I’ve been feeling a little sub-par for the past week, so yesterday I called my doctor to see if I could get into her office. Her nurse said she was all booked up that day, but told me until I could get in, I should follow the B.R.A.T. diet. For those of you who are uninformed – like I was – the B.R.A.T. diet is:
B.ananas
R.ice
A.pplesauce
T.oast
I guess these are all the foods that babies are supposed to eat when their stomachs bother them, hence the B.R.A.T. acronym. Apparently, the other diets I tend to follow are not good for upset stomachs. I don’t see what the big problem is – I mean, just because I don’t have some clever little acronym for the way I normally eat doesn’t mean it’s bad.
Heck, I think I’ll come up with a few special diets of my own. See what my doctor thinks of these:
C.hips
R.ice, fried
A.bsolut & tonic
P.epperoni pizza
Or
F.rench fries
L.emon bars
A.pple martinis
B.urgers
Or
U.nusually large doughnuts
L.ots of cheese
C.abernet Sauvignon
E.ggs Benedict
R.are skirt steak
I’m going to suggest these to her today to see if she wants to start using them to categorize her patients. I knew that medical field just needed a good marketing mind to help make it more relevant.

Filed under: General on September 16th, 2004 | Comments Off

Yesterday as I was sitting in my car waiting for a traffic light to turn green, I casually looked up at the car in front of me and noticed the strangest bumper sticker. It said, “I brake for Beanie Babies.” What made this bold claim seem even more curious was that on the other side of the car was a sticker that said, “Proud member of the NRA.” This sticker-laden bumper was attached to a black Ford pickup truck, which I suppose must come in handy for loading up all those Beanie Babies. And, of course, the guns.
This unique combination of pastimes made me wonder, though: does the driver brake for Beanie Babies so he can buy them, or blow them to pieces with his 12-gauge shotgun? Because if it’s the latter, I may be tempted to follow this truck around for a few days in hopes of seeing him use a stuffed turtle for skeet practice. It would at least help solve the mystery that’s been plaguing me for years: are they really filled with beans, or is that yet another bait-and-switch marketing ploy?
But really, exactly what neighborhoods are these folks driving through where they tend to run across Beanie Babies along the side of the road?
“I brake for garage sales” – sure, who doesn’t?
“I brake for pedestrians” – hey, it’s the law!
But, “I brake for Beanie Babies?” Does that really come up all that often?
I just imagine myself, driving along with some friends, chomping down some french fries and absentmindedly flipping the radio stations when someone in the passenger seat screams: “OHMIGOD STOPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!! Jesus, Jenny! Pay attention to the road, would you? You almost ran over that Thimbles the Bunny, circa 2001! Oh, I think I almost peed myself!”
Personally, I’ve never been too fond of bumper stickers. They’re kind of like tattoos, in my opinion – sometimes I think they look cool on other people, but I can’t imagine finding anything I’d really want to permanently decorate my body with, or my car for that matter.
A friend of mine who also hates bumper stickers always says that there are enough reasons for crazy people to want to run you off the road without advertising a few more on your car. Who knows – your Grateful Dead bumper sticker just might be the trigger that sets off a road rage spree that runs six cars into a ditch. Is declaring to the world your appreciation for some hippie band really worth taking that risk? I think not.
Even I must admit, though, that whenever I see a bumper sticker on a car, I feel compelled to pull up next to the car to see who is driving. Just out of idle curiosity, I guess. I mean, what does the parent of a Shorewood High School Honor Student actually look like? Well, what do you know? She looks proud. Real proud. Just like it says on her bumper sticker.
And what does someone whose “other car is a Rolls-Royce” look like? Surprisingly, not at all like someone who owns a $300,000 car. And if their other car is a Rolls-Royce, why the heck are they still driving around in that rusted out 1986 Renault Encore? It just doesn’t make sense to… oh wait a minute! I totally just got the joke! Ohmigod, that’s hilarious! The irony!
Whew. That one really got me.
But back to the Beanie Baby lover. I had to know – what does a card carrying NRA member/Beanie Baby enthusiast look like? All I could see was the top of his head. Heck – maybe that’s a woman. Hard to tell from this angle.
So I followed the truck for a few more blocks, racing to catch up with him. He was dodging through traffic, possibly on a quest for more Beanie Babies. Or more assault rifles. I had to know which one.
But alas, the elusive Beanie Baby collector would escape me. For now. But I’m still on his trail. I must know who this enigmatic soul is. What makes him tick? How many Beanies does he own? Does he think they’ll bring Kingly the Lion out of retirement? Has he ever met Charlton Heston? Maybe I’m making this out to be far more interesting than it really is. Maybe guns and stuffed animals aren’t all that strange a combination. Maybe this creature I’m hunting isn’t all that rare.
Well, only time will tell. In the meantime, I have returned to that intersection and placed a 1999 mint condition Porridge the Bear on the ground, poised seductively under a trap I made out of an old refrigerator box, a stick, and some string. Now, the hunter becomes the hunted.
We’ll see who brakes for Beanie Babies. We’ll just see.

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

A few years ago, I developed an allergy to, of all things, sesame. This wouldn’t seem like a very debilitating problem, but you would be amazed at how many foods contain some form of sesame these days. I don’t dare eat unfamiliar Asian food, and did you know that almost all Mexican molé sauces contain sesame seeds? I didn’t, until one unfortunate birthday dinner at a gourmet Oaxacan restaurant.
But worse than dealing with the actual allergy itself is dealing with the looks of pity and disgust I receive from waitstaff when I tell them I am allergic to sesame. It’s like I just told them I have leprosy. First comes the eyeroll, then the deep sigh, then the dramatic search for the red pen to highlight “allergy” on the order pad. I went to a Korean restaurant once and there were truly only two items on the entire menu that didn’t contain sesame. And they were both squid. I mean, allergies aside, what if some people just don’t like the taste of sesame? I guess it’s kind of like trying to order something without garlic in an Italian restaurant.
I’ve decided to start my own support group for people who, like me, are battling their own inner allergy demons. Some place where people can go and not be judged for their body’s weaknesses. A place where people can find a buddy – someone to call on lonely nights when they’re thinking of ordering shrimp fried rice.
As part of my efforts at demystifying food allergies, I am sending out a plea to all celebrities in the world to finally come out of the closet and admit that they have allergies. There are other disabilities that seem to be ultra cool to admit, so why not allergies? Dyslexia, for example. That was the learning disability du jour a few years ago. Tom Cruise is dyslexic. Whoopi Goldberg is dyslexic. Even Theo Huxtable was dyslexic. Suddenly everybody’s dyslexic!

“Oh, we should really give him the Oscar. It must have been extra hard for him to learn his lines.”

So why is it hip to have trouble reading, but not hip to have trouble digesting shellfish? I’ve had it, I tell you. I’m mad as hell, and I’m not gonna take it anymore!
I want to try and help people shake the stigma that is associated with allergies. I just feel like a loser when I have to special order everything at restaurants. I guess it goes back to my childhood – anytime I think of a kid with allergies, I remember Francis – the weak, pasty-skinned boy with slouched shoulders and oversized glasses who was constantly grasping for his inhaler. He always had to be the scorekeeper when we played softball because he was allergic to grass. But I want to fix all that – I want to change the face of allergies, and make it chic to be lactose intolerant.
I defy you to name a celebrity that will actually admit to having an allergy (seasonal allergies don’t count). You cannot do it, because allergies are equated with the ultimate of nerdy dorkdom. I am quite certain that loads of celebrities and public figures have food allergies, but their publicists know that it would be committing career suicide to leak that to the press. Celebrities would rather cop to a heroin addiction than admit that they carry an epi-pen around in their purses.
In fact, I believe there has been a massive conspiracy to cover up the allergy-related deaths of several major stars. I am convinced that Mama Cass was actually allergic to Dijon mustard, but somehow her agent thought that choking on a ham sandwich would make for a less humiliating explanation for her death. And Elvis? Drugs? Please. There’s only so long that you can pump your body full of peanut butter and bananas before that lethal combination throws your system into overdrive. This Hollywood conspiracy is an outrage!
People just don’t take allergies seriously, which they certainly should in this litigious society that we live in. I was at a sushi restaurant with some friends about a month ago and told the waiter that I was allergic to sesame, and asked him to make sure there was no sesame in any of our food. I began eagerly gulping down my tuna sashimi and caterpillar rolls when suddenly my face started to burn and my head started to itch.
“Huh. That feels like an allergic reaction,” I thought, “but it can’t be, since I specifically requested no sesame in anything.”
So, I stepped into the bathroom and sure enough, I had hives forming on my stomach, arms, and neck. When I came out, I asked the waiter if there was sesame in anything he served us, since I was clearly having a reaction.
“Well, there’s usually some sesame oil mixed in with the spicy tuna paste, but no sesame seeds. Geez, you must really be sensitive. Most people are just allergic to the seeds.”
I like to call that strategy the “blame the victim” technique. I’m sure that same defense would hold up well in court: “Well, sure I knew little Timmy was allergic to peanuts, but I gave him peanut butter, not peanuts. Geez, he must have been really sensitive. I’ve never seen anyone swell up quite like that.
Apparently, I need to educate waiters all across the greater Chicagoland area because clearly at waitstaff school, they do not teach them that all oils come from the ingredient they are named for. Sesame oil? Comes from sesame seeds. Peanut oil? Comes from peanuts. Olive oil? Comes from olives. Baby oil? Comes from… okay, I seem to have found an exception to the rule. But you see my point.
So now when I order food, I have to tell waiters that I am allergic to sesame, sesame oil, sesame seeds, sesame bread, sesame paste, sesame sticks, sesame extract, and sesame flavoring. I’m sure there’s a loophole there somewhere that I’ll unfortunately stumble upon someday as I lay writhing on the floor, choking on my own swollen tongue: “I didn’t know you were allergic to toasted sesame seeds. Most people are only allergic to the raw ones. Geez, you’re really sensitive.”
Anyway, now I’m focusing my efforts on organizing the first branch of my new Al-Anon support group. All I need is for one celebrity spokesperson to come forward, and soon, everyone will start claiming their allergies. I’ve got my eyes on Woody Allen right now, but his publicist has clammed up. If anyone is allergic to shrimp, it’s got to be Woody – I know a fellow “allie” when I see one. At our first meeting, we will be serving bottled water and wheat gluten free crackers. And the best part is that when you reach the one month mark of being allergic reaction free, you will receive a key chain with a bronze Benadryl on it! I just know that eventually these key chains will be more en vogue than the ubiquitous red Kabbalah bracelets, mark my words.

Hi, my name is Jenny, and I have allergies. I’m allergic to penicillin and sesame. I haven’t had an allergic reaction in over one month…

Filed under: General on September 10th, 2004 | Comments Off

All this time away from the hustle-bustle of corporate ladder climbing has made me re-evaluate my priorities. Before I dive back into the world of trying to convince people to buy things they don’t need, go places they’ve already been, and use things they don’t want, I’ve decided I need to create something all my own. With that in mind, I’ve determined that I need an outlet for my underutilized creative energy, so I’m going to take an art class.
I like to think that I have just enough artistic ability to allow me to appreciate that which I can never create. Nevertheless, every so often I try to keep the right half of my brain stimulated (or is it the left? I always forget.) by taking some sort of art class like drawing or painting or film.
I’d like to try another figure painting class, but I guess I’m still a little gun shy from the last time I dealt with a live model. It was a few years ago, before I moved to Chicago. Although I had never even taken a life drawing class before, I decided to jump right to the head of the class and take a figure painting course I saw listed in the local art school’s continuing education program.
Almost immediately, I began to rethink that decision as the instructor asked everyone to go around the room and discuss why they were taking her class. Nine out of the ten people in class were either full-time art students, or art teachers eager to get some highly coveted studio time.
I had never worked with a live model before, at least not one that was, you know, naked, so I wasn’t totally sure what to expect. Do they walk into the room naked? Do they come in fully clothed and then slowly strip while we wait? Am I supposed to make eye contact? How much do I tip? Is it inappropriate for me to smoke a cigarette and drink Harvey’s Bristol Cream? Fortunately, the first model came in wearing a robe, and then waited for the instructor to set up the chair in the right position while she told her how to pose.
During this class, I learned that there is a severe shortage of male models willing to pose nude, which I guess surprised me a little. This means that the ones who do pose nude have acquired a pseudo-celebrity status in the art world. Everyone in the biz knows their names and availability.
I happened to take this class during the Nude Male Model Drought of 1999, so there was really only one guy on the scene. I’ll call him Ray because I blocked his real name out, along with most other memories of that class. But I do recall that Ray was severely balding, but completely disguised that fact by growing the back of his hair really long, in a sort of homage to Hulk Hogan. Other than that, he was just a regular looking guy with a pot belly, which actually made for a fairly interesting subject matter.
So where, then, is the problem? Well, the class started promptly at 6:00pm every Thursday, and I worked about 30 minutes away. I rarely was able to leave work with enough time to go home, change, get my art supplies, and make a peanut butter sandwich to last me until 9:00pm when the class let out. By the time I would race into class, all the prime spots to set up a canvas had long been staked out by the other students. This meant that the only spot that was consistently available was facing the model dead-on.
Ray had a tendency to choose poses that involved sitting back in his chair, putting one leg up on a block, and the other leg straight out. If you were one of the shrewd students who was able to establish a side view, this pose made for a highly interesting composition. If, on the other hand, you were relegated to my undesirable real estate, the pose left something to be desired. It was kind of, well, dirty.
I know, I know – grow up, Jenny! The human body is a beautiful art form that has been celebrated through paintings for centuries. I get all that, but there was just something a little creepy about having to spend three hours looking at this guy in his naked nudeness. I didn’t like the way he was so comfortable sitting there spread-eagle, all unclothed like that.
I mean, come on, even Adam had the decency to sport a fig leaf. In my opinion, being uncomfortable in one’s own skin is important. It sparks our instinct to put on clothes. It serves as a self-preservation sort of reflex, kind of like pulling your hand away from an open flame. You don’t have to think about it – you just do it. Shame is good, and really the only thing that separates us from the animals.
But really, worse than having to paint Ray in rather unflattering poses for three hours a week was what happened during the breaks. He would step off the platform, drape his robe loosely over his nakedness, and walk around to look at our progress.
There is something uniquely unsettling about touching up a painting of a nude creepy man while said nude creepy man is hovering over your shoulder saying things like, “Wow – interesting composition” or “I really appreciate the bold strokes you use.”
Eww.
But after a 10-week long class, I must admit that I did come away with a much stronger appreciation for the human form, and a pretty solid understanding of color theory. Unfortunately, I also came away with six nude paintings of some strange nude man in random nude poses.
I stored these paintings in a pile in the back of a closet for a few years, and frankly, had forgotten all about them until I started packing to move to Chicago two years ago. When I found them, I was suddenly faced with an agonizing dilemma – do they stay or do they go?
Here were my options:
A. Take the paintings with me to Chicago, possibly allowing a bunch of grunting, sweaty movers to think that I’m obsessed with some bald pot-bellied naked man.
B. Throw the paintings away, possibly allowing a bunch of grunting, sweaty garbage men to think that I’m obsessed with some pot-bellied naked man.
C. Destroy the paintings, possibly allowing some nosy neighbor to peek in my window, witness me slashing up the canvasses, and think that I’m dangerously obsessed with some pot-bellied naked man.
D. Hang the paintings on my wall in Chicago, possibly admitting to myself that I’m obsessed with some pot-bellied naked man.
So I did the only thing a reasonable person could do in this situation: I hid the paintings in the attic of my old house, slipping them behind a stack of old drywall and insulation. Now the next tenants can find them and think that my old landlord was obsessed with some pot-bellied naked man.

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

The great Hot Dog! Bubble Gum mystery has been solved. And let the records reflect that I single-handedly cracked this case in less than 72 hours. I’d like to see CSI top that one! After unsuccessfully trying to utilize complex forensic evidence to identify the criminal mastermind behind the Hot Dog! Gumming, I decided to get back to the basics. I hit the streets with my list of suspects and kicked it Columbo style. Nothing fancy, no DNA evidence, no crime scene re-enactments, just good old fashioned grilling.
I was always so impressed with the way Columbo could trick the suspects into confessing their crimes just by asking them simple questions. As you’ll see from my exchange below, I think I would’ve made the Lieutenant proud:
Me: “Hey, did you send me some gum in the mail?”
Suspect #1: “Me? Ha! I don’t even know your address. Nope, wasn’t me.”
Me: “Okay, thanks.”
Me: “Hey, did you send me some gum in the mail?”
Suspect #2: “Yeah – did you get it already? I thought you’d get a kick out of that.”
Me: “Ah ha!!!! Caught in your own web of lies! Why don’t you tell that one to the judge?! Hope you know how to play the harmonica, because you’re gonna be singing Folsom Prison Blues for a long, long time. ”
So I know you’re all dying to know – who did it? What twisted psycho could have plotted such an evil crime? To those of you who know her, this will probably come as a bit of a shock, but it was Natasha, in the library, with the candlestick. And the frightening thing is that I wasn’t her only victim. She sent a similar package to Seamus. The disturbing thing is that Seamus just happily ate the gum as soon as he opened the package, without ever giving a thought to who might have sent it. That kind of trust is just begging to be taken advantage of.
Now that the mystery has been solved, the Natasha I once knew is gone forever. I can’t look at her without thinking of the torturous mindgames she put me through. From this point on, she will be known as the Unagummer. I just thank god that she was stopped before she gummed again, or worse, moved on to something more dangerous like taffy. All in a day’s work.

Filed under: General on September 2nd, 2004 | Comments Off

It’s Tuesday morning, the air’s a little chillier than I’m used to, my back’s a little stiffer than I’d like it to be. I wake up early, real early. Couldn’t sleep last night, because the questions just kept running over and over again in my head. Why? Who would do this? What motive could they have? But let me back up a bit and explain: I received a disturbing package in the mail yesterday: a plain white envelope with my name written in neat, block letters. For a return address, there was simply a large red question mark.
My immediate thought was, “Anthrax!” But then I remembered reading in Us Magazine that anthrax is so five minutes ago. Still, I held my breath as I carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. Inside the envelope was a blank piece of plain white card stock carefully folded around a small package of gum. But it wasn’t just any kind of gum – it was a little plastic wrapper containing two red pieces of hot dog shaped bubble gum, aptly labeled “Hot Dog! Bubble Gum.” I immediately noticed that there was an exclamation point after the word “dog,” which seemed to be mocking me.
Ha! Does someone really think I’m stupid enough to eat gum I received in the mail in an unmarked envelope? But what sort of deviant would have sent this to me? Who knows I like hot dogs? I suppose anyone who has read my blog, so that gives me at least three suspects right off the bat. Do I have any enemies? That list is substantially longer. Fortunately, my time away from work has left me with many hours to learn the finer points of criminal investigations by watching Law & Order, Law & Order: SVU, Law & Order: Criminal Intent, CSI, and CSI: Miami, so I knew exactly what to do.
The postmark was from Chicago, so it seems that this was an inside job. That potentially rules out a long list of East Coast suspects, unless they had an operative working here in Chicago, which I suppose is certainly possible. I dusted the envelope for finger prints, but most were too smudged to get a good read. The card stock and the gum wrapper both tested clean for prints, so I suspect that the perp wore gloves. I therefore deduced that the prints on the outside were most likely made by my grubby mailman.
Clearly, this was not the work of an amateur. What kind of a sick, twisted mastermind would do something like this? Sending anonymous bubble gum through the US Postal Service? That very well could constitute a federal offense.
A closer inspection of the gum wrapper revealed my first big clue. Printed right on the plastic, plain as day, was a phone number. It said, “For nutrition information, questions, or comments about this product, call toll-free weekdays 9-4 EST.” This was exactly the lead I was looking for. I immediately called the number and a smoky-voiced woman named Joyce answered.
Joyce: “Thank you for calling Hershey Foods consumer hotline. This is Joyce, how may I help you?”
Me: “Joyce, hi. My name isn’t important right now, but I have a few questions I’d like to ask you. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
Joyce: “Uhh… no. This is… this is my job. What can I help you with today?”
Me: “I’m inquiring about one of your products – it’s called Hot Dog! Bubble Gum. There’s an exclamation point after the word ‘dog,’ if that helps. I’m interested in the nutrition information. Does this gum, to your knowledge, contain any rat poison?”
Joyce: “I’m sorry, did you just say rat poison?”
Me: “I’m asking the questions here, Joyce. Does it contain rat poison, or any poison of any type?”
Joyce: “Of course not! This is bubble gum, ma’am. Intended for human consumption. I can read you the list of ingredients if you’d like.”
Me: “Fine, you want to play it that way, let’s go. Sure – read me the list.”
So Joyce went on to read some long list of ingredients that included corn syrup, gum base, FD&C Red 40, but nothing that sounded particularly deadly. I do have a call in to a lab, though, to find out what exactly BHT is. Once Joyce rambled through this long list, I continued with my line of questioning.
Me: “Okay, here’s my next question. I need to find out exactly where you distribute this gum in the Chicagoland area. Can you fax that list to me today?”
Joyce: “You want a list of every single store where this gum is sold in Chicago? I don’t have access to that type of information. I mean, I don’t even know where you would get that from. Did you maybe want to see a brochure on how the Hot Dog! Bubble Gum is manufactured? It’s actually made in Canada at a state of the art fa-“
Me: “Joyce, Joyce, Joyce. Look, honey. We can make this easy, or we can make it hard. Personally, I like you, Joyce. You seem like a smart dame, and I sense that you really want to help people. Just tell me where the gum is sold, and I’ll be on my way. Simple as that.”

Joyce: “Ma’am, I really don’t have that information, and even if I did, it’s not something I could just hand out to people. Hold on please, I’m going to let you talk to my supervisor, Adam.”
During the two minutes I was on hold, Joyce and Adam obviously did a great job of getting their stories straight because Adam fed me the exact same line of bull that Joyce did, complete with the offer to send me their brochure. The only difference was that Adam tried to sweeten the deal by throwing in a free pass for a tour of their Toronto plant.
Now that Joyce and Adam had lawyered up, I knew I would have no choice but to do this the old fashioned way and start pounding the pavement. So today I’ve been working on a list of all the possible locations that might sell this type of gum. I know that I’ve seen it for sale at a few of the hot dog stands in Chicago, so that’s where I’m going to start. A quick Google search on “hot dog stands” + “Chicago” revealed that there are over 2,257 hot dog stands in the city, and I’ll hit every one of them if I have to. Next I’ll move on to grocery stores, corner pharmacies, and gas stations. I will not rest until this mystery is solved.
In fact, if I don’t post any new entries for the next few weeks, it’s because my focus needs to be on catching this criminal. I don’t know, maybe that’s what they were hoping for. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has broken the law in a vain attempt to stifle my writing.
Is that what you wanted? Was that your master plan all along? To lead me on a wild goose chase so that I would stop speaking the truth? Well, then I guess your plan just might work, but only temporarily. Only until I pick up your scent and track you down like a mongoose after cobra eggs. (Point of clarification: in this analogy, I am the mongoose, and you are the cobra eggs. Or possibly the cobra. Either way, I’m tracking down you and/or your eggs.)
I will consider calling off my hunt if you post a comment here coming clean, and tell me if it’s okay for me to eat the gum. Barring that confession, the mongoose gloves are off!
You messed with the wrong person, anonymous gum sender. The wrong person, indeed!

Filed under: General on August 31st, 2004 | Comments Off

I hung out at my boyfriend’s place this weekend. His name is Max. Actually, that’s his last name, but that’s what I like to call him. His full name is OfficeMax. We met quite a few years ago, when I was in college. We’re not dating each other exclusively, but I see him at least once a month. Usually when I need something. Does that sound bad? I don’t know, I guess it works for us.
I’ve actually been seeing more and more of Max lately. This is our favorite time of year right now – the sweltering heat of summer is about to end, leaves will soon begin changing color, there’s a certain crispness to the air that signals the beginning of fall. And most of all, I love it because it’s a very special time of the year for Max and me – he likes to call it the Back-to-School Sale.
When I was a kid, I would get so excited as the new school year began, not at the thought of seeing old friends, or making new ones, and certainly not at the prospect of learning something new. No, what got me more thrilled than anything else was when we would finally receive the school supply list, and my mom would take me to K-Mart to buy my supplies for the year. There were crayons, lunch boxes, rulers, and pens. And as I got older, I needed a compass, a calculator, a back pack, and binders!
Back-to-School was like a religious holiday to me – the most sacred time of the year. This was the one and only time when school supplies would finally get the respect they deserved. Front page placement in the Sunday circulars. Special signage in the entry of every store directing customers to the right aisles. For once, school supplies would leave their tiny trailer park excuse for an aisle, wedged unceremoniously between generic greeting cards and duct tape, and for a few glorious weeks, they would get to live in the penthouse suite of the department store. Three full aisles with end caps devoted solely to meeting my Back-to-School needs!
As I got older, my love for school supplies never waned. It just blossomed, really. But now I call them office supplies to reflect our more mature relationship. In fact, if I could own any kind of store in the whole wide world, it would be an office supply store. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be able to walk down the aisles after hours, and just know that everything there was mine. Although, I guess it technically wouldn’t all be mine, because I’d need to sell it in order to make money to keep the store open.
I wonder if it would bother me to see people buying up all of my office supplies. I’d have to keep ordering more and more, and strangers would just keep taking them all away. And I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate the supplies the way that I do. They’d just hound me with questions about why I didn’t have any highlighters that were cheaper than $0.79 each, and why Liquid Paper only came in packs of three. And then I’d have to sink to the lowest common denominator and stock fruit-scented glitter gel pens for all the tweeners who think it’s cool to write boys notes that smell like strawberry.
Boy, I guess owning a store is really a lot of work, and it seems like you have to compromise your ideals in order to turn a profit. I don’t know, maybe what I meant to say is that if I could rob any kind of store in the whole wide world, it would be an office supply store. That’s probably a more realistic goal. But of course, I’d never do that because prison orange really washes out my skin tone, and I highly doubt I’d have access to top-shelf office supplies in Cell Block H.
I know it’s kind of a weird thing to be so passionate about, but if loving the feel of a Uni-ball Vision Exact Medium Point pen in my hands is a crime, then lock me up and throw away the key. I mean, I’m more likely to notice the kind of pen someone is writing with than their hair color or facial features. I guess it’s just more important to me. Anyone can have a winning smile, but pull out an Ultra Fine Point Sharpie to sign your check at the grocery store and my heart is yours forever. Whip out a Bic disposable blue ink pen with teeth marks on the end, however, and you might as well just keep your phone number. Trust me – I’ll never call.
So some people call me eccentric, some call me a snob, but I really don’t care. I just tell them that I know what I want, and right now, Max has everything I need.

Filed under: General on August 30th, 2004 | Comments Off

Don’t leave me this way. I can’t survive, can’t stay alive, without your love. Don’t leave me this way.
I have killed again. I didn’t mean to. I never do. It wasn’t intentional, certainly not premeditated. If anything, I am guilty of neglect. The victim this time? Mr. Schlumbergera Bridgesii, but he was known on the street as Christmas cactus.
I don’t know what my problem is. My mom is an amazing gardener, my grandmother has two green thumbs. Heck, even my brother has a flourishing vegetable garden in his backyard. Somehow, no matter what I do, I kill every plant I own. It’s only a matter of time and opportunity.
This one really hit me hard, though. I thought for sure I was going to have better luck with a cactus. I mean, how do you kill a cactus? They survive in the desert, without water for months on end. But sure enough, yesterday I looked up at the plants on my window sill in the kitchen, and there it was. A shriveled, limp, lifeless corpse that once was a beautiful flowering Christmas cactus.
I’m not your typical serial killer – I imagine that it would be pretty hard to profile me to determine my modus operandi. I really have no particular genus or species that I target. Everyone is fair game, which is what makes me so dangerous. In addition to this cactus, I’ve killed African violets, English ivy, and Boston ferns. I’ve murdered Strawberry begonias, Watermelon peperomia, and Grape ivy. I’d like to stop, but people keep buying me more plants. Why, people? Why? Don’t you get it? I am sick.
I have recently been thinking about ways that I could use my powers for good instead of evil, and possibly turn my kiss of death into a side business. It seems to me that maybe there’s a market for home hospice care for plants. When all hope is lost, when not even Miracle-Gro can perform a miracle, people can come to me. I certainly can’t save your ailing plants, but I know I can make them more comfortable while they’re dying.
Do you have a ficus infested with aphids? I’ll talk to her every day and tell her she’s lovely, even as she drops all her leaves. Have a jade plant suffering from terminal root rot? I’ll play soft music and read him the latest Dear Abby columns from the paper.
You see, I’m trying to change. I want to be rehabilitated, so I’m begging all of you. Friends, family – I know you mean well, but you have got to stop buying me plants. I cannot be trusted. I cannot be stopped. I will kill again. But if you’re interested in the home hospice deal, let me know. I’ll give you a 15% discount if you mention this blog.

Filed under: General on August 26th, 2004 | Comments Off

Danke schön, darling, danke schön. Thank you for all the joy and pain.
Joy and pain, indeed. Natasha has informed me that she plans to start taking German lessons. While I admire her desire to expose herself to a new language and raise her cultural awareness, I’m not exactly sure how I feel about her choice of German.
I suppose my attitude stems from my first, and only, experience with Germany, which came while I was studying in Paris during college. While most of our friends were wisely spending their winter breaks in southern Spain or Greece, my friends Mark, Brian and I decided to spend our vacation lounging on the sunny beaches of… Dresden. I can’t remember exactly why we chose Dresden as one of our stops, but I seem to recall that Brian was a big Kurt Vonnegut fan, and I think Vonnegut wrote Slaughterhouse Five while he was a POW in Dresden. Clearly an excellent logic to use when selecting your winter holiday hotspot.
In any case, our entire trip could be summed up in one sentence: Germany yelled at us for an entire week.
We started our trip in Frankfurt, which would have been great if we had been attending the dental convention, but it’s not exactly what you might call a tourist town. Particularly in January. While in Frankfurt, I bought my first and only souvenirs: a seven-foot long wool scarf and matching wool socks. It was close to sub-zero weather the entire week we were there, so the three of us spent most of our time trying to keep warm. At one point, we contemplated eating balls of suet from a bird feeder to try and keep our body temperatures up.
I’ll say this – I’m certain I would’ve enjoyed our trip much more if at least one of the three of us had known how to speak even a word of German. Fortunately, pretty much everyone under the age of 30 in Germany speaks flawless English. Our first encounter with the multilingual German youth came on the subway in Frankfurt. A teenage German boy heard us speaking English and said, “Excuse me, but vy vould choo come to Chermany in vinter?”
Because ve are, I mean we are morons, that’s why.
This nice German teen taught us how to say “Excuse me” in German, because we had a lot of trouble getting through the herds of people in the subway station. We never quite mastered the actual expression, but Mark noted that it sounded a lot like “chewing gum.” So, for the rest of the trip we screamed, “Chewing gum! Chewing gum!” whenever we had to cut through a crowd, and amazingly, it worked like a charm.
But then again, we also found that in Germany, if you say anything loudly enough and with enough authority in your voice, people figure out what you need. We learned how to count to three in German, so whenever we’d go to a bakery or a restaurant or a store, we would just scream “DREI!” and then point to whatever we wanted. Yes, this did help perpetuate the ugly American stereotype, but when you’re hungry, diplomacy takes a back seat. And we would at least throw in a shout of “BITTE!” and “DANKE!” for good measure.
Our next stop was Munich, which I must admit is really worth a trip to Germany on its own. That was by far the highlight of our trip, although it still continued our trend of being yelled at throughout an entire country. I’ve just never had the experience of having so many different people yell at me for such a long period of time.

The conductor on the train screamed at me because I forgot to give her my blanket earlier. The curator at the modern art museum yelled at me because I was leaning too close to a painting. The director of the youth hostel hollered at all three of us because we got into the wrong breakfast line. The manager at the Frankfurt Burger King screeched at us because we were drinking Jagermeister in the restaurant at noon after only buying a small Coke to split among the three of us. Okay, so maybe that one we deserved. But you see my point. Maybe it’s just that no matter what you say in German, it sounds like yelling.
Being on a tight student budget, we were hoping to eat as inexpensively as possible. But of course, we had to experience the true Bavarian beer hall, so we pooled our Deutschmarks together to buy what we hoped would be an amazing meal.
From our Let’s Go! Germany guidebook, we knew the German word for sausage, so armed with that knowledge, we felt we were ready for anything. What we didn’t anticipate, though, was that pretty much every food item in the entire country contains some sort of sausage. Veal sausage, pork sausage, blood sausage, beef sausage, duck sausage. There were fried sausage patties, boiled sausage links, sausage pancakes stuffed with sausage, veal sausage pastas with duck sausage cream sauce. For breakfast we were given liver sausage spread for our toast. No jam? How about just plain butter? No? Okay, pass the sausage, bitte. I can’t prove it, but I may have even eaten a sausage filled cookie. Fortunately, I’m told that Jagermeister serves as a natural blood thinner, so none of us suffered a major coronary before our Eurrail passes expired.
When we got to the beer hall, we couldn’t understand anything on the menu, except sausage. So of course, to play it safe, we ordered one sausage. Then we decided to make our other selections based on price. I excitedly pointed out some really inexpensive items to Brian and Mark, but got an angry look from the waiter when I tried to order them.
He just shook his head and screamed at me, “NEIN! NEIN! KINDER! KINDER!” and held his hand about three feet off the ground. As I looked back at the menu and saw a cartoon drawing of a little boy in lederhosen holding a lollipop, I quickly understood that I had ordered from the children’s menu.
I was now able to add Bavarian waiters to the growing list of Germans who had yelled at me.
Quickly recovering from our embarrassment, we decided to throw caution to the wind and just pick two random entrees for dinner. We picked one that sounded kind of familiar, and another that was the longest word on the menu. Mark looked up at the waiter and innocently said, “Is this a lot of food?” The waiter chuckled to himself and walked away. The three of us were working on polishing off the colossal beers that had arrived earlier, when the waiter returned with our order. He set down one plate with a four-inch long blood sausage, a cup of broth with one dumpling in it, and a bowl of green peas.
Then he walked off, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “stupiden amerikanens.”
Now, although we were still a bit in shock from the ridiculous assortment of food in front of us, we all agreed that we had never tasted peas quite as amazing as these. I had also never eaten peas one at a time, but when you have just spent the last of your cash, your senses become heightened, and you begin to appreciate the little things in life.
Needless to say, after a quick stop at the cash machine, we were ever so happy to stumble across a McDonald’s, where we promptly ordered DREI! Biggen Mackens. I got a little misty eyed and homesick as the special sauce dripped all over my wool scarf. He would never admit it, but I was almost certain that I heard Brian humming “God Bless America” as he ate his fries.
So I guess maybe it’s a good thing that Natasha is taking German. This way, if I ever go back, I’ll be able to bring her along so she can translate the steady stream of insults lobbed at me by frustrated waiters and angry curators. But it’s only a matter of time before Nat starts screaming at me in tap class: “NEIN! NEIN mit da shufflen ballen changen!”

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

Jenny, Jenny. You’re the girl for me. You don’t know me but you make me so happy. Jenny, I’ve got your number. I need to make you mine. Jenny, don’t change your number. 867-5309.
I think I’m being stalked by the Chicago Lyric Opera. It’s totally my fault. I brought this on myself a couple months ago. A while back, I received a postcard in the mail from the Opera promoting a drawing for free season tickets. I thought, “Free season tickets! Who deserves this more than a thirty-something unemployed tap dancing stay-at-home-mom-without-children? No one, that’s who!”
My mom and I used to go to the opera together, and it’s been years since I’ve gone, so I filled out the form and popped it in the mail. Now, I work(ed) in marketing, so of course I know that the reason organizations hold giveaways is to build their database of potential customers. But for some reason, my gut told me to register. My gut told me that I had a shot at winning those season tickets. I have learned to no longer trust my gut on such matters.
About two weeks after I mailed in my postcard, she started calling. I mistakenly answered her call the first time, and that’s when our rocky relationship began. Her name is Patricia. Patricia is an older woman, and from the South, or so I gather from her slight drawl. At first, I found it kind of endearing, but now it just grates on me. She’s very intelligent and worldly, clearly educated at the finest schools. She herself is an opera singer, which is why she’s so passionate about this season’s lineup.
Patricia knew so much about opera – more than anyone I had ever met. She had a way of making even the dourest of Wagner pieces sound absolutely enchanting. In addition to our love of opera, Patricia and I also shared a passion for great filmmakers, particularly Robert Altman. Patricia informed me that Robert Altman’s movie, A Wedding, has been refashioned into an opera, which just so happens to also be featured on this season’s schedule.
Patricia wanted to know if I was interested in purchasing some advance tickets for the 2004/2005 opera season. She assured me that it would be a season I’d never forget. So different from all the others. I told Patricia that I would need to check with my mother to see if she might want to attend the opera this year. At first, Patricia seemed a little hurt that I was letting my family dictate how our relationship progressed, but being from the South, she said she appreciated that I had a close relationship with my “momma.” I didn’t like the way Patricia called my mother “momma.” It would mark the beginning of the end.
Patricia asked when she could call me again. I told her I needed some time. At least a week. I was a little uncomfortable with how aggressive Patricia had become, so I lied and said my mother was out of town. I said I wouldn’t be able to discuss the opera with her until next week. I’m not sure if Patricia believed me or not, but she said that she’d call me the next week.
True to her word, Patricia called me the following Wednesday at 3:00, just like she promised me she would. We chit-chatted for a bit, and then Patricia asked how my “momma” was, and if I’d gotten her input yet. I told Patricia that we were interested in either Aida or Tosca, and asked what the price ranges were for first balcony seats. This is where our relationship started to sour.
I just wanted individual tickets, but Patricia told me that since those two performances are so popular, individual tickets would be hard to come by. I gave her eight alternate dates for each opera, but she still seemed to hesitate. Then I said I’d be open to mid-week performances, or even matinees, but that wasn’t good enough. Suddenly, it seemed like nothing I did was right. I started wondering where this had all gone so wrong.
Patricia told me that my best option was to purchase a small series. That way, although I’d be paying more, I’d get to see five operas at only a fraction of the individual ticket price. I told her I thought she was moving too fast. I didn’t understand why we needed to define our relationship in terms of “small series” at this stage. I was just looking for an individual ticket, and now she was pressuring me into some long-term commitment I wasn’t ready to make.
I told her that I would need to talk to my mother again to get her thoughts. Patricia snapped at me and asked if I needed my mother’s permission for everything. I said no, not everything, but this was a big decision, after all. I’ve never been in a small series arrangement before.
Patricia called me back the following week, and has called several times a week since then. She never leaves me a message, but I see her pop up on my caller ID. I know it’s cowardly on my part, but I’m just not ready to deal with her yet. I know when I tell her I don’t want a small series, and that I just want to stick with an individual performance, it’s going to start a whole argument again. I can hear her nagging already: “Do you realize how much money you could save by getting the small series? I just don’t understand you. I don’t even know who you are anymore! What, did your momma tell you to do that? When are you going to cut the apron strings and finally make a decision on your own?”
So this week I’m prepping myself for the inevitable. When she calls, this time I’ll pick up. I just need to be honest with her and tell her that it’s not her, it’s me. We’re just in two different places right now, and I’m not ready for a small series. I just hope we can still be friends.

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