, is my face red! That’s not how Peefer and I met – that’s how Siegfried and Roy met. Ooops!
Peefer and I met at a comment orgy where he locked himself into a virtual bathroom, and the rest is history. The boy knows how to party, people, so get on over there and show him some comment love.
Resume body rockin’.
Filed under: General on January 10th, 2006 | 3 Comments »
I am trying to fight it, this feeling of obligation to get dressed up real pretty and eat bloody prime rib and sip bitter champagne and kiss strangers on the lips. I am weary from the holidays, belly bloated from cookies and cabernet, brain overwhelmed by too much familial stimulation. A hot shower, frozen pizza, and pajamas sound ever so inviting. But it is New Year’s Eve, and that just isn’t done.
Still, my friends and I are staging a boycott of sorts, and avoiding the crowded bars and overpriced restaurants for the relative comfort of my apartment. I may still get dressed up real pretty and sip bitter champagne, but there will be no bloody prime rib here, no strange lips to kiss. And that’s all for the better, I suppose, because I have always found New Year’s Eve to be a bit of a letdown.
Like many people, I am currently suffering from holidus interruptus deprimus, or what is commonly referred to as the post-holiday blues. The Christmas season now officially begins on or about October 15th, when red and green ornaments start to commingle with the Halloween decorations at Walgreens. For two months we anticipate this one day with shopping and travel plans, cooking and tree-trimming. Chipper coworkers organize holiday potluck lunches, their jingle bell festooned sweaters dusted off from dark closets.
For the love of god, I made cocktail meatballs three times in two weeks.
This being my 34th Christmas, one would think that I would know what to expect, but the depression always catches me a bit by surprise. And it’s no one’s fault – nothing could live up to the expectations that build up over these eight weeks.
Maybe it’s because I watch too many movies that these events play out like film shorts in my head. I’ll say this, then she’ll do that, and he’ll think this, and we’ll go there. It so rarely happens that way, but that never seems to stop me from my mental screenwriting. It just gets a bit frustrating when all the best scenes keep winding up on the editing room floor.
In a way, maybe it’s a good thing that each year ends with more of a whimper than a bang. How sad it would be to start off each new year feeling like it couldn’t possibly top the last. Instead, I am typically left with a sense of hopefulness that next year will be better.
I will remember not to drink so much. My family and I will finally make good on our promise of less holiday excess. I will learn a new recipe for cocktail meatballs. And I will wear more lipstick, in case I should run across some strange lips after all.
Filed under: General on December 31st, 2005 | 19 Comments »
Come, they told me
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
A new blog entry, please
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
My old one’s boring now
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
Alone at work somehow
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
Rum-pa-pum-pum
Rum-pa-pum-pum
Little bloggers
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
I am a lazy girl
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
No Christmas tales to share
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
That are fit for public air
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
Rum-pa-pum-pum
Rum-pa-pum-pum
On my blog.
That song always chokes me up. ‘Specially when he’s all, “I’ll play my best for him.” And when the ox and lamb keep time. I like that part the most of all.
Anyway, I really don’t have anything for you. Except Greedo and mini Lincoln logs. I’ll post some pics for you, pa rum pa pum pum. The best that I can do, pa rum… you know the rest. Happy holidays, folks!
Filed under: General on December 27th, 2005 | 18 Comments »
I believe it is a sign that I have chosen my friends well in life when I invite Natasha over for pre-Christmas snacks and we drink wine, toast the holidays, exchange gifts, then simultaneously open nearly identical origami how-to kits.
One thing the kits did not explicitly state, however, is that 1) you should not attempt origami after polishing off a bottle of Pinot Noir and 2) you must never begin with a Level 4 Tyrannosaurus Rex. The results could be disastrous.
Looks simple enough.
Cool! A T-Rex!
For almost five minutes straight, Natasha mumbled to herself, “Fold the tip of the top section up. The tip of the top. Okay, tip of the top. Wait… so, which part is the tip? The tip of what? Fold the tip to the top. To the top. Am I folding the tip to the top… oh, the tip OF the top.”
“Hey Nat, why don’t you just fold the tip to the top?”
“Screw you.”
Headless T-Rexes tell no tales.
“Let’s try something easier. Hey! Here’s a Level 1 Swan!”
Lame.
Tricks with dollar bills.
I cannot tell a lie. Natasha did this one.
Who’s the cutest little sailor boy? Who’s my little sailor? Yes you are!
My 2005 Christmas card:
Filed under: General on December 21st, 2005 | 23 Comments »
She asked if I minded if she sat at my table, since the mall was so crowded. I said not at all, be my guest. She thanked me and told me that she was starving. We sat across from each other at the tiny table, eating silently and staring off at random points in the distance for ten minutes or so, when she asked me how my Christmas shopping was going.
Actually it’s going fairly well, I said. I have a few things to pick up for my mother and sister-in-law, but other than that I’m in pretty good shape.
She said that was good to hear. I asked her if she was finished herself, or still had a lot of shopping to do. As she responded, I watched her eyes. They were small and perfectly round, pale blue with pink-rimmed lids. I would estimate that she was in her early-seventies, though she wore her blondish tinted hair in a style that was much younger.
She didn’t smile often, but when she did, her face completely transformed.
In a voice so soft that I often had to lean in to hear her, she told me about her Christmas plans. She was going to her nephew’s house, at least I think that’s what she said. Whoever it was, he is very well-off, according to the woman, and lives out in Lake Barrington. I raised my eyebrows and said, well now!
He never lets me bring anything, but this year he agreed to let me bring a dessert, the woman told me. One dessert, he told me, and he’s having 22 people over, can you imagine that, she asked? Serving prime rib for all those people, if you can believe it. Plus he has shrimp cocktail and other hors-d’oeuvres beforehand, so many that the woman is barely hungry for dinner. I asked what time I should come over, and we laughed.
And this year he bought one of those things, a chocolate machine. I asked her if she was talking about those chocolate fountains I keep hearing about. She said that yes, it was a chocolate fountain. I told her that I had never been to a party with one of those, but frankly they seemed a bit messy. She nodded and agreed with me, adding that while she likes chocolate, a fountain of it just seemed like too much.
He asked me to make mincemeat pie, but I want to bring pumpkin, she continued. I think mincemeat is too rich, and I just adore a good spicy pumpkin pie with whipped cream. Real whipped cream, I asked? Oh yes, of course, she smiled.
We continued talking, bouncing from subject to subject. Marzipan to Medicare. Spritz cookies to sprawling condos. She said that she had a husband, being clear to say had, and I noticed that she wore no rings on her delicate hands. She commented that she didn’t have children, then said that she would have… and her voice trailed off too softly for me to hear the rest.
She told me she was going to get a makeover at Nordstrom’s. They never do my hair right at the place I’ve been going to, she said, as she gently touched her hair. Most of their clients are old people. She paused, then said, like me, but I don’t want my hair to look that way.
I smiled at her, and she asked me, is your hair naturally curly? I nodded yes. She said that it was just lovely and that I was very lucky. I smiled again and could feel my cheeks warming. Thank you, you’re very sweet to say that, I told her.
I looked down at my watch and realized that we had been talking for over half an hour. The table next to us turned over twice in the time we had been sitting there, with people rushing to eat and get back to their holiday shopping. As I started to gather my things to continue with my own shopping, the woman dug around in her purse looking for a coupon she had mentioned earlier. Did you see it in today’s paper, she asked? It was for another 25% off at Marshall Field’s. Oh, I must have left it at home. Too bad.
She thanked me again for letting her join me at my table, and I said it was truly my pleasure. I had such a lovely time talking with you, I said, and she agreed. As I stepped away from the table, I put my hand on her shoulder and said, Merry Christmas, and I still think you should just bring that pumpkin pie anyway.
Filed under: General on December 18th, 2005 | 20 Comments »
I’ve got to tell you, all this thinking about exercising has really worn me out, physically and emotionally. And with xmas shopping stress looming overhead, I find myself a few quarts low on creative juices. Thusly, I decided to perform mouth-to-mouth on this meme from Brando that he tried to kill on his site. Frankly, the main reason I was compelled to steal this idea is because it requires absolutely no thought on my part, just lots of hyperlinking. Which, sadly, probably took me as long as it would have to craft an entirely new post.
Here’s how it works: take the first line from the first post of each month this year, and compile them all into one neat little entry. Simple, no?
I enjoyed this so much, in fact, that I might just devote all of 2006 to further rehashings of my 2005 entries. Today I’ll take the first line of each of the past twelve months, then next week I’ll take the second, then the third, and so on. Suddenly, it will be 2007 and I’ll be bursting with fresh ideas.
So there you have it: Run Jen Run 2005 – Cliffs Notes Edition. Now go try it yourself, why don’t you? You know you want to!
Hey mom, it’s me. 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. As the years click by, even if I don’t psychologically feel older, my body takes great pleasure in reminding me of my age every now and then. Scene: Chicago O’Hare, Winter 2005. After encountering three children in the elevator, and one pre-teen eyeing up the coffee machine at work, I eventually deduced that last Wednesday was “Take Your Child to Work Day.” I spent Memorial Day weekend at my brother’s house in Wisconsin, working desperately on my never-ending quest to achieve Favorite Aunt status with my two nephews. It’s funny, but no matter how hard we try to outgrow the awkwardness that marked our teen years, occasionally we let slip some vital clue that speaks to a less than popular past. “Hey Jen, it’s Viv.” Stretched out on my love seat and lazily flipping through a copy of Chicago Magazine, I propped the phone under my chin as I talked with my friend Vivian. I’m not sure if I forgot to set the alarm, or if I just didn’t hear it go off, but when I finally woke up on the morning of my flight to LA, I was feeling completely disoriented. Heavy duty box cutter: $9.99. It had all the makings of an historic occasion.
Filed under: General on December 15th, 2005 | 17 Comments »
Well, it’s almost the end of the year, which means it’s almost time for me to make a lot of empty promises to myself about being a better person, doing things differently, making changes. This year is a big one for me, though. I’m turning 35 in a few months, and I have to face the sad realization that I have the muscle tone of a newborn and the lung capacity of a three-pack a day coal miner.
This cannot continue. So this past weekend, I decided to take charge of my life and do the unthinkable – I joined a gym. As a permanent member. With a laminated card and everything.
Part of what has kept me out of gyms all these years, aside from inertia and reality television, is that they intimidate the crap out of me. Everyone is so focused in the gym – they have coordinated outfits, vitamin water, things that measure heart rate, and oh god, shower shoes!
I had been talking about joining the gym down the street from me for the past year, but always found some reason not to take the plunge. I would walk by at night and look up at all the muscular silhouettes running on the treadmills that faced out onto the street, iPods firmly secured, water bottles perfectly poised, and I’d think, “My god those people are sweaty. They’re totally fogging up the windows!”
But then a bit later, after I had time to reflect, I would think, “I wonder if those sweaty people wiped off all their sweat after they left?”
Then finally, I would be left with a sense of envy. Not of their sweat, nor of the person who had to wipe up their sweat, but of their commitment to becoming healthier.
So on Saturday, after much deliberation and a few failed walk-bys, I pulled open the giant doors to the gym, walked up to the front desk and said, “I’d like to speak to someone about a membership.”
A lovely and high-spirited young woman named Maya beamed me a smile, and then handed me a form to fill out that essentially said a) if I was somehow dismembered during my tour of the facilities, I would not sue and b) that I promised not to steal all their ideas and open an identical gym of my own. I told her she should put her money on dismemberment.
After I had signed all the appropriate forms, Maya began by telling me what their hours of operation were, but I was completely distracted by some heavenly and altogether unexpected smell coming from somewhere on the first floor.
I stopped her in mid-sentence, “I’m sorry, but, what is that delicious odor?”
She sniffed the air, smiled and said, “Oh, you must mean our deli. We have a smoothie bar and health food counter over to the left.”
I looked in the direction she pointed and saw the source of this delectable scent: row upon row of perfectly golden rotisserie chicken, slowly turning on a spit and basting in their own juices.
“Wait… you have rotisserie chicken here? And smoothies?”
“Yes, we have a full delicatessen. It’s really quite good. Why don’t I start by showing you the locker room, and then we can go through all the equipment on the first and second floors.”
She took me downstairs to the locker room, and before I could tell her that the odds of me actually taking a shower here were even more remote than me starting a competing gym, she had already led me straight into a gaggle of half naked women who seemed oblivious to my presence. I’m not sure if it was some repressed traumatic high school P.E. class experience, or perhaps just my 1% Amish heritage showing through, but I’ve never been a fan of public showering.
After leaving the locker room, Maya brought me over to what she called the meditation area, just outside what she called the stretching mat area. “Here’s our meditation area where you can come to relax. As you can see, we have a koi pond, miniature waterfall, and lemon water for you to enjoy.”
“Wow – this is so nice! Hey, um… can we eat chicken down here?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Chicken. Can we eat the rotisserie chicken down here by the koi pond? I’ll bet it would taste nice washed down with some of that lemon water.”
“Uh, no. No, we don’t allow food in the meditation area.”
“Oh, okay. I was just wondering.”
Our next stop was the first floor of equipment. This would be my proving ground since I had already exposed the fact that I didn’t know the meditation area protocol. I couldn’t let on that I was such a complete gym newbie.
“Now here is where all of our classes are held. We offer three different types of yoga, cardio kick-boxing, Pilates, and Spin. Outside this room we have some of our treadmills and stair climbers. What type of a workout are you used to doing?”
Oh god.
I frantically looked around the room, trying to remember what she had just told me, “Uh… I mostly like to work out on the treadmills and stair climbers. Mostly. Oh, and I really like the ellipses machines.”
“You mean the elliptical trainers?”
“Oh… yeah. Elliptical. Those are good.”
I thought I saw Maya glance down at my thighs, but her eyes were very shifty, so I couldn’t be sure. “Mmkay, well I should tell you that we’re getting another six new treadmills over here, and as you can see, all of our machines are equipped with flat screen TV’s. You just plug your headphones in, and you’re ready to go.”
My ears perked up at this, “Flat screen TV’s? On all the machines? That’s so great!”
“Yeah, people really like that. So any questions about the equipment down here?”
“No, I think you’ve answered every-… well, actually one question. Can we eat chicken on the treadmills while we’re watching TV if we’re really careful?”
She stared at me in silence for a few seconds longer than I appreciated, then replied, “No. No chicken in the meditation room, no chicken on the treadmills. No chicken anywhere in the gym, really.”
“Except where you sell it over there.”
“Follow me upstairs.”
Maya led me past at least thirty machines I was certain I would never use because they involved steel cables and an elaborate system of levers and pulleys. All I could see was the image of my hair getting tangled up in the wires, and having to scream for help while my head was pinned against the seat of a rowing machine. It’s hard to recover after such a faux-pas.
We circled the second floor and ended up in front of the windows I had looked up at so many times over the past few years. And now, there I was, standing up high and looking down at all the out-of-shape schlubs walking down the street. So this is what it feels like to be healthy, I thought. It feels… superior.
We ended our tour right where we started, bathed in the salty scent of grilled meat. The man behind the deli counter tipped his fingers to his hat, as if to welcome me into his secret society.
“Well then, if you don’t have any more questions… about the equipment… you can just have a seat here at our internet café and fill out the application form.”
Internet café?
I looked around me and saw six flat screen monitors, each with high speed internet, just waiting to be surfed. As I handed Maya my credit card, I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and felt healed. I just feel so silly now for being so intimidated by gyms all these years. If I had known that working out involved WiFi, flat screen TV’s, and golden crisped rotisserie chicken, I would have joined years ago.
Filed under: General on December 13th, 2005 | 25 Comments »
