So I’m off to Seattle for the rest of the week, reprising my former role as corporate jetsetter extraordinaire. When the flight attendants offer me some tomato juice in a tiny cup of ice, I’m going to tell them, “You know what? This is on my company’s dime – just give me the whole can! And let’s make that TWO bags of pretzels, shall we?” And then I will twirl the ends of my mustache and throw my head back as I laugh.
I feel a little bad about leaving you all alone, so while I’m gone, I’d like to encourage you to spend some time with a few of the brilliantly hilarious and disturbingly intelligent folks over on the right hand side. Or you can just play minesweeper. Your call.
But as you stray from my warm embrace, please remember one thing:
No one will ever love you like I do.

Do you hear me?! No one!!
Oh sure, you may seem like the perfect couple, with your fancy house and trend-setting hairdos, but she’s so busy advancing her career and partying it up in London, do you really think she’s ever going to want to start a family? She sees you as an anchor around her neck. You know it’s true.
I can see it in your eyes – you want so desperately to take some time off and be a father. I’ll find time for you, baby. We’ll have so many kids that we’ll run out of names. Twins run in my family – you want twins, don’t you? You were so good to Julia when she was pregnant with hers.
Don’t shut me out, dammit! I will not be ignored!
…
Oops, oh crap. I’m sorry guys. I must have accidentally merged this blog with my letter to Brad Pitt. Boy is my face red – sorry for the confusion! Please disregard.
Well, um, I guess I should go. See you next week!

Filed under: General on December 15th, 2004 | Comments Off

[Sung to the tune of LL Cool J’s, “Going Back to Cali”]

I’m going to Seattle, Seattle, Seattle.
I’m going to Seattle… hmmm, I don’t think so.
That’s right, I’m off to sunny Seattle next week for my first work trip at the new job. Can’t screw this one up – got a lot riding on it.
Actually, I’m really excited to go. Not only is this my first business trip in a long time, but it’s my first trip to Seattle ever. I haven’t really been anywhere on the West Coast, unless Vegas counts. I don’t know why I’ve never made it out West yet. I guess the flights are just so darn long – I figure if I’m going to be in a plane for 4 ½ hours, I’m more than halfway to Europe, so I might as well head in that direction instead.
Plus, I was never all that great with geography, so everything gets kind of sketchy for me once you get past Minnesota. I know there are a bunch of square states in the middle of the country, but from there it’s a bit of a blur. And growing up in Wisconsin next to Lake Michigan, my internal compass gets really screwed up if the water isn’t to the east of me.
But that’s all going to change for me next week. I’m packing up the covered wagon and heading out West. I may not know much, but I’ve heard enough about Seattle to know that it’s home to some of the country’s most exciting and recognizable landmarks. Since I know I will have a limited amount of free time while I’m in there, I’ve made a list of all the critical things I want to do:
1. Ride the roller coaster that goes around the top of the Space Needle.
2. Spend a few hours at StarbucksLand, home of the world’s largest free-standing latté.
3. Take the trolley down to the Golden Gate Bridge.
4. See if my hands fit inside of Angelina Jolie’s handprints at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.
Yes, Seattle is such a diverse state that I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding loads of amazing activities to fill my evenings.
Of course, this trip can’t be all fun and games. I suppose I really should start planning out more of the “business” part of my business trip. I wonder if we can hold our client meetings at the bar where “Cheers” was filmed?

Filed under: General on December 9th, 2004 | Comments Off

Oh, I have such exciting news to share! News of a project so important that it could change my life forever and perhaps alter the course of Chicago history. It’s still in the conceptual stage, but I’ve got an exciting idea I’m working on.
But before I tell you, you must swear to me that you won’t let this idea leak out. If this gets out, it’ll only be a matter of time before some idea robbers snatch it up and take it for themselves. Swear to me!
Okay, now that I can trust that this will go no further than this unsecured web connection, here’s the idea that struck me like a ton of bricks as I was riding the Metra home yesterday: I’m opening an art gallery.
[cricket. cricket.]
No, wait! Don’t go! It’s gonna be cool, really! This isn’t just any art gallery, but one dedicated to folks like you and me – the commuters. Initially it will feature found objects, but as word spreads – and I know it will – I will no doubt be flooded with requests from urban artists, dying to show their work in my prestigious gallery.
I’m calling it: the MetraPolitan Museum of Art.
Currently, my gallery is located in the trunk of my Honda Civic. Right now admission is free, with $5 donations suggested and appreciated. Hours of operation are 6:30pm-6:45pm M-F. Once I build up enough of a following, I will move my gallery to its permanent home: an abandoned rail car. I’m not sure where I might find said train car, or how much one would cost, or where I would put it, but it has to be in a Metra car.
For now, I’m working a collage entitled, “Discarded Ten Passes.” It’s a biting commentary on our workaholic lifestyle and throw-away culture. Although not yet complete, the work has received wild praise from renowned art critics Punch and Judy. In fact, upon viewing my initial sketches for the collage, Judy was so moved that she vomited right on my sketch pad. I can only hope that all my patrons respond to my art in such a visceral manner.
As soon as I hear back on my NEA grant, I’ll begin accepting applications for docents. I’m looking for some highly qualified candidates, so here’s a brief job description:
Position: Docent at MetraPolitan Museum of Art
Successful candidate will:

• Look good in train conductor uniform
• Be able to project voice loudly
• Have prior experience riding a train
• Possess proven hole punching skills
• Own comfortable shoes
• Be passionate about art, as it relates to rapid transit

Interviews will take place at Union Station on Track 14 between 5:41pm and 5:48pm each Wednesday.

Filed under: General on December 8th, 2004 | Comments Off

Sometimes, the harder I try to fit in, the more it backfires on me. Last Wednesday, Seamus invited me over to play poker with the boys. I hadn’t played poker for months, so I was both excited and nervous about my return to dark underworld of illegal gaming.
Aware that I would be the only woman in a group of seven men, I knew I had something to prove. I had to prove that I knew how to play Texas Hold ‘Em. I had to prove that I could cuss like a sailor. And I had to prove that I could hold my scotch.
See, the reason I haven’t played poker in several months is because Natasha and I were blacklisted due to the fatal error we committed the last time we played at Seamus’ house: we brought homemade cupcakes.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Nat and I decided we wanted to bring something other than a bag of chips and some beer, so we figured, what the heck, everyone loves a good cupcake, right? We attempted to decorate them like playing cards, but that didn’t really work out, so they just ended up with some black and red sprinkles on them. But they were really quite tasty, honest!
I hadn’t even made it through the doorway carrying the tray of treats when Seamus said, “What the hell are you doing? Get those cupcakes out of my house!”
Apparently eating dainty snack cakes is not seen as a manly thing to do during a serious game of poker. Plus they didn’t really taste that good with Glenfiddich on the rocks. Live and learn.
So this time I was prepared – I brought a six-pack of beer and some pretzels. No sissy light beer or chi-chi sourdough pretzel nuggets. Just good old Heineken and some pretzel rods. I debated over the pretzel rods, but then determined that they would go over well since they looked kind of like cigars. I was right. Men love their cigars and cigar substitutes.
As I sat at the card table, the window behind me was open and it was freezing outside, but hell if I was going to be the one to say anything about it. I’d sooner let my eyeballs freeze open than complain like a little girl about it being too cold. I could not risk being blacklisted again. Fortunately, after about an hour of icy wind blowing in, one of the guys put on his winter coat because we could see our breath, so I took that as my cue to be nice and shut the window. For his sake, of course.
We started playing cards, and everything was going pretty well. I won a few hands, knew when to hold them and when to fold them, and started amassing a decent stack of chips. But then my proverbial house of cards came tumbling down around me.
The phone rang, and since Seamus was already out that round, he took the call. It was our friend, Dr. Greene, the renowned human cloning specialist. I heard them chatting in the background, but didn’t pay much attention. Then I heard Seamus say, “Yeah, Jenny’s here. What? Hold on, I’ll tell her.”
“Jen – Dr. Greene wants me to tell you that Norelle’s gone, whatever that means.”
I leapt up, almost knocking over my beer and screamed, “Ohmigod, she is?! YES!! I hated her!”
Everyone became deathly silent, and just stared at me as I stood there red-faced, clutching a semi-crushed pretzel rod in my hand.

”Who’s Norelle? Is that the girl Dr. Greene was dating?”
“Uhh, no.”
“Oh – is she that co-worker of his?”
“Uhh, no.”
“Well who is it?”
“Uhh… nobody. It doesn’t matter. Hey, is it my deal? Don’t blinds go up now? Anybody need another beer?”
Norelle. Why did he have to bring her up now? Why, Dr. Greene? Couldn’t you have waited until I got home that night? Couldn’t you have just emailed me or left me a voice mail? An entire evening worth of hard work spent rebuilding my credibility was almost thrown out the window, all because the good doctor couldn’t keep his gene splicing lips zipped.
Most of you, I’m sure, have no idea who Norelle is, nor do you care. It’s only the sick, shameful individuals, like Dr. Greene and me, who are intimately familiar with that name:

Norelle is a woman who is no longer in the running toward becoming America’s next top model.
You see, sometimes Dr. Greene and I like to watch America’s Next Top Model on Wednesdays – okay we always like to watch it, are you happy now? – and Norelle is a really annoying person on the show who finally got kicked off. Hearing of her demise made me totally forget where I was, and what I was trying to accomplish that evening. I was unable to contain my excitement, and almost blew my entire cool girl cover.
I don’t know, I guess I can’t really blame Dr. Greene. It’s not his fault that we’re hopelessly addicted to the worst best TV show in existence. I just need to get a better grip on my emotions when I know I’m around people who wouldn’t understand.
Now I can only hope that most of the guys forgot my erratic outburst and didn’t catch the reference to America’s Next Top Model. I guess only time will tell – we’ll see if I get an invite next month to poker night. I just pray it’s not on a Wednesday night again.

Filed under: General on December 6th, 2004 | Comments Off

I’ll admit it – I’m a snoozer.
I’ve never been much of a morning person. Before I can actually get out of bed, it usually takes me about 30 minutes of lying under the covers, slamming the snooze button every 7 minutes, and calculating the latest possible time I can get up and still catch my train. (Okay – if I don’t wash my hair today, and I eat my toast in the car, that gives me at least another 15 minutes of sleep. If I don’t iron my pants, that will save me another 5 minutes…)
Since it’s part of my morning ritual, the radio station I listen to each morning plays a critical role in setting the tone of that day. Normally, I tune the clock radio to Greatest Hits of the 80’s and 90’s, which allows me to wake up to the sweet voices of the Eurythmics or Blondie. Some snappy little tune that will make me want to face the day. You know, something like, “Walking on Sunshine.”
But a couple weeks ago, something dreadful happened. My alarm clock went off, and all I heard was some annoying gravely voice talking, which led into some horrific 1950’s song. Don’t get me wrong – I love the 50’s as much as any thirty-something gal, but if I wanted to go to the sock hop, I would have asked Archie to the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance.
The first day this happened, it didn’t fully register with me. I just thought maybe my station was having an off day, or maybe I accidentally bumped the dial. I tuned the radio back to the right station, and didn’t give it another thought. But then the next day, it happened again. Then it hit me:
Oh god. My morning radio station changed formats.
With no advanced warning, they flipped from upbeat tunes by Wham! and Madonna to schmaltzy 1950’s and 60’s songs. Yesterday’s highlight? If I Had a Hammer. No offense to Mary, Peter, or Paul, but if I had a hammer that morning, there would’ve been nothing left of my radio except a smoking pile of wires and plastic.
So you’re thinking, “Big deal! Who cares what music you wake up to, as long as you wake up, right?” If only it were that simple.
See, part of the problem is that my brain is highly prone to suggestion. This is why I will never allow anyone to hypnotize me. I’ve always heard that a hypnotist can’t make you do anything under hypnosis that you wouldn’t normally do. That’s exactly what scares me – I need the pressures of society to keep me in line. My naturally repressed nature is the only thing holding back the snapping and drooling beast deep inside me.
But we should save that discussion for another day.
The point I’m trying to make is that my brain, prior to 10:00am, is somewhat like silly putty – slap it down on the comics pages, and you’ll end up with a somewhat distorted image of Family Circle. The five or so songs that I listen to each morning are permanently etched into my brain, at least until the next morning’s set list. And these songs will bounce around in my head. All. Day. Long.
To illustrate, there’s one particular scene in the movie Rain Man where Dustin Hoffman is in the car with Tom Cruise and they’re listening to the radio. Dustin Hoffman hears the radio tag line – something like “BAM! 102.9 Classic Rock!” and just keeps repeating it over and over again until Tom Cruise tells him that K-Mart sucks.
BAM! 102.9 Classic Rock!
BAM! 102.9 Classic Rock!
BAM! 102.9 Classic Rock!

This is exactly what my life is like.
Except now it’s:
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.

The day before that, I found my thrill. Wanna know where? Yeah, it was on Blueberry Hill. I found it over, and over, and over again. And let me tell you – wasn’t all that thrilling.
So why don’t I just change the station and stop my daily torment? Because, in addition to being highly susceptible to suggestion, I also suffer from short-term memory loss. I think it was caused either by all my years in the model airplane club, or from the medical marijuana that I smoke to combat the painful effects of my severe myopia and slight astigmatism.
Either way, by the time I finish writing this entry, I will have completely forgotten about the radio station dilemma, and will have to suffer through yet another day of sappy oldies but goodies. I guess if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!
Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near, la la la, la la la la, close to you…

Filed under: General on December 1st, 2004 | Comments Off

With any holiday function comes the potential challenge of having to justify your life to people you haven’t seen in months. Why am I still single? Why haven’t I bought a condo? Am I saving for retirement? Why don’t I have a job? Fortunately, I got that last one taken care of just in time for the holidays.
This year, as prepared as I was for the interrogation, I never anticipated its source: my four year old nephew, Adam.
I arrived at my parent’s house on Thanksgiving morning, arms filled with food and gifts. Okay, actually my arms were filled with an empty Starbucks cup and a basket full of dirty laundry, but I had fully intended on bringing gifts for everyone. I just fell behind.
After all the hugs and kisses were dispensed, and the rinse cycle began, I sat down at the kitchen table to talk to my youngest nephew. Adam was drinking some cranberry juice at the time, and was deeply focused on tracing his hand for a masterpiece entitled, “Turkey Hand.”
Not wanting to interrupt his genius, I just started drinking some wine (it was 11:22am, well past the 11:00am starting time) and filling my dad in on all the latest job stories. At one point, Adam looked away from his artwork and said, “Aunt Jenny, why are your teeth grey?”
I was a little thrown by the question, since I had only prepared pat answers to all the usual queries. To date, no one had ever asked me why my teeth were grey. Frankly, I am quite hopeful that no one ever asks me this question again. (For the record, my teeth are not grey, but are what my dentist calls a “nice, natural tone.”)
I explained to my nephew that what he was noticing was most likely the difference in color between my natural teeth and my bridgework. To illustrate my point, I grabbed his grape scented marker and drew a crude depiction of a dental bridge on the back of a napkin. This sparked a series of questions about why I have false teeth, if I needed a bridge because I didn’t brush my teeth, and if false teeth hurt.
Once I had explained all the ins and outs of cosmetic dentistry, he went back to drawing turkeys. Which then became black widows. Which were then eaten by dinosaurs.
Later, as we were getting ready to go outside for a walk, Adam looked up from his intense efforts at tucking his pants legs into his boots and said, “Aunt Jenny, how come you don’t have a son?”
“Uhh… I don’t know. I just haven’t been lucky like your mom and dad, yet.”
“Oh. I thought maybe it was because your eggs are so far past their expiration date that even the fertility clinic turned you down when you tried to sell them one to make some extra money while you were unemployed this summer.”
Wait. Now I wonder if maybe that last part was just in my head, because I don’t think Adam knows the phrase “fertility clinic” yet. Certainly not well enough to use it in context. And for the record, I’m pretty sure I’ve got at least a dozen or so eggs that haven’t expired yet, even if that lousy fertility clinic didn’t want them. “Must be under 30 years of age” – who made up that stupid rule?!
After our walk, we came back in and started to get cleaned up for Thanksgiving dinner. I was infinitely flattered when Adam requested that I sit next to him at the dinner table. As we were eating, Adam told me about a girl in his pre-school he has a crush on (Angela), what he hopes Santa will bring him for Christmas (army guys), and why his big brother wouldn’t let him play with his new Yu-Gi-Oh! cards (because he’s mean).
In between bites of sweet potatoes and turkey, Adam looked up at me and said, “Aunt Jenny, what are those lines on your head?”
“They’re called wrinkles, sweetie. People get them when they get old like me.”
“But my mommy doesn’t have any lines on her head.”
“Adam, that’s because your mommy sold her soul to the devil a few years ago in exchange for everlasting youth and beauty.”
Before I could finish my explanation of eternal damnation (with grape scented illustrations), Adam leapt out of his chair and ran to the bedroom in tears.
I don’t anticipate getting any questions about wrinkles next year.

Filed under: General on November 29th, 2004 | Comments Off

In honor of the day of giving thanks, I thought I would share some important Thanksgiving statistics:

• 20 minutes = amount of time it took me to scrape the ice off of my car this morning.
• 14 = the number of times my nephews will say, “Aunt Jenny – tell us a scary story. Not Hansel & Gretel. A really scary story!”
• 7 = the number of times I will (unsuccessfully) try to explain to my relatives what people in marketing actually do.
• 11:00am = the acceptable time to begin drinking wine.
• 3 = the number of side dishes my mother will forget to put on the dinner table.
• $2.00 = the amount of money I will pay my 4-year old nephew for one of his signed original drawings of a black widow eating a cobra.
• 4 = the number of hours I will spend flipping through digital cable on the TV in the guest room.
• 6 = the number of times I will have a mild panic attack due to sensory overload, and need to go for a walk in the woods.

That’s all folks. Have a very happy Thanksgiving, and for you non-Americans, happy… Thursday!

Filed under: General on November 25th, 2004 | Comments Off

If it hadn’t been for Manny Garcia’s mom, I would probably be dead or in jail by now.

It was 1980 – we had just elected our first movie star president, the Cold War was in full effect, and Joanie Loves Chachi was still two years away. I had just turned nine, had a lot of anger inside me and nowhere to direct it. So I turned to the streets, or rather, to the playground. Feeling alienated from society, and rarely being picked for the kickball starting lineup, Manny, our friend George, and I decided to form a street gang. Inspired by the movie, The Warriors, we called ourselves The Warriors. After school, we’d go to the park to train so that our bodies and minds were strong. We knew that they had to be, just in case we were ever called into battle.
The three of us would run laps, climb trees, and practice karate, but we pronounced it “ka-ra-TAY” because it sounded a lot more authentic that way. We took our regimen very seriously, keeping a journal of how many pushups George could do, or how long I could hang from the willow tree before letting go. Sometimes we’d look for big sticks to use as weapons, or just grab Manny’s old baseball bat and tap it menacingly in our hands at each other.
George and I were pretty good at drawing, so we worked together to come up with a gang symbol. George wanted it to be a snake coiled around a dagger. I lobbied to get two intertwined pairs of nunchucks, which I thought seemed a little more artistic, yet still intimidating. We compromised and ended up with a pair of nunchucks draped over a dagger. There was some talk of getting satin jackets with our logo on them, but we were nine.
One day, after a particularly grueling training session, we decided to go on our first patrol. Our initial stop in protecting our turf was Manny’s house, which was a few blocks behind the elementary school. As we walked toward his house, I saw his mother standing on their porch, so I waved. When she saw the baseball bat in Manny’s hand, she yelled, “Manny! Are you going to play baseball? Take your little brother to the park with you!”
George smiled and chimed in, “We’re not playing baseball. We’re in a gang!”
Manny winced.
His mom just stood there for a minute without saying anything, and I contemplated turning around to go home. Just then, she stormed off the porch, snatched the bat out of Manny’s hand and pointed it at us as she yelled, “Do you think being in a gang is some kind of a joke? You think this is funny? Do you want to get yourselves killed? Manuel – if I ever hear you talk about being in a gang again…”
She never finished her sentence. She didn’t need to.
“All three of you – look at me. You promise me you will never get mixed up in gangs. Promise me!”
As I learned that day, there already were gangs in Manuel’s neighborhood. Real ones. Not ones who sang “Macho Man” while climbing trees in the park. Not ones who went to the mall to get their names ironed on T-shirts in fuzzy letters. And definitely not ones who wore Smurfette wristwatches.
We all sheepishly nodded our heads and promised not to fall into a life of drugs and violence. Manny waved, and mouthed the word, “Bye” as his mother yanked him into his house.
As George and I walked back home, I told myself I would never break my promise to Mrs. Garcia. And for over 20 years, I stayed true to my word.
But that was before Natasha, Seamus, and I started taking tap.
[Stay tuned for the dramatic conclusion – Colors Part II: Gangsta Tap!]

Filed under: General on November 22nd, 2004 | Comments Off

Inspired by Hardee’s bold introduction of the Monster Thickburger, I decided that the time was right for me to launch a new product of my own. I really need to keep my finger on the pulse of consumer demand, so yesterday I had my market research team follow me around for the day to do some market research on the average thirty-something recently employed amateur tap-dancer. The market research that the market research team came back with helped me understand what my target audience is looking for.
The research indicated that Americans are working more hours than last week, wear turtlenecks at least twice each week, are eating 50% more candy than usual, and have a strong desire to be well informed about current events. After an important brainstorm session on my train ride home, my product development team created the following new feature designed to help Americans feel “plugged in” to this hectic world. It’s called “Current Events (as read over that guy’s shoulder).”
It’s concise. It’s timely. It’s proactive. It’s everything our focus group participant wanted. I’m certain that by reading these entries, I will become a much more aware citizen and consequently, a more productive contributor to society. So without further ado, I’m pleased to introduce our new feature:
Current Events (as read over that guy’s shoulder)
“K-Mart Snaps Up Sears for $8 Billion” – Chicago Tribune, October 18, 2004
I’m really excited about the merger between K-Mart and Sears because now, instead of having to not go to two different stores, I’ll only have to not go to one.

Filed under: General on November 19th, 2004 | Comments Off

As the weather gets colder, the sidewalks get sloppier, and public transportation gets more crowded, I’m very happy to report that I recently made the switch from taking the “L” to riding the Metra to work each day. Don’t get me wrong – I like the Purple Line just as much as the next guy – but there comes a time in a woman’s life when she has to make choices. Difficult choices. Choices like:

Filed under: General on November 17th, 2004 | Comments Off