Shortly after moving to Chicago, I realized that I needed to find a new doctor, so I started asking around. Natasha goes to some wholesale doctor in a northern suburb far, far away, so I couldn’t go to hers, but she kindly talked to one of her friends who referred me to her doctor. This woman’s doctor is apparently the greatest physician in all of Chicago, so when I called her office to make an appointment, I was told that it would be about three months before I could get in to see her.
Unfortunately at the time, I was convinced I had pink eye because two of my co-workers had pink eye, and my eyes started to itch really badly. Although I’m mostly Sicilian and German, my great-great grandmother emigrated to the US from her homeland in Hypochondria, which is a small region located near Estonia, known best for its chronically ill people. Because of this genetic shortcoming, I have to be very careful not to let illnesses go too long without medical intervention.
Fearing impending blindness, I made an appointment with the first doctor who was available at Dr. Rachstarr’s office, hoping that someday I’d be able to get in to see her. I was able to get a same day appointment with a newer physician, Dr. Middlin. At the time, everything seemed fine. Dr. Middlin checked out my eyes, confirmed that it wasn’t pink eye, and told me I probably had some sort of allergy. She gave me some sample eye drops, validated my parking, and sent me on my way with a packet of Tagamet post-it notes.
Over the course of the past two years, I’ve had a few colds, ailments, and festering wounds that have required medical attention, but every time I’ve wanted to switch to Dr. Rachstarr, a couple things would happen: 1) I would feel a slight pang of guilt for jumping ship and 2) it didn’t matter anyway because I wasn’t a patient of Dr. Rachstarr’s, so I was thrown back onto the three-month waiting list.
So now I suppose you might say that Dr. Middlin and I have developed a sort of a relationship. But like with most relationships, I want out. She’s nice and all, and has really pretty hair, but here’s the thing: I just never get any sense of confidence whatsoever that she knows what she’s talking about.
Take my last ailment, for example. I went in to her with a dry nagging cough that had been lingering for ten days. From past experience, and extensive research on WebMD, I know that you shouldn’t let a cough go more than two weeks, so I called to make an appointment. Dr. Rachstarr was booked until mid 2005, and – big surprise – Dr. Middlin could see me that afternoon.
I explained my symptoms: dry nagging cough, extreme sore throat, wheezing. Dr. Middlin asked a few questions, had me take some deep breaths, looked in my ears, and diagnosed me with post nasal drip.
Post nasal drip?
I tried to explain to her that I had no dripping whatsoever – pre, post, or during – but she was convinced that this was the root of my problem. I asked how post nasal drip could cause a violently sore throat and non-stop cough, and she simply averted her eyes, clicked her pen, and straightened a box of tongue depressors.
I realize that I’m not a doctor, but I do like to use a little science called logic every now and then. It seems to me that if something were dripping down my throat all night long, my throat would be all nice and lubricated, not dry and sore. Who’s with me on this? I know, that’s a repulsive image – forgive me – but it’s all in the name of medicine.
She gave me some sample nasal spray with a picture of a rhinoceros on the box, and told me to snort that up my nose each night for about a week. I read the fine print, and learned that I was going to be huffing steroids for the next three to five days. When I told Natasha I was taking ‘roids, she signed me up on the spot to be on her bowling team. She also warned me that my nose was going to get really huge. And pissed off.
But back to my dilemma. Here’s where I really began to question Dr. Middlin’s medical abilities: without the slightest crack of a smile or hint of irony, she told me that if, after using this snorting device, I noticed thick fluorescent green mucus pouring out of my nose, I should give the office a call. Because apparently that would be a bad thing. I’m glad she warned me, because normally I would just go about my daily business, riding the train, proofing ads, sitting in meetings, all the while with a trail of radioactive lime Jell-O streaming down my face. I’m just that dedicated.
After this latest episode, I started to think back to all the other times I had gone in to see Dr. Middlin, and what she had diagnosed. In the summer of 2003, I was convinced I had melanoma, but after a quick exam, Dr. Middlin gave me some samples of cortisone cream, a Zyban letter opener, and validated my parking. When I had a violent stomach parasite last fall, she gave me a few samples of Zantac, a Flonase pencil holder, and validated my parking.
Suddenly it all started to add up. When I looked back, I realized that for the past two years, Dr. Middlin had never actually written me a prescription. She would just pop in, talk to me for about two minutes, step out briefly, and come back with free samples in tow. I also recalled that she was unusually well dressed, and quite generous with the promotional trinkets. And then it hit me:
My god – Dr. Middlin isn’t a doctor at all! She’s a pharmaceutical rep!
I put together a list of all the free samples she had given me over the past few years:

Scene: LaGuardia Airport, Winter 2005
Lady 1: late 60’s. Teal polyester pants and matching jacket. Thick soled beige shoes.
Lady 2: late 40’s. Lady 1’s daughter-in-law. Purple silk pantsuit.
Man: late 40’s. Lady 1’s son. White dress shirt. Tan dress pants rolled up because they’re too long.
All: Thick southern accents
Lady 1: I sure would like to have that recipe for cheese soup you make.
Lady 2: It’s my mother’s recipe.
Lady 1: It sure is good – with potatoes and onions and cheese. It sure is good.
Lady 2: It’s very easy to make.
Lady 1: I sure would like to have that recipe.
**********************************************************************
Lady 1: (arms crossed, lower lip pushed out a bit) Mmmm mmm mmmm (shaking head in disapproval). Hmphh. You sure do see a little of everything here dontcha? Mmmmm.
**********************************************************************
Lady 1: He was hiding for three days.
Lady 2: From what?
Lady 1: I don’t know. From the wolves, I guess.
Lady 2: Goodness.
Lady 1: I had that cat so darn long I got attached. He never was so glad to see me.
**********************************************************************
Man on cell phone:
How did you like Mexica?
You didn’t see any fat dogs, did you?
Yeah, the only dogs you see down there are skinny and fast.
Did you see people livin’ in boxes?
Huh. You should see Mexica City.

Filed under: General on March 25th, 2005 | 5 Comments »

I must admit that I am a creature of habit, and once I fall into a routine, it becomes really easy to tune out my surroundings. Some mornings I find myself in line at Starbucks, yet I have no recollection of walking off the train, through the station, down a few blocks, and through the revolving doors. And, as if by magic, I already have my $3.00 in hand, ready to exchange it for a bit of liquid happiness each morning.
But occasionally, something so unusual and out of place occurs that I am jolted back into the present, and forced to acknowledge what is around me. Last week, I had that exact type of experience at the train station. Every day, I walk past a chocolate shop in the station, and don’t really pay it much mind, considering the fact that I rarely think about buying dark chocolate truffles while I’m rushing off to work. I’m sure they do decent business around Valentine’s Day, as forgetful spouses rush to grab sweets for their sweeties before jumping on the 6:25 to Buffalo Grove. But for the remainder of the year, I’m guessing it’s a bit of a ghost town at Ye Old Chocolate Shoppe.
So as Easter approaches, it appears that the store managers have pulled out all the stops, because last week, my eye was drawn over to their display case. There it was – standing tall and proud amidst the toffees and vanilla crèmes: a three foot tall chocolate rabbit holding a chocolate basket filled with chocolate eggs and chocolate flowers. And taped to the outside of his cellophane body suit was a crudely scribbled sign that said: “I am 70 pounds of solid chocolate! Take me home for only $300!”
Normally, as a jaded marketing professional, I don’t fall for these types of advertising tricks. But there was something about the way they underlined the word “only” that made me feel like I might be missing out on the deal of the century if I kept walking. You mean to tell me that this entire 70 pound rabbit could really be mine? And all for the low, low price of only $300?
I wanted that rabbit.
I wanted it so badly, I couldn’t even think straight. I wanted it more than I had ever wanted any religious holiday themed chocolate animal in my life. I wondered what it would feel like to hold 70 pounds of chocolate in my arms, hugging the bunny tight to my chest as I nibbled on its ears.
As a child, this was the stuff of dreams – a larger than life SOLID chocolate rabbit. Not one of those disappointing waxy hollowed out bunny shells, that really barely amounted to the equivalent of one Hershey’s bar. No, this was solid chocolate. Seventy pounds. Inconceivable.
There was a time, not long ago, when I would have thrown down my Visa card without hesitation, slung that rabbit over my shoulder, and lumbered off with seventy pounds of joy and severe lower back pain. But fortunately, that was the old Jenny. That was the impulsive Jenny who would just quit her job without another job, move to a new city, and fall in love at the drop of a hat. Now that I’ve turned 34, I’m much more fiscally and emotionally responsible. I realize that I can’t just give in to whatever random urge strikes me at the moment, because success in life requires far more planning than that.
So I developed a plan.
I decided to play it cool initially, because – and my bankers will vouch for me here – I don’t have $300 to spend on a chocolate rabbit. I mean, sure I could make some sacrifices, pinch a few pennies here and there, carry a bit more credit card debt, but that’s something 33 year old Jenny would have done. And that woman is dead to me now.
No, I knew that acquiring my dream bunny would require me to be far more strategic. Since my previous job was in sales, I decided to dust off some of my old training manuals, and brush up on the old selling skills.
Fortunately, in addition to showing me the most efficient method to break an employee’s spirit through micromanagement, that job also gave me keen insight into the art of negotiation. If I learned anything in that job, it’s that successful selling requires a lot of acronyms. You need to set S.M.A.R.T. goals (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic, Time Bound), always remember to K.I.S.S. (Keep It Simple, Simon), and be sure to take a trip to the S.P.A. before any negotiation (Skill, Preparation, Attitude).
So last Friday, I walked up to the sales woman at the chocolate counter, who was busy picking the salt off her giant pretzel. After a minute or so, her highly developed customer service skills kicked in as she saw me eagerly standing by the bunny, so she shuffled over to see what I wanted.
“Can I help you?”
I smiled sincerely as I read her name plate, and said, “I certainly hope that you can… Alice. I see that you are selling this rabbit here for $300. That seems a bit steep for a piece of candy, don’t you think?”
“A piece of candy? Ma’am, this is 70 pounds of the finest chocolate we make here at-“
“Okay, Alice. You seem like a smart woman. I know that this rabbit isn’t made from your finest chocolate. I’ve done a little asking around, and I know for a fact that it’s made from a hodge podge of all sorts of miscellaneous chocolate pieces that didn’t turn out quite right. I’ll bet there’s even some white chocolate melted in there somewhere. You do know that white chocolate isn’t real chocolate, don’t you?”
“What? Why I… who’ve you been talking to?”
“Who isn’t important right now. The only thing that matters is what. And here’s what I’m proposing: See – I’ve got myself a pretty mean sweet tooth. I get cravings. Bad cravings. And when I get them, my palate is not all that discriminating. So here’s my offer: I give you $60 for the rabbit, but you keep it here for me where I can break off a hunk or two when I need it.”
“That’s absurd! $60 for 70 pounds of high grade chocolate? The price is $300, plus tax.”
“Okay, I see you’re sticking with the finest chocolate routine. Let me explain something to you – your chocolate store is in a train station. And not a train station in Geneva, Switzerland. You’re in downtown Chicago, honey. These people you see walking by all day long? They’re not customers – they’re commuters. Business people. Do you really think one of these people rushing frantically to catch the 5:45 is going to stop, whip out $300, and somehow manage to carry home a 70 pound chocolate bunny on a crowded train? Now which one of us is being absurd?”
“Ma’am, every year we sell our giant Easter bunny, in fact, some years we sell several.”
“Look – save the role playing script for your District Manager. You and I both know that this 70 pound monstrosity is going to sit under your hot lights until it starts to get that white chalky rash on it, at which point you will melt it down and try, unsuccessfully, to turn it into chocolate turtles. Am I close?”
Alice looked around and saw that her co-worker was busy arranging and re-arranging the same twelve boxes of chocolate covered cherries. She then stepped a bit closer to me and said, “I’m listening.”
“This is what we call a win-win, here. I give you $60 for the rabbit, you shove it into that supply closet back there, and tell all your co-workers that whenever Jenny stops by, she can take as much of the rabbit as she wants. An ear on Monday, maybe a tail on Tuesday. You get this stupid rabbit off your counter, thereby making room for your high-volume impulse products like the pre-bagged chocolate covered peanuts, and I get to sate my sweet tooth anytime I feel like it. See, everyone is happy.”
“You know, those peanuts are actually quite profitable…”
“Look, Alice. I can see that you’ve got a good head for business, so I’m going to give you some time to mull this over. But just be aware, my offer expires on Good Friday, and I’ve already gotten a couple call backs from the Buddy Squirrel on Wacker. I’ll be in touch.”
By this time next week, I anticipate that my childhood dream of eating half my weight in chocolate will be well underway. I love the new Jenny.

Filed under: General on March 21st, 2005 | 5 Comments »

This Saturday, I finally got around to making the trek up to Wisconsin to my old bank so I could finish up the paperwork regarding my check forgery issue. Up until now, I haven’t really needed to switch to a Chicago-based bank, but I guess it’s time to cut the cord. In any case, the process went smoothly, and I was once again able to laugh with my bankers as we talked about how completely stupid a certain public storage company was to alter my check, steal $405 out of my account, and then try to blame it on the bank teller.
Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to swing by my parents’ house to have lunch with them. I haven’t seen them in a while, and apparently they’re in the process of re-working their wills, so it’s in my best interest to stay top-of-mind. Not that I have anything to worry about, mind you. My mother won’t come right out and say it, but she’s given me plenty of clues throughout the years to let me know that I was the only child they actually planned for. But you can never be too careful about these kinds of things, so I stopped by for egg salad sandwiches and Doritos.
I told my parents all about my job, and how I still love it, and how I just got my insurance payment for my robbery, and how I should be getting reimbursed for the check forgery deal soon. And then I mentioned to my mother that with this black cloud I’ve been under lately, I have this nagging fear that I’m going to come out one morning to find my car stolen. We kind of laughed, but not really.
I hugged my dad goodbye as he drove off to meet some friends, and then my mom and I cracked open a bottle of wine, because really, what else goes with egg salad and Doritos at 11:30am? About two minutes later, I heard a timid knock at the back door. I opened it up and it was my dad who said, “Jen, I just backed into your car, and smashed the front end up real good.”
“Ha ha. Good one. I’ll admit, though – you’re getting better at not smirking.”
Because that’s the kind of thing my dad says to me almost every time I go over to their house. We play these kinds of games. It’s what we do. But the boy really saw a wolf this time.
“No, I’m serious. I smashed your car.”
I looked out the garage door and saw that my little Honda Civic looked a little skinnier than normal. And that’s because the passenger side was smashed in about 6 inches. My dad’s Jetta, on the other hand, looked as fat as always. Just had a little green paint on the bumper.
“Oh crap. You’re not kidding.”
One giant crowbar and some elbow grease later, my dad was able to pry my front quarter panel out enough so that my tire could actually turn. Fortunately I don’t have many passengers, though, since the passenger door only opens about 5 inches.
So now I’ll just wait to hear from my mom’s insurance company so I can get my car fixed. And while I’m not really one to believe in insurance fraud, I need a little pick-me-up, so I’m totally telling the insurance company that I originally had purple flames detailed on the car.
“No, no. I realize that you can’t see them on either side of the car. But I’m telling you, he hit the car so hard that they flew off of both sides. Seriously. Who would lie about something like purple flames on a Honda Civic? So yes, I’ll need those painted back on.”
“Yes. And for some reason, all my chrome spinning hub caps? They fell off, too.”
“I don’t know, I think they flew into the woods. Anyway, I’ll need some of those.”
“Mmm hmm. Yes. Right. And I told you that the horn isn’t working either, right?”
“Yeah. It used to play, Tequila.”
“Good. Thanks so much!”
And best of all, as I just told my brother yesterday when he emailed me to razz me about my car: unconditional love + guilt = permanent favorite child status. Now who’s inheriting the house, sucka?!
Universe wants to hand me some lemons? Just made me some purple flame lemonade, baby!

Filed under: General on March 15th, 2005 | 11 Comments »

Dear Universe –
Hi there! How the heck are you? I know it’s been a really long time since I last wrote you – I couldn’t find your email address for the longest time, but then I was digging through my archives and stumbled across it. Anyway – hope things are going well with you.
Things have been a little crazy with me lately, but I guess you already knew that, right? Ha! Yeah, you sure are keeping me on my toes. And usually, I’m totally cool with that. I know I’m a really lucky person in general, so I always look at the little curve balls you throw me as gentle reminders to not become complacent.
But I guess I really wish that if you had a problem with me, you would’ve just picked up the phone and called me. Really, Uni – you and I go way back, and I thought we kind of understood each other when it came to these sorts of things. The robbery? Helped me become more aware of my surroundings. Losing half my hardrive at work? Practice makes perfect. The forged check? I had a really great experience with my bank’s customer service department. But this Saturday? I kind of feel like that one was just you being a little vindictive. I just don’t see how that was really necessary. I thought you liked to play your games in sets of three, but now this is four. So did the hard drive not count? Or am I now on Round Two?
I don’t want you to think that I’m an ingrate, because I’m really not, but when I complain to myself about having writer’s block, that’s really just a way for me to get more focused on my writing. It’s not a celestial request for material, honestly. Look, I’m not trying to point any fingers. I just want to make sure you and I are on the same page. I get the message – you think I need more interesting things to write about. Point taken.
But seriously, I have a lot of topics to work with right now. Heck, I’ve still got at least two more stories from my New York trip alone. And last week I started drafting a special Easter entry – really, things are going pretty well in the blog department.
Anyway – I just wanted to clear that up. I’d really rather handle this like adults, and get away from all this passive aggressive crap you’ve been throwing my way lately. It’s just never been your style. You have my cell number – give me a call this week and let’s talk.
Regards,
Jenny

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

Hi, it’s me. I’m at the airport. Our flight is going to leave in about 45 minutes.
Yes.
Yes. Did you take your medication?
Your medication. Did you take it?
Yes. Did you take it? The medication. Medication!
Hello?
Hello.
Hello!?
Hello.
Hello?
Hello?
Can you call me back? I can’t hear you.
Okay, that’s better. Yes. The medication.

Filed under: General on March 7th, 2005 | 4 Comments »

Whew! Thank god it’s Friday, that’s all I have to say. What a week! I cannot wait until this day is over and my weekend begins.
But wait a minute, Jenny! It’s not Friday – it’s only Thursday! Why are you all discombobulated? You never post on Thursdays – what’s going on?
Whoa! I can’t slip anything past you, now can I? All right, you are correct, sir. It is Thursday.
So why am I mixing things up and posting on a Thursday, other than my desire to combat predictability? Well, mes amis, this evening I’m jetting off to New York City for a well-earned extended weekend. After almost six months on the new job, I’ve finally earned a couple vacation days, and I have no intention of hoarding them until December like most of my colleagues seemed to do this past December.
My dad always said to me, “Jenny, if you’ve got money, spend it. If you don’t, get some.” I feel the same way about vacation, and I intend to spend every minute of it living the good life and hobnobbing with celebrities in New York. By the good life, I mean pizza and beer in the East Village. And by celebrities, I mean the girl who played Blossom’s best friend on the short-lived yet critically acclaimed tv series. I think she manages a coffee shop in SoHo now.
But like most trips to New York, I suspect I will need a vacation from this vacation. There are just too many things to do, places to eat, museums to visit. Because apparently we don’t have any of those things here in Chicago…
Now, how will I accomplish all this in just three short days?

• Buy 1 to 2 pairs of funky new shoes

• Sing 1 to 2 karaoke songs at a NYC bar
• See 1 to 2 movies that have not yet been released in Chicago
• Encounter 1 to 2 famous people in the street
• Try 1 to 2 different kinds of scotch in the smoke-free NYC bars
• Fall in love with 1 to 2 strangers
• Call Amy Sedaris 1 to 2 times and hang up
• Eat 1 to 2 marshmallow Peeps on the plane
• Write 1 to 2 blog entries, possibly about marshmallow Peeps

Wow. Seeing that all in writing is a bit intimidating, but I think I’m up to the challenge. Fortunately, I bought a pair of comfortable hipster shoes last weekend so that I could wander the streets of New York searching for comfortable hipster shoes. Don’t try to follow that logic. There is none.
So I hope you don’t find me rude to have invited you to my new home and then left my own party so abruptly. But I promise I shall return on Tuesday, hopefully bursting at the seams with new adventures to share. Until then, stay sweet ‘n cool 4ever! Seniors Rule!

Filed under: General on March 3rd, 2005 | 11 Comments »

If you are reading this, it means you have successfully followed the intricate trail of clues I have left for you. You have traversed the labyrinth, stolen the golden chalice, and released the blind falcon. Or perhaps you clicked on that link back on Blogger. Either way, I say good show, old chap.
So… welcome to my new home! In keeping with this weekend’s Oscar theme, I need to rattle off a list of important people who came together to make this happen:
Where do I begin? Well, first of all, enormous thanks go to Kris Dresen for coming up with an amazing design concept, and making my dream of being a comic super hero finally come true. The girl has mad skillz, y’all, and she’s not afraid to use them, particularly when bribed with single malt scotch. And another big thanks to Haemi over at Web Divas for taking that design and giving it life. She’s like the Dr. Frankenstein of the blogosphere. It’s alive! Plus, neither rain, nor sleet, nor California mudslides could stop her from coding. Word.
Next, I’d like to thank my parents for giving birth to me, although if they had held off for a few years, I’d be younger now. But they were selfish, selfish people.
Uhh… who else? Who else? Oh – my agent for believing in me when no one else did. My trainer for helping me pack on 20 pounds of muscle for the role, which will soon turn to 30 pounds of fat. Howard Hughes, for being crazy. My friends, for letting me write down every conversation we have and change all the parts that make me look bad.
Wait! Don’t start the music yet! I’m not done!
And finally, I want to thank the folks who so kindly stop here for a visit every now and then, leave funny and interesting comments, and make this crazy blog worth blogging. Thanks for dropping by – I hope you come back soon! Artichoke dip is in the dining room!

Filed under: General on February 28th, 2005 | 17 Comments »

I’m a glass half full kind of gal, I really am. Not in an insipid Pollyanna “Grey skies are gonna clear up” type way, but I just find that I enjoy life more when I’m not playing the victim.
But c’mon, people. I’ve now been unce, tice, fee times a victim. I was taking out some mad cash this weekend, planning on blowing it at the Super Duper 40-Lane Mega Bowling Alley, because as Natasha said, “Bowling is the new karaoke.” When I saw my checking balance, it seemed off, but I’ll readily admit that I’m not the best about balancing my checkbook. So I told myself to make a mental note and check it again on Monday.
So Monday rolls around and I’m out celebrating President’s Day by working, which is obviously NOT what our forefathers had intended. Clearly Abe Lincoln wanted me to be getting 50% off all previously reduced items at Nordstrom’s, but instead, I was one of the working stiffs keeping this country running on Monday. In any case, after enjoying a nice slice of cheese and mushroom pizza at the food court, I moseyed on over to the ATM to check my balance. Now this time I was certain – it was even lower than it was on Friday, so something was up.
Of course, my initial thought was: those sunamabeetch robbers stole some of my checks, and are writing bad checks all over town! So I quickly transferred all my remaining funds over to my savings account, which even at the time I knew would do me no good since I have overdraft protection. But it somehow made me feel less helpless. I probably should’ve just pulled out the maximum amount in cash just to have it on hand, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.
As soon as I got home Monday, I called my bank (and happily, they have a 24/7 customer service desk – even on silly bank holidays!) to get a list of my recent transactions. As I was running through the list, one item in particular jumped out – a $450 check to a certain storage company in Milwaukee that is housing all the stuff I couldn’t fit in my little Chicago apartment. I thought, “Hmm. That’s odd. My monthly bill is only $45. I wonder if the bank made a data entry error.”
Oh, Jenny. Sometimes your naïveté is charming. But not right now. Now it’s just plain tiresome. The customer service rep pulled up the digital check image (I heart digital imaging. So much.), and quickly realized that someone had added a zero to the end of my $45. They didn’t bother to try to change the written part, I guess because it’s a little bit harder to turn “Forty five and 00/100 ——-“ into “Four hundred fifty and 00/100——-.”
Now, I don’t have to worry about my $405 that this certain storage company, which I should mention is a Public storage company, ripped off. Because even if they won’t pay me back, my bank will, and then sue their asses to get it back. But I just had a good laugh with that bank customer service rep. We laughed and laughed as we said to each other, “Exactly how stupid are these people? This is a nationwide chain! And they took $405 more of my money than was owed them. It was deposited into their corporate account – did they think I wouldn’t figure it out? Ha ha ha ha!”
Since I like to watch a lot of crime TV, I got all Law & Order and tried to figure out all the different scenarios: was it a dirty bookkeeper? A disgruntled employee who stole $405 in petty cash and wanted to cover it up? A really, really stupid franchise owner? Will we ever know? I can’t be sure, but I am sure that I’ll get my $405 back. And I’m also certain that, if my belongings are actually still there and I haven’t been paying for an empty storage garage for the past two years, I am most certainly not keeping them there any longer than I have to.
But what I am not certain of is this: what cosmic forces did I really piss off to have warranted a robbery, permanent deletion of half of my hard drive at work (long story, but the wounds are still too fresh to discuss), and now check forgery, all in a one month span? And more importantly, do I need to sacrifice a virgin to appease them? Because I’ll start combing the local chess clubs, I swear to you. Just say the word and point me in the direction of the Kraken.
If it weren’t for the fact that these annoying events keep giving me something to write about, I might be a little more upset about them. But let me tell you, if that certain public Storage company doesn’t give me my GD $405, I’ll release a firestorm of my own. I now have several web domains at the ready, in the event that they want to do this the hard way: www.[storage company]sucks.com, www.[storage company]stolemy$405.edu, www.dontdobusinesswith[storage company].net, and of course, www.ihate[storage company].org.
Hell hath no fury like a Sicilian scammed!

Filed under: General on February 23rd, 2005 | Comments Off

Last week Natasha and I were out at a karaoke bar, preparing our set list for the evening’s theme, which was “Fire.” Seamus takes his karaoke very seriously, so he likes to mandate themes, which must be strictly adhered to each week.
“How about We Didn’t Start the Fire?”
“Oooh – good one! I think I’m gonna do Hot Stuff and Ring of Fire.”
“Nice.”
The bartender came over to get our drink order – I asked for my usual scotch and soda, and Natasha ordered… a ginger ale.
Huh?
This was a bit out of character for Nat, since her tastes typically lean toward vodka tonics or Cosmopolitans. Concerned for her well-being, I chimed in: “Hey? What gives? We come to a bar and you order a ginger ale? You sick or something?”
Nat dug around in her purse looking for her wallet, and said, “I need to stop drinking for a while. I’m getting a little out of control.”
“What are you talking about? How are you out of control?”
“Jen – ever since you moved to Chicago, my health has been suffering. I used to cook at home more often, work out more, take vitamins…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Surely you aren’t blaming me for your vitamin intake?! Nat – no one is more concerned with your iron levels than I am, and you know it!”
“No, no. You’re right. I’m just saying that lately when you and I hang out, things tend to get a little crazy.”
“Crazy? Look – who helped mend the fences between you and Seamus so we could all hang out together? Who started the Roll the Die Tuesday Night Supper Club and logged all our restaurant reviews into my Sony Clié PDA, which was subsequently stolen in the robbery? So we indulge in the fire water and take Lambada lessons every now and then. We’re all having fun, no one’s been thrown in jail, so what’s the big deal?”
“Jenny, need I remind you of the spectacle we made of ourselves last weekend?”
“I’m certain that I have no idea what you are talking about, Natasha.”
“The leather bar? Furry G-string? Any of this ringing a bell?”
Oddly, it did ring a bell. A soft and distant bell, that with each passing moment became louder and louder. And the longer I reminisced, the more that bell started to sound like the booming bass and pounding dance rhythms of DJ Warden spinning at The Penitentiary, one of Chicago’s oldest leather bars.
Here’s how it all started: Natasha’s boyfriend, Farnsworth, invited us to see his friend’s band play at a local bar. Nat told me it was some sort of benefit performance for the Tsunami victims – and if there’s anything I like more than live music, it’s live music with a cause.
As Nat told me about this philanthropic event, she smirked a bit and said, “But I just want to give you a heads-up. The band is playing at a leather bar.”
“Oh, okay. So, are we talking the biker kind of leather bar, or the gay kind of leather bar?”
“The gay kind. Or maybe gay bikers, I’m not exactly clear on the details.”
“That’s cool, but am I going to get thrown out if I wear my Gap jeans and a turtleneck?”
“No, it’ll be totally cool. Farnsworth says it’s a really inclusive type of a bar. I’m sure it will be a diverse crowd.”
“Will I see men in buttless chaps?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I have since learned not to trust Natasha’s judgment on such matters of fashion.
Nat and I pushed the doors open like a couple of gunslingers walking into a saloon, and were met with a veritable sea of black leather. The place smelled like a chummy mix of new car, cigarette smoke, and Red Bull. I hadn’t seen so many studded leather sailor hats since Seamus took 2nd Place in that Village People impersonator contest a few years ago.
As soon as the band stepped on stage, everyone went wild. The crowd sang along to the old classics: Everybody Loves a Muscle Boi and There’s a Porn Star Shining Down on Me. The bass was booming, people were jumping, the scotch was flowing freely, leather was crunching. And best of all, I knew I was helping make a difference to people halfway across the world.
Natasha had to shake my shoulder to snap me out of this smoky stroll down memory lane.
“I don’t know what the big deal is, Nat. We all had a good time. Everyone was dancing, and drinking, and laughing. What’s so bad about that?”
“Jenny, I realize you had a bit to drink that night, so this may be a little foggy in your memory, but perhaps you blocked out the part where you kept stuffing dollar bills into a man’s fur-covered G-string.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy. I know what I did – it was only two dollar bills, and it was for a good cause.”
“And what cause might that be?”
“Hello? The Tsunami victims?!”
“Uh, Jenny. The cover charge went to the charity. That man had nothing to do with the Tsunami victims. He came there in that fur G-string.”
[reflective pause]
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“But… he was on stage. With the band…”
“Uh, yeah. That’s because he was a stripper, Jenny. And you stuffed dollar bills into his fur G-string.”
“Well… what do you know?”
[another reflective pause]
“Uh, bartender? Cancel that scotch – can you make mine a ginger ale, too?”

Filed under: General on February 16th, 2005 | Comments Off