You know what’s weird? Now that I work downtown, I see far more woodland creatures than I ever did when I worked in the lush, tree-lined suburbs of northern Illinois.
The only difference is that in the city, all the animals are dead.
So far this week I’ve seen a dead bird every single day on my way out of the train station.
Monday: Nuthatch
Tuesday: English sparrow
Wednesday: Starling
Thursday: Yellow finch (Or possibly a wadded up McDonald’s bag. It was in the street so I couldn’t really get a good look.)
On Tuesday, I saw a woman in a business suit rip a piece of paper out of her fancy leather portfolio, pick up the sparrow, and deposit it in the trash can. I wonder if she does that kind of thing all the time. Maybe she canvasses the city looking for dead animals so she can give them a (semi) proper final resting place. Do I admire her or pity her? I’m just not sure.
This mass slaughter started to get me a little worried about what might be killing the small birds of Chicago. Is the air so polluted here that they are literally dropping from the sky? Is there a massive gas leak in the area that our inferior human senses just haven’t been able to detect yet? Is there a sniper on the loose?
As I stared up, looking for signs of a rifle or a high-powered slingshot, I realized that my train station is in a thirty story glass building, and these birds were just victims of their own poor eyesight. They saw the building just a few precious seconds too late. Oh, sweet little nearsighted birds. I think, if only I could mend those broken wings. Fortunately, this is a fleeting thought, and I quickly go back to sipping my BananaBerry Jamba Juice.
You know, if that woman really wanted to do some good, instead of daintily scooping up the bird carcasses and tossing them in the garbage, she would paint a gigantic picture of an owl on the building so the birds would stop slamming into it. That’s the problem with these do-gooders – they lack planning. Anyone can clean up the mess after it happens. But what those birds really need is someone who’s more proactive. Am I right or am I right?
Well, I’m off to work. What will it be today? Any bets? Even odds on sparrows. A robin will get you ten to one odds. Twenty to one on a hawk. Sixty to one on a swan. Takers?

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

Yesterday

I ate two mini Twix candy bars
and three ghost shaped marshmallow Peeps
for breakfast.
And I defy anyone to tell me that was wrong.
Then I washed it all down
with some Diet Pepsi.

That was just plain wrong.
I’m so sorry.

Filed under: General on October 13th, 2004 | Comments Off

Now that the pressure of the job hunt is behind me, I’m looking for ways to release the stress that built up in my body during my sabbatical. It’s high time I treat myself to some pampering to channel my stress energy out of my pores and into the universe, where it belongs. And since I’ve never been one for Tae Bo, or any physical activity that resembles hand-to-hand combat, what I really need to do in order to bring my mind and body back into balance is spend an hour in a flotation tank.
Shortly after I moved to Chicago, Natasha added this activity to my list of must-do’s. This item fell just below tap dance lessons and just above dog shows in terms of priority. She did all sorts of research and found out that the oldest flotation tank facility in the US just happens to be right here in our own backyard. For those of you who are unfamiliar with flotation tanks, here’s the description from the Space-Time Tank site:

“A flotation tank is a 8’x4’x4′ enclosed structure which diminishes light and sound. Each tank holds 10 inches of water with 800lbs. of Epsom salts enabling a person to float effortlessly. The water is heated to an average skin temperature (93.5°) reducing the sensation between body and water. The tanks are fully ventilated and the solution is sterilized after each use with concentrated Hydrogen Peroxide and Ozone.”
Who wouldn’t want to spend a few hours in that?
After signing on a few more adventuresome friends, we scheduled our appointments for the tanks. Initially, I had a few concerns that I discussed with Natasha. Some of the key ones were:
1. What does one wear in a flotation tank?
2. Will I get claustrophobic?
3. What if I just obsess about work issues for the entire hour?
4. What if I get locked inside?
5. Can I get typhoid fever from floating in a tank?
6. Will I revert back to my Neanderthal origins and emerge as part monkey, a là Altered States?
With my list of concerns in hand, Natasha headed out to research all the facts she could find about flotation tanks, and returned with the confidence of a pro. She addressed my questions one at a time:
Attire
Now, I’m no prude, but when it comes to fashion, I’m pretty modest. I just didn’t know – was I supposed to wear a swimsuit? Underwear? Scuba mask and snorkel?
As I would quickly learn, unless you want to be known in the floating community as a complete freak, you wear the same outfit you were born with, sans umbilical cord. At first, I was a little uncomfortable with this. I mean, is that sanitary? Although, I don’t suppose a Speedo ever really served as any true protection against water borne diseases.
Plus, Nat sent me all sorts of links to websites that discussed the purification process used after each person floats. Apparently, not even a prehistoric water parasite could survive in that level of salt content. So there I was, naked as a jaybird. But without feathers.
Claustrophobia
A valid concern, I thought. Will I have a panic attack? If I scream, will anyone hear me? Our charming and informative guide told us that if we did get claustrophobic, we could prop open the door with our towel and leave a dim light on.
I must admit that I did have a very brief panic attack when I first crawled into the tank, although I’m not sure if that was due to the enclosed space, or due to the fact that I was buck naked sitting in 100 degree salt water. It was really the humidity that freaked me out more than the darkness. Because it’s enclosed and so warm, the air is very thick, and for a moment I thought both my lungs had collapsed. They hadn’t. I made myself calm down, put out my cigarette, and then the panic quickly subsided.
Work
A week before going to the tanks, I had to fire one of my more emotionally unstable employees, and it was a fairly unpleasant experience for us both. I had this fear that during the entire time I was floating in the tank, all I would be able to think about would be her, and all of the other crazy people I had to deal with at work.
Fortunately, an amazing thing happens in the tank – you cannot concentrate on anything, even if you try. Your mind just keeps wandering from thought to thought in a seemingly random pattern. It’s exactly the same phenomenon that would occur whenever my old boss would talk to me about his philosophy on the benefits of micromanaging employees.
Trapped
I suppose this goes hand in hand with the claustrophobia concern, but I had a genuine fear of being locked inside this tank. In my mind, the tank had a giant deadbolt on the outside that they needed for some security reason.
Of course, there are no locks on flotation tanks. There are no latches, and there aren’t even any handles. It’s just a little door that you could easily push open with one finger. I know because I tested it out several times.

Disease
My doctor assured me that I could not catch typhoid fever from a flotation tank. And then she asked me to find a new doctor. Apparently she’s still upset about when I paged her at home on a Sunday because I thought I had a rare combination of polio and gout.
Monkey
If you’ve seen the movie Altered States, you understand what I mean by this. For those of you who haven’t seen it, here is the edited version: William Hurt’s character is a scientist researching different states of consciousness and one of the techniques he employs is a sensory deprivation tank. After spending some time in one, he turns into a caveman. I can’t really explain it any better than that, so you’re just going to have to rent it on your own.
I thought I was being pretty clever when I joked with the owner about this fear. Apparently, a few other (hundred) people have seen this movie, and they all thought it would be hilarious to make this exact same joke to the owner. Since the film came out in 1980, he has heard this joke approximately 628,408 times. It was perhaps funny the first two thousand times he heard it, but evidently it has worn thin. Is it my fault that he works in an industry with limited material to pull jokes from?
So the flotation tank experience was amazing, and one that I must repeat soon. And the best part is that I did not, at any point, turn into a monkey. But I am typing this with my feet right now.

Filed under: General on October 12th, 2004 | Comments Off

Picture this: October 7th, 72˚ and sunny, slight breeze, one of the last nice days before the brutal Midwestern winter takes hold. Before I head back into the office after lunch, I decide to collect my thoughts while leaning on the railing and looking out at the crystal brown waters of the Chicago River.
Over to my right, I notice three nice looking young professional men – probably in their late twenties or early thirties – who seem to be enjoying this setting as much as I am right now. As I’m watching one of the last sightseeing boats of the season cruise by, my peaceful afternoon is disrupted by a horrific sound. It’s the unmistakable sound of someone “hawking” and then spitting into the water.
I don’t turn to see where the sound came from, because I already know. Okay, maybe he has a cold. This behavior is still unacceptable, but I’ll excuse it just this once.
Then I hear laughter, more hawking from multiple sources, and more spitting.
All three of these grown men wearing important ID badges and dress pants and ties are spending the last ten minutes of their lunch hour watching each other spit over the railing. I try to ignore them and am fairly successful until I hear one of them say, “Dude! See if you can hit that duck!”
I look down and, to my horror, see an innocent tiny brown duck desperately paddling her way toward our side of the river. Turn back now, little duck! Turn back!
This is not possible. I cannot be standing next to three men who probably have MBA’s from fancy colleges and who earn $100k a year at their financial services company and who have important jobs where people call them boss and who are currently having a contest to see who can spit on a duck.
But alas, ‘tis true. I leave before they succeed in hitting their target, but not before shooting them all the dirtiest “What in god’s name is wrong with you pathetic losers?” look, as well as slipping them a minor Sicilian curse as I walk by. Their tongues should be swelling up. Right. About. Now.
This is an alarming trend – look around you – people are spitting at an unprecedented rate. And it’s now an equal opportunity filthy habit: I see men, women, children, grandparents – all spitting their way through the day.
What is wrong with these people? Either learn how to swallow, or get that post nasal drip problem looked at by an expert, pronto! You’re making me sick, people!
I’m only days away from calling in some favors and forming an anti-spitting vigilante street gang. You do not want to mess around with my homies. They catch you spitting and not only will they politely ask that you wipe it up with an anti-bacterial handiwipe which they will provide free of charge, but they will also give you a plastic bib that says, “I’m a big drooling baby. Spank me.” Wearing the bib is a totally voluntary thing, but you should see the look on people’s faces when we hand it to them. You can totally see that they feel ashamed right before they throw the bib on the ground and spit on it.
Okay, so I didn’t say that these were tough vigilantes, but cut me some slack. I’m a tap dancing cat owner from a small town in Wisconsin. Exactly what kind of favors did you think I could call in?

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

I’m really getting worried about my roommate, Judy. She’s just not herself lately. She’s moody, constantly yelling at me, never wants to hang out anymore. I was talking to her brother the other day and he said that she’s been really weird with him as well. Apparently they used to get along really well, but now he said it seems like he can’t do anything right around her.
She’s been sleeping all day, pacing around the apartment at night. I just don’t know what’s going on. The scariest thing is that I’ve caught her throwing up in the bathroom a couple of times. And once she just threw up right in the living room in front of me.
I think Judy might be bulimic.
Oh yeah, did I mention? Judy’s a cat. She’s Siamese, a breed known for its slender physique, but I think maybe she has been taking the pursuit of a perfect 10 body a little too far.
I know that I’m at least partly to blame. Ever since I started working again, I haven’t had much time for her. I’m sure she’s tried to talk to me about her problems, but I was too busy watching Survivor or reading blogs to listen. And it probably doesn’t help that there have been so many extreme makeover type shows on TV. After a while, even a trim feline like Judy is bound to develop self-esteem issues.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have bought that 2004 Cat Fancy Desk Calendar. I like to look at pictures of cats wearing sunglasses – I mean, who doesn’t? – but I never thought about the impact it might have on my own cats. What kind of message am I sending them when I make such a big fuss over a bunch of airbrushed pictures of cats I don’t even know, all gussied up and hamming for the camera? God, what have I done?!
I probably wouldn’t have even found out about her disease if I hadn’t walked in on Judy in mid-binge. On Sunday night, I heard a strange rustling coming from the kitchen, and when I went to see what all the ruckus was about, I saw Judy’s slender tail sticking out of the cupboard. As I went over to get a closer look, I found her in the middle of eating almost an entire box of pumpkin shaped Halloween marshmallow Peeps. An entire box! I didn’t even get to try them yet! I’ve never even tasted the pumpkin shaped ones before! I had just cut open the plastic wrap a few hours earlier to let them dry out a little (that’s the way I like them).
She turned around as soon as she heard me screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Not my Peeeeeeeeeeps!!”
Judy tried to act nonchalant, but her face said it all – orange marshmallow sticking to her whiskers, blue-eyed guilt at being caught in the act. The one thing I’ve always read about bulimics is that the binge and purge cycle causes a great deal of shame, which throws them into a deeper depression, further fueling the disease.
I cannot let Judy spiral downward any further than she already has. So as soon as this year is over, I’m going to throw out my 2004 Cat Fancy calendar. But maybe I’ll just keep the June picture as a motivational tool for all three of us. I think we all have a little healing to do, and this may just give us the inspiration we need.
Oh, June. I don’t know if I could have made it through all my months of unemployment if it hadn’t been for him. Every time I felt like I couldn’t go on, I’d just flip open that calendar to June, and somehow I just knew that everything was going to be all right. I mean, if that little guy can make it, then there’s hope for us all. Don’t you give up, little buddy! Hang in there!

Filed under: General on October 5th, 2004 | Comments Off

Oh, savvy business woman standing straight and tall
Atop your new Segway, lording over us all.
With your pin-striped grey suit and Coach briefcase in tow,
You think you’re superior – say walking’s too slow.
“Gangway! Step aside! I’ve a meeting to attend,
Vast proposals to craft and blast emails to send!”
With utter contempt you ran us off the sidewalk,
Quite oblivious to all our bitter jive talk:
“Who does Miss Segway think she is?! Who made her queen?”
Such unified hatred – the best I’d ever seen.
A man near me frowned and muttered, “Oh, how absurd!”
I said nothing aloud, just inflaming my GERD.
We’ll soon find out just who is the Queen of West Loop.
You doubted that down to your level I would stoop.
This story’s not over. The plot, it does thicken.
I challenge you now to a real game of “chicken!”
One day, someday soon, crowds will part like the Red Sea
As I speed right toward you in my new ATV.
My name, they will praise. It is the stuff of folklore.
Generations to come will be eager for more.
“Tell me again, mommy, how the battle was won,
That day when foolish Segway challenged Run Jen Run.”

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

If there’s one good thing about having a violent stomach parasite for a week, it’s that your friends aren’t quite so hard on you when you tell them that you’re not going to join them in the 5K race you had all been planning on running for months.
Unfortunately, my friends are clever, so it didn’t take long before they realized that I had never actually signed up for said 5K race, which we had “all” been planning on running in for months. But again, I played the sympathy card and said, “Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough for my mistake? Don’t you think I see now that I never should have lied to you? Don’t you think I wish I were as healthy as all of you so that I could join you? You should just be thankful that you are all blessed with iron stomachs.”
I just hope they bought that load of crap. I think they did, because before they left me sitting on a grassy knoll surrounded by their smelly gym bags, they all clasped hands and said they were going to run this race for me.
“Let’s win this one for Jenny, guys!” shouted Seamus, as he rubbed Vaseline on his nipples and tried to decide whether his shirt looked cooler hanging out or tucked in.
“Yeah, let’s do it for Jenny! And all the other women around the world suffering from weak constitutions!” yelled Natasha, as she popped a piece of Gatorgum into her mouth and adjusted her Adidas headband.
My heart swelled with love. And pride. With prideful love. And perhaps a bit of jealousy. They now all shared a bond that I would never know. A bond of sweat and Vitamin Water. Our friendship will probably never be the same. Now when we get together, I’ll feel so left out as I listen to story after story about how they felt the “runner’s high” kick in at Mile 2, and the rush they felt as they saw the finish line just a few yards away, and how soundly they slept that night, their muscles still burning and twitching from their accomplishment.
I guess I really learned a lot from this whole 5K experience. I learned that I shouldn’t lie to my friends, because they always find out the truth in the end. And I learned that setting personal goals and accomplishing them can give you a high like nothing else, not even animal tranquilizers washed down with some scotch. But most of all, I’ve learned that any time I screw up, all I have to do is spend five days trapped in my apartment suffering from a rare Amazonian intestinal parasite and my friends will forgive almost anything. If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.

Filed under: General on September 24th, 2004 | Comments Off

It was 1976. The bicentennial. The town I grew up in held a contest to see which neighborhood could paint the fire hydrants in the most patriotic theme. My mom, my brother and I took our civic duty seriously and spent a week planning out the most patriotic hydrant we could imagine. It would be just like the American flag. The bottom half was blue with white stars and the top half was covered in red and white stripes. Around the very bottom we painted the words, “1776 – 1976. America the Beautiful!”
Unbeknownst to us, this seemingly unique theme was replicated by most every neighborhood in the city. We didn’t win, but I remember feeling a real sense of pride and accomplishment when I’d see the hydrant as I looked out our living room window. I think it was about 1981 before the city finally came by and painted all the chipped and faded hydrants blue.
But back to 1976. Aside from celebrating 200 years of freedom from the oppression and meat-centric diet of the British Empire, I also reached a personal milestone. Kindergarten. Big girl school. No more hanging around the house watching As the World Turns with my mom anymore. It was time for me to learn. Stuff you can’t pick up watching Sesame Street or even Electric Company. I remember being so excited about my first day of school. I could see the school from my house – it was just across the park – and had always watched with great envy as my older brother would walk to school while I had to stay at home.
My mom walked me to school on the first day, and within minutes of stepping into Mrs. LeBlanc’s class, I saw her. The girl who would become my new best friend. I would later find out that her name was Casey. Casey had long, stick straight blond hair and enormous blue eyes. Her hair was in pigtails, which was quite the rage at the time. She looked just like Marcia Brady. But that wasn’t really what drew me to her. It was her shoes. As soon as I walked into the classroom, I quickly scanned the room for familiar faces. I didn’t know anyone there, but as my eyes rapidly jumped from student to student, something caught my attention. Casey was wearing the exact same shoes as I was.
My first day of school shoes. I loved these shoes so much, I couldn’t wait to wear them on my very first day of big girl school. They were tan leather with rubber soles and had a little yellow bumblebee stitched on the sides of them. I remember running my finger across the bumblebee when we first picked them out. I liked the way the bee felt. It felt thick, not like a decal, but more official. Like a badge.
When I looked across the room and spied Casey’s shoes, I nearly pulled my mom’s arm out of its socket as I yanked on it and yelled, “Mom! That girl has the same shoes as me! She has the same bee shoes!” You have to understand – these were simpler times, and relationships were built on simpler foundations.
Friendships form for all sorts of reasons – common interests, common backgrounds, even common enemies. But a bond forged over a common sense of style is one that can never be broken. Never, that is, until one of those friends turns thirteen, starts smoking, wears black eyeliner that has been melted with her cigarette lighter, and gets a fifteen year old boyfriend with a tattoo on his forearm. Then somehow the bee shoe bond seems less important. So I shuffled my Buster Brown clad feet through several more years of school, always fondly remembering those days of innocence.

And here I am today, many years older, a little bit wiser, and still unfamiliar with the magic of eye makeup. But this week, as I find myself crossing a new threshold – the critical milestone this time being a new job – I wonder if old tactics can still prove effective. Now that I have a new career, maybe I might stumble across a new friend. One who will share the most intimate of bonds that two women can share: footwear. I haven’t found her yet, but I just feel it. I know that one day, soon, I’ll be sitting in the lunchroom eating a bag of guacamole flavored Doritos when I will look down and see a woman wearing the exact same thick soled shoes as I have on. Only this time, the role of Buster Brown will be played by Steve Madden. Until then, I just hope my co-workers don’t get the wrong impression if they see me walking down the halls with my head to the ground. I’m not shy – just trying to find some bees.

Filed under: General on September 23rd, 2004 | Comments Off

People I hope to never again encounter on the “L”
Woman with silver boom box and headphones who kept singing more loudly and more off-key with each stop.
Diagnosis: Desperate attention seeker
Secondary diagnosis: Crazy
Woman allowing infant son to suck on the same pole that over 1,000 sweaty, filthy hands had grasped earlier that day.
Diagnosis: Irresponsible
Secondary diagnosis: Oblivious
Teen girl walking onto the train wearing enormous black and red angel wings.
Diagnosis: Desperate attention seeker
Secondary diagnosis: Drama student. Oh wait, that’s pretty much the same as the first diagnosis, isn’t it?
Woman reading Catch 22 while silently moving her lips and picking at imaginary bugs in her hair.
Diagnosis: Insane
Secondary diagnosis: In the membrane

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

After dealing with [unpleasant illness that is best left unnamed] for the past week, I finally got in to see my doctor yesterday. Although I was right on time, I spent the perfunctory 20 minutes reading three-month old People magazine in the waiting room before they finally called my name.
Then I spent the perfunctory 10 minutes sitting on a piece of tissue paper while wearing a piece of tissue paper until the doctor graced me with her presence. Our entire conversation lasted about nine minutes, and went something like this:
Dr. X: “So… what brings you here today?”
Me: “Nothing really. I just wanted to say hi, see how you were doing. You look great! Did you change your hair? It looks a little darker. God, these new gowns are really comfortable! Read the flipping chart, woman! What the hell do you think I’m here for?”
(Okay – that part was all just in my head.)
Real Me: “Well, for the past five days, I’ve had [indescribably disgusting symptom] as well as a little [equally repulsive symptom], so I’m hoping you can tell me what the problem is.”
Dr. X: “Mmmm hmmm. Okay. And have you traveled anywhere recently?”
Me: “Uhh – I went to Milwaukee on Saturday.”
Dr. X: “Okay. No, I meant anywhere out of the country.”
Me: “Oh. No. Unless you count Wisconsin as a foreign country. Ha ha. Heh. Hmm. [nervous cough]”
Dr. X: “All right, well let’s just take a quick peek.”
Considering the nature of my [repugnant ailment], I really wasn’t sure what part of my body she planned on peeking at. I was quite pleased, however, when she simply reached for the blood pressure cuff.
After a few pokes and prods, and several dietary questions, she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said it seemed like I probably could maybe might have something that potentially could possibly be something like a gastrointestinal virus. Or something else. But only time would tell.
Never have I witnessed such confidence and conviction ooze out of the mouth of a medical professional. It’s exactly like they show on ER!
Based on a few quick Internet searches I had done during my 5-day sentence, I was pretty certain I had either colon cancer or a rare Amazonian intestinal parasite, and was already picking out outfits that would camouflage the colostomy bag, but if she wanted to go the viral route, I was happy to tag along for the ride.
Dr. X: “Well, since I kind of am thinking that I may suspect your [nauseating illness] could or might probably just be something that could possibly be kind of like one of those stomach virus type things, there’s really nothing I can give you. You’ll just need to ride it out. It should go away in a week. If it’s the virus thingy. If not, let me know and we’ll go from there. Until then, I’m going to recommend that you stick to a bland diet for the next 3 to 5 days.”
And this is where the conversation got weird.
Dr. X: “Drink some Gatorade Sports Drink to balance out your electrolytes. You’ll also want to have some Jell-O gelatin, now in convenient ready to serve Jell-O cups! I’d suggest you also eat a few cups of Uncle Ben’s rice and some Chiquita bananas each day. Oh, and you should also drink some clear broths. Campbell’s chicken broth is the best choice.”
Wait a minute! So not only did I get no real medical advice in this $150 visit, but now I’m part of some massive product placement conspiracy?! This was outrageous! I swear to you, she plugged no less than seven brands in the nine minutes I was in her office. I know she’s getting a kick-back for that. I just know it.
Then after dispensing some worthless dietary suggestions that I could’ve found on the Kraft recipe board, she left me with this one last piece of medical advice:
Dr. X: “Oh, and if you start to get a high fever, feel dizzy, have severe abdominal cramps that are at least an 8 on a pain scale of 1 to 10, lose vision in one eye, bleed from the ears, experience sudden and excruciating joint pain, or notice your intestines sliding out of any part of your body, we always recommend going to the emergency room right away. Thanks, and hope you feel better!”
Well, after those final words of wisdom, I could not stop myself from pulling into the grocery store on my way home to pick up two flavors of Gatorade*, some Mott’s apple sauce, and some Jell-O Gelatin Cups – now in Berry Burst! Flavor. I’m so prone to suggestion. I’ve never been so ashamed.
[*On a side note, I can now add Gatorade to the growing list of reasons I am not athletic. That stuff is N-A-S-T-Y! Now I understand why football players primarily use it as something to dump on their coach’s head after a good game. Tastes kind of like Kool-Aid mixed with sweat. Yum!]

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