Chapter One: The Arrival
I take a deep breath just before laying my backpack down on the X-ray machine, and then walk through the metal detector with the excitement of a child on her first day of school. I look around me and am invigorated by the knowledge that at the top of that escalator lies my future.
Jenny Amadeo, Juror.
As soon as I walk through the glass doors into the jury waiting room, a very pleasant woman wearing a smart uniform and her hair pulled back in a high ponytail asks me to pull a number out of an old Christmas cookie tin decorated with images of dancing bears and elegant Christmas ornaments. What does the number mean? I’m on Panel 4. Is that good? Who else is on Panel 4? Why didn’t I get Panel 1?
It just hits me that I am about to begin live blogging my courtroom experience. I look around the room and realize that I’m the only one in here with a laptop. They’re all looking at me like, “Who does she think she is, typing away at her LAP TOP, like she owns this place? I hate her. I hate her so much.”
They all hate me, but I don’t care. I didn’t come here to make friends. I came here to judge people. They all already know that I’m going to be foreperson. I mean, come on! Which one of has the laptop – me or them? That’s what I thought.
This jury holding tank is actually quite nice. There are some healthy houseplants, several little tables (one of which I immediately claim as my own, because as you may recall, I have a laptop, which means I get dibs), two vending machines, a drinking fountain, and very clean bathrooms. I could live here if I wanted to.
Last night I had dinner with Natasha and reminded her that I was going to jury duty the next day. She was concerned.
“What if you get sequestered? Do they let you come back and get your things?”
“No, Nat. I’m pretty sure they just haul you off immediately, and don’t let you speak to anyone in the outside world. Then you have to wear the same clothes for two weeks, so just in case, I’m going to put on six pair of underpants.”
“Did you just say underpants?”
“Yeah, why? What do you call them?”
“I don’t know – underwear?”
“Whatever. I’m wearing six of them. My ass will look huge, but I’ll bet everyone will wish they had thought of that when they see me with clean underp- wear each day. The foreperson has an image to uphold, you know.”
But that got me thinking – what if I do get sequestered? Who will take care of my cats? Where will we be staying? Do you get conjugal visits? Not that I have anyone to get conjugal with, but it’s really going to piss me off if everyone is getting conjugal visits but me.
“Ooh, did you see that handsome man coming out of Juror #6’s room last night? What a dreamboat!”
“Yeah, and Juror #4’s girlfriend made him a cake with a cell phone baked inside it. And then they totally did it!”
Giggle giggle giggle!
Damn, I hate jury cliques so much.
That’s why I’m the lone wolf, sitting at this table by myself, just me and my laptop, typing away. Owwwooooo!
Chapter Two: The Observation
As a future foreperson, it’s my job to try to get a good read on everyone so I can figure out who the troublemakers are going to be. The holdouts. The Mary Mary Quite Contraries. I’ve already got my eye on that woman in the turquoise sleeveless blouse who keeps coughing. A real attention-seeker, that one. Look at me, look at me. I’m sick and yet I still came to court. You know what? We’re all sick, and we all still came to court because it’s the law. Now cover your mouth.
A man sneezes, and immediately three women say, “Bless you.” I’m not exactly sure what this means yet, but I take note of it. You have to take note of these types of things if you want to be a good foreperson.
I’m guessing the average age of this jury pool is 43, but that is skewed by the trio of septuagenarians in the corner.
The vending machine could be better stocked. I have recently developed a mild addiction to Kellogg’s Rice Krispie’s Treats that come in these beautiful metallic blue packages. I wish I had one right now. They have Twizzler’s, though. Maybe I’ll get some in a few minutes. Thankfully, I slipped two peppermint patties into my backpack before heading out of my house. I might want to ration those for later, though. A good juror is always prepared.
Everyone’s reading.
A young man in yellow is wearing a tan yarmulke held on by two shiny silver clips. I have a strong feeling he is Jewish. It’s this type of keen observation that could make or break a case. Devil’s in the details, as they say.
There is an enclosed glass area within the jury waiting room, and one woman sits in there alone. I don’t altogether trust her, yet her unabashed display of antisocial behavior intrigues me. I decide to keep a close watch on her.
A blonde woman in a pink blouse and white pants sporting perfectly manicured nails leans against the counter and, with a bit more attitude than necessary, asks the guard how she can get her $2 back from the vending machine.
“It just ate both my dollar bills. I tried everything to get it to return my money, and those were the only two dollar bills I had.”
For a moment, I think about lending the woman some change, but then I decide that I don’t like the way she walks. The guard calls maintenance. Obviously this woman didn’t read the summons, because it clearly stated, “Bring change for the vending machines.”
Five minutes later, a man taps on the glass door, then waves and points to the woman in the pink shirt. She grins slyly, struts up to the door and opens it halfway, then whispers, “I can’t leave this room!”
The man hands her a cell phone and walks away. This whole scene is very suspicious, and I am glad to see the guard approach the woman in pink to see what the man gave her. The guard reminds the woman that she must turn off her cell phone.
I don’t like that woman in pink at all. She has now dethroned coughing turquoise woman as the biggest troublemaker in this group. I hope she gets sequestered to a Budgetel.
Chapter Three: The Training
We are asked to gather around a television set to watch a short video on what it means to be a juror. I learn that the United States is the only country in the world that guarantees the right to a jury trial for a criminal or civil case. I learn that the Circuit Court of Cook County has served over 5 million people, and tries civil, criminal, and misdemeanor cases. I learn that we, as jurors, determine the outcome of the case. I learn that serving as a juror is both a privilege and a duty. I like the way the judge on the video pronounces “jur-oars.”
I feel very proud right now.
The man in the video tells us that during the jury selection process, we will be required to answer some questions, and while their intent is not to embarrass us, we must answer truthfully at all times. I hadn’t thought about the possibility that anyone might make me answer embarrassing questions. What exactly do they mean? Will they ask when I first got my period? The last time I wet the bed? If I ever shoplifted?
Exactly who’s on trial here? I’ve seen enough of The Practice to know how these slick lawyers always like to turn things around, and point the finger at the other guy.
“Sure my client stole a TV, but Juror #2 once stole four caramel candy bars from the box of candy that her brother was selling for band camp. What’s worse? Stealing from a stranger, or betraying your own flesh and blood?! Defense rests!”
Chapter Four: The Waiting
It’s only 10:30, and I’m already getting sleepy. I’ll never be elected foreperson if these people see me dozing off. Maybe I should go get a Coke. Not a Diet Coke, but a real Coke. I bet that will intimidate some people, but like I said before, this is not about making friends.
An older man in khakis walks back toward the vending machines by himself. Realizing that I must seize the moment, I grab some change and walk back there after him. I’ve already made too many enemies in this jury pool, so I need to find out who my true allies really are.
I stand back a bit as he peruses the vending machine options, and then say, “Nothing grabbing you?”
He is a bit startled, which worries me. Perhaps the woman in pink has already gotten to him. “Huh, wha-? Oh, yeah. I’m sorry, did you want to get something? I’m still deciding.”
I make a mental note of his indecisiveness. Perhaps he’s not the best wingman on this mission. Or perhaps he is the cleverest person in this room, and is trying to downplay his own wicked intelligence. I decide to approach him again later. I don’t want to scare him off just yet, as I think he could be a solid ally.
I’m bored.

Filed under: General on September 12th, 2005 | 10 Comments »

Today is the day I finally become a woman. Today I join the elite and secret society that is the jury pool. I suspect that a whole new world will be opened up to me after today. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look at things the same way again.
Will I be able to relate to my friends anymore? Few of them have ever done time. I’m sure they won’t understand when I try to explain that I can’t talk about what I have seen behind those doors. They won’t respect the code.
I imagine my writing is going to take a dramatic shift after today. The things I will see in there… writing is the only way to get them out of my head. Don’t you get it? I feel raw, exposed, edgy. I may look into the eyes of a three-time unpaid parking ticket offender, and live to tell about it. And you want me to write about candy? Are you kidding me?
Look, after today I’m going to have 11 new friends who will be the only ones who “get” me. Jury selection is a bond that cannot be broken by time or distance or apathy. I just hope you can understand that.

Filed under: General on September 8th, 2005 | 14 Comments »

All right – so let the madness end. I shall now reveal the much-awaited answers to what appeared to be overly difficult mystery photos.
Door #1
Okay, so even in the bigger picture it’s still a bit hard to tell – they’re just ordinary staples. No, Nat, they’re not gold-plated. The light just hit them that way. I mean, I do lead a flashy lifestyle, but c’mon! Gold-plated staples? Who do you think I am – Sir Mix-a-Lot? I wish.
Door #2
This one seemed pretty easy for a lot of you. iPod, uPod, we all Pod for iPod!
Door #3
Clearly the most difficult of the three, I will readily admit. Mainly because none of you ever thought I left my house, so the idea that I might have a nature photo was, I’m sure, inconceivable. I did find it interesting that one commenter immediately recognized this picture as phallic in nature. I’m not going to analyze that.
And now for prizes. I know, I said there wouldn’t be prizes, but what’s a game without prizes? Not a game I want to play, that’s for sure. No one got all three photos correct, but we had quite a few correct answers on #2, and a dark horse entry from Natasha on #1. First let me say that you’re all winners in my book. Of course, the title of my book is, “People Who Didn’t Really Win,” but that’s beside the point. You all participated and made people laugh with your creative, unusual, and downright vulgar responses (you know who you are), and that deserves to be rewarded.
For tax purposes, however, my accountant has advised me that I can only give gifts with sentimental value. This led me to think back to what I would do when I was a kid and didn’t have any money to buy my mom the expensive jewelry and cigarillos she always liked for her birthday. But since I wasn’t sure logistically how to send each of you a coupon “Good for one free hug,” I instead switched to Plan B, which is a series of original artworks.
The first one is called: On the Wings of Love
The second one is called: Run Jenny Run
So far there are only two pieces in this series, but I suspect I will be inspired to create more. Thanks again everyone for playing along – it was great fun!

Filed under: General on September 7th, 2005 | 8 Comments »

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. It was 9:30pm, which meant that her free nights and weekends minutes had kicked in.
“I never knew you were so obsessed with candy,” she said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a commercial on TV for the next season of The Amazing Race and momentarily lost my train of thought. “Obsessed? Who said I was obsessed? What do you mean?”
“I mean you write about candy a lot on your blog. I just didn’t know you had such a sweet tooth.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, Jen, you do. Just in the last few weeks you wrote about giving up candy, then there was the Krispy Kreme bread pudding. Just seems like a favorite topic of yours.”
I tossed my magazine onto the floor and popped a caramel Dove Promise into my mouth, pressing it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue until the soft caramel oozed out. “Viv, I’ve known you for what – ten years? When have I ever not had candy in my house? I don’t know, it’s just… who I am. I like candy. Doesn’t mean it’s an obsession.”
“Look, you don’t need to get defensive. It’s just an observation.”
“Well, maybe I’m obsessed with candy, but you have vices too, you know!”
“Like what?”
“Uh, hello? When’s the next season of America’s Next Top Model coming out?”
“September 21. Oh, and did you hear that they got rid of Janice Dickinson and are replacing her with Twiggy? What an awful idea that is. I don’t think the commentary is going to be nearly as funny anymore. I mean, Twiggy’s just skinny. Janice Dickinson was the world’s first supermodel. You know that the apartment the models lived in during the first season is right across the street from my office, don’t you? And really, they can never top that original season with Adrienne and Elise. Remember when we saw Shandi in the sub-“
“Viv. Vivian! Weren’t we talking about me and my candy obsession?”
“You’re the one who brought up ANTM. Anyway, that was really all I wanted to say. I just didn’t know you liked candy so much. I guess we never really know our friends, do we? All righty, ditey. I should get going – it’s pretty late.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.”
After I hung up, I looked over at my coffee table and saw the freshly opened bag of chocolates that I had picked up at the grocery store on my way home from work. They didn’t taste as delicious as the package had promised, but somehow just seeing them there made me feel good. I don’t know – I felt safe, I guess.
And the more I thought about it, I came to the conclusion that maybe the reason I talk about candy a lot is because it has been my one constant companion throughout my 34 years – helping me make new friends, easing the pain of lost ones, comforting me during sad days, celebrating with me in the good times.
Somehow, candy has played a larger, more critical role in my life than any one person or event. And for that, I’d like to dedicate my story to candy, as candy has dedicated itself to me.
Diary of a Sweet Tooth
1971
I am born. To my knowledge, no one brings me candy.
1974
I taste my first Smartie and know what it is to feel joy.
1975
My brother and I dress up as Raggedy Ann and Andy for Halloween. We come home after trick-or-treating, dump out our candy on the living room floor, and sort everything into three categories: chocolate, non-chocolate, and stuff that mom might eat.
A few years after this, my brother loses his taste for candy, and our relationship begins to deteriorate.
1976
My best friend Tina has a birthday party with cake, balloons, games, and a piñata. Hordes of five-year olds race around the house, squealing with hyperactive delight. Angered by the noise, Tina’s father walks into the living room and yells in a booming voice, “I think there are enough corners in the house for everyone to stand in!”
The piñata breaks.
I don’t move.
Eventually, I bend down to pick up the lone root beer barrel that has fallen at my feet.
1977
My brother informs my mother that if she continues to hide our Easter baskets, he will no longer bother looking for them.
I look at my brother and realize I am staring into the eyes of a total stranger.
1978
We are celebrating something in my 2nd grade class. Mrs. LoCicero is the most beautiful teacher in the world – even her name is like a song.
There are cupcakes with white frosting and multi-colored sprinkles, but somehow we don’t have enough for everyone. Mrs. LoCicero looks worried and asks if anyone doesn’t want a cupcake. I walk up to her and hand mine back, untouched. She asks if I am sure and I nod yes.
I watch as she walks back to her desk, digs in her purse, then gives me a stick of Wrigley’s Double Mint gum. She says I can chew it in class.
Forbidden fruit.
1979
As we sit on the step by the back door, my mother sips coffee and tells me about when she was my age. Her grandparents would sometimes give her money for candy like black licorice pipes. I don’t think that sounds like candy I would like. Then she describes her favorite treats, which were little coconut candies in the shape of watermelon slices. The red part was really red and the green part was really green, and they even had the little black seeds.
They sound so beautiful. I close my eyes and wish I could taste them.
1980
Mr. Wendell catches me passing a Tootsie Pop to Danny T. He grabs a wastebasket and walks from desk to desk, confiscating our illegal candy stashes and throwing them in the trash.
He then returns to his desk and spits on the candy.
1981
The Fosters and I decide to make our own Pixie Stix by mixing packets of Kool-Aid with sugar. After reaching the perfect formula, we pour the powder into a Tupperware container, lick our fingers, and dip them in. Our fingers remain pink for days.
Mrs. Foster catches us making this mess in her kitchen, kicks us out of the house, and screams that we’re all going to get worms. I am not sure what this means, but it worries me.
1982
My class takes a field trip to Old World Wisconsin, where I learn how to make soap from lye. I catch a small green snake by the smokehouse.
At the end of the trip, we stop at the souvenir store and the Olde Tyme Candy Shoppe. I see black licorice pipes, but they still don’t sound good to me.
There are nine tall glass jars containing multi-colored sticks of hard candy, in all different flavors. The flavors are written in calligraphy on yellowed pieces of paper. I buy the orange and white striped one.
1983
I walk to Belmonte’s Grocery on the corner because he has the largest selection of Now & Laters anywhere in the city. He even has Butter Rum flavor, but I don’t like that kind. I buy two packs of Bub’s Daddy gum, which is a foot-long piece of bubblegum, covered in white dust.
A friend and I try to chew the entire stick to see who can blow the biggest bubbles. I get bubblegum on my eyelashes, and my jaw hurts for a week.
1986
My friend Angela and I are killing time after our summer school gym class. We ride our bikes to the drugstore and buy cans of Coke and packs of Sixlets. I ask Angie how many Sixlets she thinks I could fit up my nose.
We almost crash our bikes.
1987
On the table next to my grandfather’s recliner sits a covered candy dish made of opaque white glass. I lift the lid and am disappointed to find spice drops. It’s always spice drops. Except at the holidays, when it’s those tiny striped pillow-shaped hard candies that stick together.
I quickly replace the lid and grab a handful of black olives from the kitchen.
1992
I am in Paris. The French do not like candy. A rich American girl in my dorm has her boyfriend send her a case of Rain-blo bubblegum every few weeks. She has an eating disorder, I’m pretty sure.
I watch her as she sits at my sink, chewing package after package of gum. Before all the sugar is gone, she spits the wad of gum out onto a napkin. She then drinks mineral water because she says this will wash the calories out of her.
I watch the wad grow larger and larger. She never offers me a piece of gum and I never ask for one.
1996
My friend Vivian and I decide to play hooky from work and drive out to Old World Wisconsin for the day. We watch a man butcher a pig the way it used to be done, and learn how to render lard.
The Candy Shoppe is still there. I buy three different flavored candy sticks, but they don’t taste as good as I remember.
1998
On a business trip to Mexico, doe-eyed little girls in dirty dresses run up to me and want to sell me little packets of Chiclets. I am defenseless.
2001
It is Christmas. My brother finds what appears to be a small white pill on my parents’ carpet under the coffee table. He half-jokingly scolds my mother for being so careless around his infant son.
I grab the pill from his hand and eat it. It is a Good ‘n Plenty.
2004
I tell my nephews that if you microwave a Marshmallow Peep, it will get so big that the eyes will pop off. They think I am teasing them. We all gather around the microwave, and they never doubt me again.
2005
I have dinner with my parents and spend the night at their house. In the morning, I walk to the back of their property to find my dad digging in the garden. I catch a small green snake by the raspberry bush.
My father apologizes for not having any candy in the house. He is trying to lose weight.

Filed under: General on September 1st, 2005 | 9 Comments »

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she will unconsciously do something or say something or perhaps just think something that will trigger the visceral response, “My god, I have officially become my mother.”
As an adult, there have been many instances where I have caught a glimpse of my mother in me, like the other day when I said, “Oh, for crying in a kerchief!” in a business meeting, without even a hint of irony. I laughed it off, and told myself that I had been watching too many I Love Lucy reruns.
Or like last month when I caught myself singing, Momma’s Little Baby Loves Shortenin’, Shortenin’ to my cats.
But for me, the true defining moment came this weekend as I was paying my bills. I had just written out the check for my cell phone bill, but couldn’t immediately find the envelope amidst the pile of papers that had amassed on my dining room table. I pushed aside an old issue of People Magazine, and tossed out three or four gardening catalogs (Gardening? I don’t even have a window box. Who does their mailing lists?), until I finally found the Sprint envelope. I shoved my check inside, then flipped the envelope over to slap on a stamp, only to be met by this image.
And that’s when it hit me: My god, I have officially become my mother.
Growing up under the tutelage of a quintessential child of the 50’s was not easy for a self-proclaimed tomboy like me. On a normal workday, my mother would wear stilettos, a garter belt, and stockings with the seam down the back, and I swear to you, she was not a hooker. I, on the other hand, have never owned a pair of shoes with a heel over two inches, and wearing pantyhose makes me want to claw my legs off.
She started dying her hair at age thirteen, and has been every color of the Clairol rainbow over the years, aside from jet black. “No one looks good in jet black dyed hair,” she would always tell me. “Not even Elvis.”
Last year, when I finally had to concede that I could no longer pull out my grey hair without leaving huge bald patches, I reluctantly asked my mother to help me dye my hair for the first time. She took a disturbing amount of pleasure in watching me squirm and scrunch my shoulders up around my ears as she dumped what felt like a bucket of pig’s blood onto my scalp.
“Isn’t the fifteen minutes up yet? It’s dripping. It’s dripping down my back! Mom, it burns!”
“That just means it’s working. Sometimes we have to suffer for beauty.”
But our biggest point of contention by far revolved around the topic of makeup. As a teenager, most of my friends would innocently waltz out of their houses on weekends, bright-eyed and clean faced, only to later meet up in the Burger King parking lot with eyeliner and cigarette lighters in hand, leaning into rearview mirrors as they smeared thick black lines around their eyes before the boys from the soccer team showed up.
As I tried to sneak out of the house to meet up with friends, my mother would hear me squeak down the stairs toward the front door, then call for me to come back into the living room so she could inspect me first.
“You don’t really think you’re going out looking like that, do you young lady?”
I would stare at the ground, and pick at invisible pieces of lint on my sweater. “Mom, I gotta go. Lori’s waiting for me.”
“Jenny, get back upstairs and put on some lipstick and a little mascara or you’re not going out at all!”
Sometimes I can still see the image of her coming at me with her latest tube of whatever lipstick came in the Clinique Bonus Days giveaway. I would close my eyes tightly and wrestle my head from side to side as she squeezed my lips into a pucker, trying desperately to tart me up before sending me out to see a movie with friends.
“Mom! It’s too orange. I don’t want any – no! Wipe it off!”
“Oh, for the love of Pete, Jenny. It’s just a little lipstick. And besides, it brings out the green in your eyes. See how pretty you look?”
Growing up, there was never a piece of paper, grocery receipt, envelope, or catalog in our house that didn’t have my mother’s lip prints on it. Anything was fair game when it came time for her to reapply. I cannot begin to count how many times I turned in homework, only to find my mother’s logo branded on the back page. I can mark important moments in my educational history by the varying shades that would appear on my work:

Book report on How to Eat Fried Worms: Maybelline Crushed Cranberry on inside back page

History paper on Guatemala: Cover Girl Ruby Reflection on corner of front cover

Diorama of Iroquois Nation: L’Oreal Spiced Cider on back of shoebox
“Mom! You did it again! Mr. Wendell keeps asking when you’re going to come to the next open house, and today he asked me if dad still lives with us. The kids are starting to say stuff – cut it out!”
Sometimes I am amazed that I made it through those early years without more psychological issues, but my latest Sprint bill is evidence enough that there must be some lingering damage. I had hoped that the cycle would end with me, yet here I am, inadvertently sexually harassing some random Sprint Accounts Receivable person. They don’t deserve that, and neither did Mr. Wendell. I guess I should just thank my lucky stars for online bill payment.

Filed under: General on August 30th, 2005 | 12 Comments »

Is it Friday already? Has another week passed? It seems impossible, but here we are, almost in September. I should explain that I have been a bit preoccupied this week dealing with the depression of… a friend. Yes, my friend… Penny… she’s been very depressed this week. Penny also likes to write sometimes, but she hasn’t written lately because she’s been in a funk. In fact, she was just recounting a conversation she had the other day with her dear friend… Bivian.
Bivian: “Hey Penny! What’s up with your blog? Why haven’t you posted anything new this week? It’s almost Friday!”
Penny: “Oh, hi Bivian. I’m not in the mood. I don’t want to write anything. Nothing’s funny anymore.”
Bivian: “What? What are you talking about? Why?”
Penny: “I don’t know. No reason. I bought a digital camera on Sunday.”
Bivian: “Cool! What kind?”
Penny: “A really nice one. It’s really pretty, and silver, and makes bird chirp sounds when I turn it on. But it has five megapixels.”
Bivian: “Five mexapixels is fine! That should take really nice photos.”
Penny: “Yeah, but they should have warned me.”
Bivian: “About what?”
Penny: “Not to take a self portrait with it.”
So then Vivi-, I mean Bivian asked Penny… oh forget it. Look, I’m talking about myself here. I’m Penny. Penny is me. I bought the damn five megapixel camera. I took a self portrait. And now I’m dealing with the ramifications, which have yet to be remedied by glass after glass of fruit fly tainted wine.
Look, I know I should have known better, but there are only so many pictures of my cats that I can take, don’t you see?! And I don’t have an artistic eye, so trying to take moody photos of a door frame just didn’t work for me. So I did what eventually everyone with a digital camera does. I took off my glasses, licked my hand and patted down my hair, looked to the side, held the camera at arm’s length and pressed the button.
Why? Why didn’t the instruction manual come with some WARNING! stickers? I even flipped through the French version – there was nothing that said ATTENTION! at all.
If I worked for Canon, you know what I would do? I would have the customer’s best interest in mind at all times. I would make sure that they put clear warning labels in every digital camera manual. It would say something like:
WARNING: Self portraits taken at arm’s length with a five megapixel (or greater) camera will destroy any delusions of youth and beauty you once had.
Because here’s the thing: when your pores each take up 100,000 pixels, it’s not a pretty sight.
And then there’s the zoom function. Oh god, the zoom. Hmm… what’s that? Oh, it’s just a varicose vein in your eyeball. IN MY EYEBALL, PEOPLE!
It is only by the grace of god that I haven’t figured out how to post photos on this site yet, because oh, when that fateful day comes. Hide your children.

Filed under: General on August 26th, 2005 | 17 Comments »

Sometimes in winning, we still lose.
I don’t remember who once told me that, but I’m sure it irritated me at the time, because I hate when people say things to try to make me think. I think enough on my own, I don’t need Confucius-esque aphorisms to make me spend more time in my head.
Anyway, like I said, I’m sure it irritated me then, just like it irritates me now to find out that whoever said it was right.
But let me back up a bit.
I was on the phone with Dee-Dee Saturday morning, waiting for my bagel to finish toasting, when I opened up my trash can to toss away the empty bagel bag. The second I lifted the lid, at least five fruit flies swarmed up into my face, and I almost dropped the phone.
“Oh gross! Oh… oh, gross!” I yelled.
“What? What is it?”
I slammed the lid shut and said, “Okay, I just threw something in the garbage, and like a hundred fruit flies flew right in my face!”
“Oh, yeah. They’re really bad this year. My sister has them upstairs, too. You should just set out a glass of wine.”
“A glass of wine? Why?”
“Because the flies will go in it and drown.”
“So then I’ll have a glass full of dead fruit flies?”
“Better than a house full of live ones, don’t you think?”
“You make a good point.”
After I hung up the phone, I just felt so dirty – I mean, what kind of ramshackle hovel am I living in that gets infested with fruit flies? I don’t even eat fruit! Now, microwave popcorn flies, or frozen pizza flies, or cheese and crackers flies – those I could understand. But aside from that puzzling bag of generic dried apricots my grandmother gave me for my birthday this year, I can’t recall the last time there’s been a piece of fruit in this apartment.
But I realized that it was too late to worry about the past. What’s done is done, I always say. I needed to stop asking “why me” and focus on “get the hell out of my apartment, sucka fruit flies.”
I pulled the cork out of the half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir sitting on my counter, and grabbed a juice glass from the sink. Just as I was about to pour the wine, I thought about how my father would always tell me that if something was worth doing, it was worth doing right. So I walked over to the cupboard, grabbed a nice red wine glass, and poured it halfway full. Within ten minutes, I saw a bold, wide-eyed fruit fly prancing around the rim of the glass.
“Come on… go in. That’s it… closer, closer,” I said softly, watching intently as the fruit fly tiptoed down the inside edge of the glass, already mildly intoxicated by the delicate bouquet of this 3-day old wine.
He kept walking around the edge in circles, getting slightly closer to the sweet liquor, but never close enough to slip in. Remembering that a watched pot never boils, and apparently a watched fly never drowns, I decided to do some housework. About half an hour later, I walked back to the kitchen to see if any progress had been made. Sure enough, there were now three fruit flies waltzing around the glass, inhaling the pungent perfume of sour grapes.
I peeked in the glass to see how many of their dead comrades they were mourning, but was disappointed to find nothing but wine in the glass. It would appear that my apartment had been infested by a swarm of true connoisseurs. These were not your ordinary wine chugging set. No, clearly they intended to savor the experience, trying to detect the subtle cherry and black pepper undertones in this once fine Pinot.
Unfortunately, I had things to do. Natasha was coming over in another hour to go shopping, so I didn’t have time to host a fully-guided tour of Napa Valley. I waited until the flies returned to the edge of the glass and grabbed the closest weapon I could find, which turned out to be a take-out menu for the Thai restaurant down the block. Just when one of the flies stepped off the rim and snuck his way down the inside of the glass a bit, I slammed the menu on top of the glass, trapping him inside. Then, I swirled the wine around, knocking him off the edge and into the crimson vortex.
I watched him swim around for a while as I waited for his companions to return. Another twenty minutes went by, but there was no sign of the other flies, so I realized that if I was going to get rid of all these unwanted guests, I needed to lay more traps. I grabbed two more wine glasses, filled them each halfway up with the stale Pinot, and then set one on the dining room table and one on my coffee table. All the bases were covered.
I felt pleased with myself when, after another half hour, I saw that my traps were working – three more flies had met their fate. When Natasha came over, as soon as she walked in, she saw the three glasses of red wine sitting out and asked, “You got company?”
“Mmm… kind of. It’s complicated. I’m having a fruit fly problem, and Dee-Dee told me to set out wine. I think they’re all gone now, though, so we should probably be fine.”
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Erratic, flitting, fruit fly-like movement.
“Dammit! There’s another one! Hold on, Nat. Stay right there – I’ll be right back.”
I ran into the kitchen to pour a fresh glass of wine and set it on the mantel, where the fly was last seen headed. Just as I returned to the living room, with glass of Pinot and soggy take-out menu in tow, I saw Natasha raise both her hands, slap them together, and flick the dead fruit fly onto the floor.
“Can we go now?” she asked, brushing her hands on her jeans.
I paused for a minute, looking down at the tiny corpse of my enemy on my hardwood floors. The battle was over. The war was won. Yet somehow, I was the one who had been defeated.

Filed under: General on August 23rd, 2005 | 11 Comments »

I leaned forward, so close to the window that my forehead was almost touching it. I could feel the cool breeze from the air conditioning vent blowing up toward my face.
“Jenny, are you watching the boats again?” my coworker asked, half-grinning, as I stood by the window with the stack of papers I had just collected off the printer.
Caught red-handed, I smiled sheepishly, turned to her and said, “Yeah. There were three of them going by in a row this time, and a big barge. It was really huge, and a man was just sitting on the edge of it, dangling his legs. I think he was eating a sandwich, but I couldn’t quite tell.”
It’s tourist season in Chicago, and my office building overlooks the Chicago River. From June through September, steady streams of sightseeing boats leisurely coast up and down the river. My desk is near the window, so whenever I get up, I can’t help but glance outside to see if one of them is passing by.
I’ve never been on one of those tour boats, but I like to watch them navigate the olive green river. I find it calming. Almost hypnotic, in the same way that staring at a fish tank can be.
She laughed and said, “Yeah, I bet you wish you were one of those people on that boat instead of being stuck here all day,” and then scurried off to her meeting.
But I really don’t, you know. I just like watching the people on the boats go by. Today we are all exactly where we belong. It’s Monday, so I am at work. They are on vacation, or maybe retired.
The boats move slowly and effortlessly through the water, pausing to turn around and circle back. Some are double decker boats, others are smaller speedboats, but even the speedboats don’t go fast. The people are always smiling, or so I imagine, hands pressed above their brows to shield their eyes from the sun as they squint, trying to identify the buildings along the riverfront. When the taller boats cross under the bridges, it looks like the passengers could reach up and touch the bottom of the bridge.
During my lunch break, I often stand outside and lean on the railing with my forearms pressed against the cool metal, fingers intertwined, hoping for one more boat to come by before I go back to work. Sometimes they are so close that I can hear the tour guide’s commentary. I listen hard to catch a random fact or two, but their voices echo off the steel and concrete, making it hard to understand.
The Sears Tower took… to build.
How long?
Over… people work inside the Mercantile Exchange.
Wait – how many?
The Civic Opera building almost…
Did she say it almost burned down?
There are children in baseball caps waving to the business people taking their cigarette breaks. I always wave back, but I keep my hand low, close to the railing. It’s Monday, and I have a job to do.

Filed under: General on August 17th, 2005 | 7 Comments »

In a city the size of Chicago, it’s easy to feel like just another face in the crowd. A stranger on the street. A mere cog in the mighty machine that is urban progress. But every once in a while, a city the size of Chicago singles out someone like me to let me know exactly how critical I am to its continued success.
This past week, Chicago let me know that it needs me. It told me that I am important, that I am desired, that I am necessary. It told me everything I’ve ever wanted to hear from a city. I don’t think I can put it any better than Chicago did, so let me just share with you a little excerpt from the letter I received Thursday:
“By order of the circuit court of Cook County, Illinois, you are hereby summoned to appear for jury service on the date and time at the court indicated below.”
That’s right. In a matter of weeks, someone’s fate could rest in my hands. I could decide guilt or innocence. Lives may be forever changed depending on my loose interpretation of the law. I might even wear my hair in a bun, I can’t be sure.
God, please let me get picked! But, I just hope that my legal background doesn’t preclude me from serving on the jury. I may need to downplay some of my experience so I don’t get eliminated right off the bat. I mean, I highly doubt they’ll find another juror who has seen:

1. The entire series run of L.A. Law. They thought Susan Dey would never make a comeback. Fools.
2. Most of the Law & Order seasons. “In the criminal justice system, there are…” I could probably quote that whole opening sequence verbatim, if you gave me a few minutes. I mostly like SVU – Mariska Hargitay is one bad mamma-jamma.
3. Several reruns of The Practice. I wish that one woman would take out some earrings. How am I supposed to take her seriously looking like a hippie?
4. The Firm. I didn’t trust anyone at work for days after seeing that movie.
5. That one episode of The Brady Bunch where Carol gets sued for giving a guy whiplash, but Mike saves the day by throwing down his briefcase in the courtroom. Oh, what’s that Mr. Neckbrace Plaintiff? Seems like your neck worked just fine when you wanted to hear where that noise was coming from! Case dismissed! And don’t think I won’t be using that technique in court if I get selected!

As I examined the summons a bit more closely, I noticed that I was scheduled for court in Rolling Meadows, IL.
Rolling Meadows.
I don’t believe I’ve ever been there, but it sounds just lovely. And based on the name, I imagine my case will have something to do with a stolen sheep, or perhaps a dispute between a Hobbit who wanted to marry a Halfling.
This is going to be so awesome! Law & Order: Rolling Meadows. The case of Danny McLeprechaun vs. Paddy O’Dougall, land dispute:
Rolling Meadows ‘twas a quiet little village, unbesmirched by the crime and corruption of its neighboring Chicago. That is, until the dark day when Paddy O’Dougall’s greed changed all that. Forever.
If it be pleasing the court, yer honor, might I introduce Exhibit A, which be a picture of a rainbow, the end of which clearly be lying on me property, and not on one Mr. Paddy O’Dougall’s. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as sure as me shillelagh be true, Mr. O’Dougall had no right whatsoever to be digging for that pot o’ gold without me consent. And I ask ya to throw the ever-loving book at him. I rest me case.
What say you, Foreperson?
GUILTY! WE FIND HIM GUILTY! BURN HIM! BURN HIM!
Ms. Amadeo, this is Rolling Meadows, not Salem. We don’t burn people here anymore. Your options are stocks or scarlet letter.
Oh, well, then… stocks. Lock him up in stocks! Let all the good townsfolk come see what he has done! And pull his pants down! Let him never again look upon these rolling meadows but through the cloud of shame that his criminal deed has wrought!
I’m so serious – I will be getting jury gigs all over town after this one. I’ll walk into that courtroom and jaws will drop. Defendants will start to plea bargain their asses off once they find out I’m on the jury. Oprah wishes she could have served side by side with me. I’ll be all Clarence Frickin’ Darrow. If he had been a juror.
I’m out of order? You’re out of order! This whole damn court is out of order! What’s that? Isn’t this room 8B? Oh, sorry. Wrong trial.
Yeah.
Jenny Amadeo, Juror #5. I like the sound of that.

Filed under: General on August 15th, 2005 | 10 Comments »

“Do you girls even know who Tom Petty is?” I teased, winking at Dee-Dee as she held the door for her seventeen year old niece and her niece’s best friend. They tossed their overnight bags on Dee’s living room floor and fell in a heap onto her couch, flip-flops dangling lazily off their toes.

“Uh, hello? Yeah, we know who he is! We wouldn’t have paid $45 for almost-lawn seats if we didn’t know who he was.”

Ally and her friend Kelly drove to Milwaukee to spend the day at Summerfest, which draws crowds from all over the area to gorge themselves on barbeque ribs, fried mozzarella sticks, and deep dish pizza. It is also the Midwest’s best opportunity to witness unapologetic displays of tattoos and chest hair, stretch marks and tan lines. To combat the blazing sun and record-breaking humidity, there are two options: $6 lemonades and any Miller Brewing product.

There’s also some music, I hear.

Before I drove up, Dee-Dee warned me that her house would be a bit crowded that weekend, but since Vivian was also going to be in town, we decided it would be like a big slumber party.

Shortly after they arrived, Ally and Kelly bolted out of Dee’s house to meet up with their friends at Summerfest. They wanted to allow themselves ample time to buy hemp purses and get henna tattoos before shoving into the damp crowd of concert-goers.

Vivian, Dee-Dee and I opted for a tamer evening of overpriced Mexican food and microbrews, and had all retired to our respective beds by midnight. Had it not been for the muffled giggles and hip-hop ringtones, I never would have known the girls had returned from their evening of sweat.

The next morning, Dee-Dee and I stepped over piles of shoes, overnight bags, and Tom Petty t-shirts to make our way to the kitchen. We told the girls that we were going out for coffee and breakfast, so they needed to get ready in ten minutes.

A look of panic flashed in Kelly’s mascara smudged eyes. “Oh god! If I don’t put some makeup on, we’ll be the only ones there because everyone will run out screaming!”

I looked at their smooth faces, their tan toned arms, their flat bellies, and remembered this obligatory insecurity of seventeen. You self deprecate, but you don’t really believe it. But you do really believe it.

“I totally have cellulite!” Ally declared, as she slid into her glittery sandals.

Dee-Dee rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah, right. You really have cellulite.”

“No, I do! If I squeeze my leg, I totally have cellulite.”

I laughed, “Well, that’s the difference. Call me when you catch a glimpse of the back of your thighs in a dressing room mirror and almost break down in tears. If you have to squeeze it to see it, it’s not really there.”

We met up with Viv at a local coffee shop by the lake, and waited in line as Ally and Kelly regaled us with tales of their evening of misadventures at the Tom Petty concert.

“Yeah, there were a bunch of hippies smoking pot right in front of us. They weren’t even trying to hide it!”

“I know! Oh my god! And… when that old guy…”

Kelly could barely talk in between bouts of silent laughter, “When he kept… turning around to high five you… oh my god! I almost peed my pants!”

Even though we could barely understand what they were talking about, it was hard not to laugh along with them.

We found a table outside in the sun, overlooking the lake. I put my sunglasses on and leaned my head back a bit, enjoying one of the rare perfect days of a Midwest summer. Just when my face would start to feel too hot, a cool breeze would come off Lake Michigan, or the sun would momentarily duck behind a cloud long enough for me to want it to return. A man sitting at the table next to us tried in vain to untangle the leashes of his two small dogs who kept chasing each other under his table. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when his wife and children returned, sipping lemonades and iced coffee, and bearing pastry gifts.

Ally and Kelly had everything figured out. They would share an apartment in Chicago after high school. Ally would study business, Kelly would go to design school, but she eventually wanted to open a boutique in New York City. I asked Kelly if she had ever been to New York, and Dee-Dee, who loves to brag about her friends, said, “Oh, you should totally go to New York and visit Vivian. She lives in New York, you know.”

“You do? What do you do there?”

Before Vivian could answer, Dee-Dee chimed in, “Viv is a famous writer. She just got published and she hangs out with other famous writers all the time!”

Both the girls’ eyes lit up.

A big grin spread across Ally’s face as she said, “Wait. We’re having coffee with a famous New York writer? Ohmigod, I totally need to text message everyone I know!”

Kelly laughed, and pulled her cell phone out of the pink argyle cell phone case that matched the blue argyle cell phone case on Ally’s belt. “Ohmigod, me too! Who should we text first? Wait. Normally I would text message you, but you’re here. So who should we text?”

“What about Derek? I’m totally gonna text Derek.”

Just as she was about to start thumbing in her message, Ally paused, put her cell phone away and said, “No, I’d better not. I get in trouble for texting.”

I looked over at the elaborate drink Ally was sipping and asked what she had ordered.

“It’s a white chocolate mocha with a shot of dark chocolate in it. It’s so good!”

“Wait – it’s white chocolate with dark chocolate added to it? So… isn’t that just a regular mocha?”

Ally got a puzzled look on her face, and then she and Kelly burst out laughing.

“Oh my god! You totally just blew her mind!” Kelly blurted.

I was still giggling when Dee-Dee started to change the subject to where they wanted to go shopping after breakfast. Kelly turned to me and said, “You’re just like me. I’m always laughing about stuff way after Ally stops laughing. She’s always like, ‘Why are you still laughing? That’s so not even funny anymore!’ I just always think it’s funny.”

I smiled back, “Yeah. Things are always way funnier in my head, too. They just don’t get us, do they?”

These are good girls, I thought. They have summer jobs at the lone A&W in their small Wisconsin town. I asked if they could get me free curly fries, and they promised to try. At seventeen, they already lamented the fact that their town was less idyllic than it used to be.

“We have a lot of gang problems in school. And all the girls in my sister’s class cut.”

I knew this wasn’t what Ally meant, but had to clarify, “You mean they cut class?”

“No. They cut themselves. Mostly their arms. Most of them aren’t even depressed – they just do it because they think it makes them cool. I told my sister I’d kill her if she ever did that.”

These are good girls, I thought.

I was a little sorry to see our coffee clutch disperse as we decided to get a start on the day. We tossed our cups and muffin wrappers in the mesh trash bins, and crossed the street to the parking lot. As we headed back to our cars, Ally linked her arm in Kelly’s and asked me, “Were you and Dee-Dee best friends in high school?”

“Me? No, Dee and I met during our last year of college. I only really have one friend from high school left.”

As soon as I said that, I wished I could pull it back, because I instantly saw the sad look cross over Ally’s face as she glanced over at Kelly. I tried to recover, “But you just need to try to go to the same college for at least one year. College is where you lock in most of your life-long friends.”

It didn’t matter, though, because there’s no rationalizing with the black and white extremism of seventeen year old emotions. They come fast and hard: I will never love anyone like this again. No one has ever been this sad. I will never have this much fun again. I will never forgive them. There will never be friends better than these.

We paused in front of our cars to say our goodbyes, and Ally looked at Vivian and me and said, “Aw, aren’t you guys coming shopping with us? Dee-Dee’s taking us to the cool stores on Brady Street. It’s Brady Street, right Aunt Dee?”

Vivian and I both shook our heads no. I was heading straight back to Chicago, and Vivian was flying to New York the next morning. We hugged the girls goodbye and told them to make Dee-Dee buy them some hoochie clothes on Brady Street.

As I watched the three of them pile into Dee-Dee’s car, I thought about my morning of laughing, telling stories, having fun. These girls were exactly half my age. So often we look at teenagers, see ourselves at their age, and feel sad. We think about the things we didn’t appreciate then, and wish we had back now. We look at them and regret our missed opportunities. But these girls looked at us, saw themselves at our age, and felt hopeful. They wanted to know the secret to our bond.

While pulling out of the parking lot and humming “Free Falling,” I felt a surge of seventeen year old emotions rise up in me. For a moment, the world became black and white as I looked into my rearview mirror and thought, there will never be friends better than these.

Filed under: General on August 9th, 2005 | 14 Comments »