As I tried to get out of bed this morning, I found that I couldn’t move my legs. My torso moved just fine, but my legs just lay there, limp and motionless. Immediately, I thought, “Ohmigod! It’s the polio. I must have caught the polio when I was down by the lake yesterday! Dammit. How the heck am I going to fit an iron lung in this apartment?!”
But then I remembered that two days ago, I was struck by the unfamiliar urge to go for a jog, partly to relieve stress, and partly in preparation for the 5K Run/Walk I somehow let Natasha rope me into. The race isn’t until mid September, so people keep telling me I have plenty of time to train. Unfortunately, these same people also keep telling me that training for a 5K involves more than buying a new pair of Adidas running shoes, donning a hot pink velour Juicy Couture track suit, and visualizing myself crossing the finish line in slow motion amidst hordes of onlookers chanting my name.
So with this race looming over me, and after falling into a particularly deep unemployment induced funk this week, I decided that I needed to go for a quick run to blow off some steam. I’ve always heard that exercise is really good for stress, because it releases something called endodontists, which I think relieve pain. Especially during a root canal.
So I started to throw on my jog attire and bolt out the door when I thought, “Wait. Aren’t people supposed to stretch their muscles before running?” Fortunately, I quickly remembered hearing on the news a few days earlier that researchers have debunked the myth that stretching prior to exercise prevents injury, which made me really happy since I was certain that this exercise mood would only last about six minutes. I knew that if I had to actually stretch first, by the time I got done trying to touch my toes, I would have changed my mind and settled for watching the latest installment of Big Brother 5 instead.
As I stepped outside, the dark skies looked a little ominous, but I knew that I wasn’t planning on staying out very long. I was going for quality, not quantity. I started out strong – shoulders back, long strides, chest out, measured breathing. This lasted approximately two blocks, at which point my left arm dropped to hold my ribs, my shoulders slumped, and I started to hyperventilate. I actually started to feel a little dizzy, and looked around to see if there were people behind me to help out just in case I collapsed on the sidewalk. There weren’t, so I knew I was on my own.
It was at that point that I decided to focus on the “walk” part of the 5K Run/Walk. Somebody has to do it, right? So I alternated walking for five minutes, then walking slightly faster for five minutes, then back to walking for five minutes. Just as I really started to find my stride, I saw a few flashes of lightning in the distance. It seemed really far away, so I wasn’t overly concerned.
I felt a slight mist of rain falling down on me. As the first few drops fell, I thought, “Hey, this is nice! It’s cooling me off, and when I go back to my apartment, my neighbors will think I’m all sweaty from some marathon run.” I mean, if I can’t actually be athletic, I might as well try to at least look the part.
But then I heard it – a crack of thunder so loud that I actually felt it in my feet. And without any other warning, it came. The skies opened up and brought down the heaviest, most pounding, torrential rain I’d ever witnessed. There was nowhere for me to go at that point. I was about six blocks from home, so I just started taking shortcuts through alleys to get home as quickly as possible.
In my haste to quickly act on my sudden urge to exercise, I decided against putting in my contact lenses. This would prove to be a fatal error in judgment. As I schlepped through the alleys, my glasses were completely fogged up and useless, and my eyes were burning from what I can only assume was a steady stream of dissolved hair products dripping into them. I wasn’t even sure if I was on my own block. I just kept pressing the alarm button on my car’s remote in order to try and find my house by sound.
There was a river of garbage rushing through the alley, and at one point, a soggy newspaper and a banana peel had wrapped around my ankles, almost tripping me up. Although my vision was blurred, I’m pretty certain I saw a rat kayaking down the alley on an old milk carton. And he was beating me.
I didn’t need this. All I wanted was to beat the blues and join the fight in America’s battle against obesity, and I ended up drenched to the bone and dragging a trail of Doritos bags and twine behind me. Unless I could somehow convince my neighbors that I had just completed the swimming leg of a triathlon through the Chicago River, my hopes of tricking them into thinking I was athletic were pretty much shot.
So here I am. Unable to walk, and barely able to wheel myself over to the computer in order to type this. But I guess I’m one step closer to being heart healthy, and that’s really what matters. I just wish those endodontists I’ve heard so much about would finally kick in.

Filed under: General on August 20th, 2004 | Comments Off

It has almost been two years since I moved to Chicago, so I thought I’d take a moment to reflect on some of the high points of my time here. When I first moved to the city, I put together a list of all the things I wanted to do, key attractions I wanted to visit, important experiences I wanted to… experience. And all in all, while I’ve still barely scratched the surface of what Chicago has to offer, I’m pretty pleased with my progress in accomplishing my list.

Let’s see just a sampling:

• Take a bartending class – check!
• Learn to tap dance – check!
• Spend an hour in sensory deprivation tank – check! (I’ll tell you about that someday)
• Discover Chicago’s best hot dog – work in progress!
• See what a Chicago Police Department looks like at 2:45 am – check!
• Attend dog show – check!

Ahhh, yes. The dog show. Of the vast array of activities on my list, I think this was the most highly anticipated of them all. I remember it like it was yesterday: I was eating lunch at Boston Market, reading the Chicago Tribune, when I saw it – a quarter page ad for the upcoming dog show at McCormick Place Convention Center!
I immediately whipped out my cell phone and called Natasha.
“Nat. It’s Jenny. What are you doing on March 6th? It’s a Saturday.”
“March 6th? Uhhh… I’m not sure. Hang on – let me ch-“
“Don’t bother. If you’ve got plans, cancel them. We’re doing it. We’re going to a dog show! Just listen to this: ‘Thousands of dogs, hundreds of different breeds, agility competitions, chance to speak with breeders…’ Did you hear that? Agility competitions! I’ve never been so excited!”
“You sold me. Count me in! I’ll tell Seamus the good news!”
So there we were – McCormick Place Convention Center. The International Kennel Club Annual Dog Show. It was everything I had ever dreamed of… or was it?

Do you know how sometimes you build something up for so long that the reality cannot possibly live up to the fantasy you’ve created? No, I’m not talking about my job search, although you make an astute analogy. I don’t know, I guess maybe I just had too many images of the Westminster Dog Show and scenes from Best in Show running through my head before going to a real dog show.
Maybe we were there on the not-so-fancy dog day, but it just seemed like every single dog was a golden retriever. Nothing against retrievers – heck, they’re really cute, friendly dogs, good with kids. But I see them all the time. Where were the afghan hounds? The dachshunds? The Russian wolfhounds? The Lhasa Apsos? Stage after stage was filled with golden retrievers. I mean, how can you even tell golden retrievers apart? They look absolutely identical. It wasn’t like one trainer was bringing out the three-legged golden that he rescued from the Humane Society. That actually might have been interesting. For a while, I thought that maybe I had the competition all wrong – maybe it wasn’t the dogs that were being judged, but the trainers. Maybe the dogs were just there to lead them around. At least there was some diversity in the trainers.
When it comes right down to it, I guess I really wanted a scene. I wanted to see trainers sabotaging one another. I wanted to witness an owner burst into tears as her pomeranian lost out to a pekinese. Where was it? Where was the drama?
I asked that question just a bit too soon. Our first taste of dog show drama came after Natasha, Seamus and I determined that we had seen enough identical retrievers trotting around in circles. We took a seat in the bleachers to watch a little of the agility competition – I had seen similar competitions on TV and was amazed at how talented these dogs were. Running through tunnels, balancing on balls, climbing up ladders, mastering rudimentary sign language – it was mind boggling!
Well, the agility course at McCormick Place left a little something to be desired. It looked kind of like a haphazard jungle gym that you might have played in as a kid at your dad’s company picnic. But, I was keeping an open mind. The first round began with the A-list dogs – the border collies. These dogs were born to run obstacle courses. One at a time, on the judge’s command, the dogs leapt out of the starting gate, flew over hurdle after hurdle, raced through the treacherous “weave poles,” and then sprinted to the finish.
After a few rounds of the really talented, speedy dogs, the judges would do a round of the slower, smaller dogs. It was actually pretty charming to see these short-legged pugs trying to work their way over the hurdles, which had been lowered substantially to accommodate their tiny little bodies. These dogs would just half-heartedly trot back and forth through the weave poles while their eager trainers would cheer them on with squeaky toys and encouraging shouts of “Get the squirrely! C’mon Roosevelt! Go get the squirrely!”
But the crowning glory, and the drama, arrived when one trainer brought out an enormous sheepdog. They had to pull back the dog’s hair with a big barrette so he could actually see the obstacle course. As this colossal beast lumbered his way over the first jump, he slowed down a bit, and then just stepped over the second jump. Then he stopped. Right in the middle of the course. A hush swept over the crowd, which was quickly replaced by our collective gasp as the dog – how can I put this delicately? – took a huge dump in the middle of the floor. Oh the humiliation! The trainer just looked away in horror as some staff members handed her a plastic bag, some disinfectant, a bucket, and her self respect.
At Westminster, something tells me they hire people to clean up dog poo.
This put a bit of a damper on our enjoyment of the agility competition, so the three of us started to wander over to the grooming area, where we could get up close and personal with the dogs as their trainers were shampooing, blow-drying, crimping, and powdering these championship dogs.
Seamus seemed unusually excited at this opportunity, and it wasn’t until it was too late that I discovered why. It seems that Seamus had been trying to earn extra income by moonlighting as a talent scout for commercials, and talented dogs are in high demand these days. While Nat and I were simply there for the sheer appreciation of canine beauty, Seamus had an agenda – to meet his next superstar. Apparently one of his clients was on the short list for call-backs as Reese Witherspoon’s miniature Chihuahua in Legally Blonde 2, so he was pretty bitter when he lost out to that hack that played Bruiser.
In any case, it’s kind of an unwritten rule that you don’t bypass the owners by speaking directly to the dogs, but Seamus was never one for following rules. While Nat and I were oohing and ahhing over some adorable 12-week old pug puppies, I turned around to see a security guard asking Seamus for some ID. Apparently, Seamus had been caught handing out his business cards to some of the more prominent pooches. My only souvenir from the event is the image below that was captured by the security cameras just as he was soliciting a prize toy poodle.

Seamus meets a new client
Needless to say, Seamus’ indiscretion got us thrown out of the dog show, and blacklisted by the kennel club community. I learned a lot from this experience, though. I learned that you have to be careful about building things up too much in your head, because you often set yourself up for disappointment. I learned that if a dog doesn’t want to jump over a stick, maybe there’s a good reason. And I learned that when I go to the Cat Show in December, I most definitely will not be inviting Seamus.

Filed under: General on August 18th, 2004 | Comments Off

I like to think of myself as a somewhat culturally aware citizen, so every so often I need to engage in an activity that stimulates me in a more intellectual capacity than say, watching a Real World/Road Rules marathon at a friend’s house. So to that end, I decided that it’s high time I made a trip the Chicago Historical Society. The Chicago Historical Society has been developing a new exhibit that will remain in the city for the next three years, and it finally opened to the public a month or so ago: Teen Chicago. According to the CHS website, the goal of this exhibit is “to study how teenagers affect Chicago’s history, and how growing up in Chicago affects the way people think, act, and feel.”
Now, aside from a few particularly provocative murals spray-painted on the El, I personally don’t know much about how teenagers have affected Chicago’s history. What I can tell you, however, is that from the moment I saw the huge advertising billboards on the city busses with Andy Warhol-esque pictures of teens sporting mullets and mohawks, I absolutely could not wait to see this exhibit. After much schedule rearranging with some friends of mine (people with jobs are very difficult to pin down), I eventually found a date that worked for all of us.
So finally, next week Sunday, my friends Chris, Cultural Attaché, and I (Note to self: do not allow friends to select their own pseudonyms anymore) will be packing our brown bag lunches and heading off on our field trip to see teen angst in all its glory. [Remember to check back next week for exciting details of our hilarious romp through time.]

Of course, my primary motivation for attending this exhibit is to perhaps help me understand my past, because in the immortal words of Carlos Santana, those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. And I cannot, under any circumstance, allow that to happen. I’m sure you all know the story, you’ve seen the ABC Afterschool Specials – it was 1984, I was young, a little rebellious maybe, seeking acceptance, and finding it with the wrong crowd. It seemed like everyone cool was doing it, and it was my body, right? So I did it. I got a tail. No, not the kind that might land me a job with a traveling carnival, billed as “Jenny the Amazing Monkey Girl,” but the hairdo kind of tail.
It seemed like a good idea at the time – Sheena Easton had one, the guys from Menudo had them, I think Ricky Schroeder might have even had one. But I was no Ricky Schroeder. It was disastrous, and I knew it from the moment I stepped out of the hairdresser. The breeze on my neck felt strangely unsettling, particularly when combined with the gentle flapping of my newly braided 4” long tail. One factor I hadn’t weighed into the tail equation was that I have naturally curly hair, and even the tightest of braids couldn’t stop the tail from curling up like a little corkscrew. I thought that maybe if I damaged my hair enough, it would lose the curl, so I bleached the tail white blonde. Now I was left with a platinum pig’s tail dangling from the back of my head. At that point, blending in with the crowd was no longer an option.
I think the tail (and the humiliation) lasted about six months before I could no longer stand it and had my mom cut it off. I would gladly post a picture of me with my tail here as a warning to those who might follow in my footsteps, if only one existed. It seems that my family and I had an unspoken agreement to never, ever allow photographic evidence of this hair disaster to exist. When people would ask why I was conspicuously absent from all family photos from summer 1984 to spring 1985, my parents would tell them that I was studying in Mexico that year.
The hairdo may have long grown out, but a mistake like that lingers on. It works its way deep into your follicles, somehow altering your DNA forever. I still live with the pain of that fateful decision every day. But sometimes in life, we’re given second chances, and I feel strongly that this Teen Chicago exhibit is my opportunity to reach out to youngsters who are struggling with the same types of decisions that I agonized over at their age. If I can use my own experience to help other teens get their lives back on track, and not go down that same road that I tumbled down for years, then it will all have been worth it.

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

Some friends and I were talking recently about physical traits we find attractive, and oddly enough, several of us agreed that we find scars to be somewhat appealing. Now, I don’t mean the Mel Gibson Man without a Face type scars, but more like the Indiana Jones ruggedly mysterious variety.
I don’t know, maybe my affection for slight facial disfigurement is genetic, because my mother has always had a strange attraction to men with eye patches. Unfortunately, my dad still has both his eyes, so I just pray every night that she can see past that and somehow find a way to make that marriage work. My mom has a cool scar on her cheek from a fall she took as a baby. She used to tell her co-workers that she got it in a knife fight, which I find funny since she was a legal secretary in a small Wisconsin town. What’s even funnier is that some of them believed her.
I have a couple scars on my face, but the one I’m most fond of is about an inch long above my left eye. I got it in a knife fight. With my mother. Okay, okay – actually I got it in first grade at the zoo. I was on a class field trip to the Milwaukee County Zoo, which was always a treat since it meant a day away from school, and most likely a trip to McDonald’s on the way home. But the true highlight of any trip to the zoo was always the opportunity to buy one of those grey plastic molded elephants, or a penny stamped with pictures of giraffes and the words, “Milwaukee County Zoo” on it.
After wandering around the reptile house, and the primate house, and the big cat house, we finally made our way down to my favorite exhibit: the kangaroos. I remember that the kangaroos were kind of far away, so I stepped up onto the ledge to get a better look. As I was hanging on to the wrought iron fence and standing on my tip toes, my foot slipped out from under me. First, I fell forward and gashed my eye on the fence, and then I fell back and hit my head on the concrete, knocking myself out for a minute.
When I came to, the first face I saw was Kelly’s – she was the 16-year old daughter of one of the teachers, and was helping out that day as a chaperone. I vaguely recall there being a lot of noise and commotion as my classmates were yelling for the teachers, and other zoo-goers were wandering over to see if I was okay. But the only thing I remember clearly was Kelly asking me repeatedly, “Do you want gum? Jenny – do you want gum?!”
Of course I did. Who wouldn’t want gum after almost losing an eye on a rusty fence, and suffering a mild concussion?
I guess the bleeding must have stopped pretty quickly because my teacher never took me to the hospital, and my mom never brought me in for stitches, which I suppose is why I still have the scar. This was clearly long before the days of the ubiquitous “Were you injured in a car accident? We can get you the settlement you deserve!” sleazy lawyer commercials on TV. If that had happened to me today, that zoo would now be known as the Run Jen Run County Zoo and Tap Dance Academy. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you agree?
The best part about that day, aside from all the attention and free gum, was that I suddenly had earned a scar story to rival that of my mother, and I owe it all to my teacher, Miss Frank. Miss Frank was this tall, beautiful Southern woman with a slight drawl who always called me “Jinny.” Once we got back from the zoo, she told everyone in the class, and for years later, that as I was watching the kangaroo exhibit, one of the kangaroos challenged me to a boxing match and punched me in the eye. I just smiled proudly, and happily let this rumor spread throughout the school. Even though I never got my grey plastic elephant, that was definitely my favorite trip to the zoo ever, and I am reminded of it every time I catch a glimpse of the faded scar above my eye.
So what’s your best scar story? I’d love to hear it. But please, please. Nothing that’s going to creep me out, give me nightmares, or incite me to alert the local authorities. Thank you!

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

Earlier this week, as I was driving to tap class with my friends Seamus and Natasha, Natasha asked me how my trip to New York went. No sooner had I started to relate my story about seeing Joan Allen at the diner, when Seamus piped in and said, “If you had read her blog, you’d already know all this stuff. Geez!”
That got me thinking: maybe I have been spending too much time in my day-to-day life rehashing stories of things I’ve already done. Maybe I should only use conversation as a means to convey either my present needs and desires, or future goals. If anyone wants to know about the past, I’ll simply refer them to my blog. This could save me a lot of time by avoiding unnecessary repetition.
It’s kind of like in college, when you first learn the hard way that you actually had to read the material on the syllabus before coming to class. If people ask me about things I’ve already written about, I’ll just shake my head and say, “Why don’t you call me back after you’ve read my July 2004 entry on my job search? I mean it, Grandma. I’m sick of having to tell you this! You’re holding the whole family back.”
When I meet new people at parties, or eventually when that long-awaited day comes and I actually get a job, I’ll hand out business cards with my blog address on them. Then, before wasting any time discussing the past, I can just give people reading assignments:

• For Jenny’s job history, please refer to July 2, July 15, July 21, July 22 entries.
• For Jenny’s hobbies and interests, please refer to June 22, July 16, July 27 entries.
• For Jenny’s subtle neuroses and fears, please refer to June 23, June 29, July 9 entries.

This strategy is not without its risks, of course. I am occasionally hit with a nagging fear that I will make myself obsolete by revealing every layer of my personality in this semi-public forum. I mean, what if I’m talking to someone on the street and I want to share a story about something I did in the past, like tap dance classes? Will it seem like I’m plagiarizing my own life?
“Uhh, hello? We already read that story, like, months ago. Don’t you have any new material?”
Let’s face it, charm is comprised of 40% mystery, 30% humor, 20% likeability, and 10% winning smile. If all my stories are published online, there goes my mystery, and the humor will seem redundant, which shoots me down to a Charm Factor Level 3.
I can’t take that risk.
I have no choice but to stop talking about my own life, and start talking about your lives. If I appropriate my stories from other people, I will have a never-ending supply of clever anecdotes, while still retaining all my original charm. Of course, my integrity will most likely plummet to a Level 4 or below, but I’m willing to take that chance.
Having said that, I’m apologizing upfront to all of you if you begin to read things that sound vaguely familiar, like perhaps they are things you have done yourself. But I know you’ll understand that I wouldn’t do this unless I felt it was totally necessary. I really appreciate your support on this – and it really is the sincerest form of flattery, honestly.
COMING SOON: A gut-busting account of my madcap experiences as the keynote speaker at the 2004 Democratic National Convention – what a hoot! Here’s a teaser: “Growing up in Hawaii as a skinny kid with a funny name was rough on me at times, but it forced me to become much more outgoing. In fact, that’s really how I got started in politics…”

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

This entry will have to be somewhat brief, because I’m a woman on a mission. Sometimes life’s lessons can be learned in the most unlikely of places. Take, for example, last night. I was out with some friends at a karaoke bar, and somewhere in the middle of a guy’s spot-on performance of Kid Rock’s “Cowboy”, I was struck by an idea. I had just finished telling the story of the job interview I secured for this week Friday, and jokingly said that it seemed like I was always singing karaoke shortly before going on a job interview.
Then, I started thinking back to all my job-search efforts this summer, and cross-referencing that with my karaoke experiences. The results were nothing less than startling. I haven’t figured out how to create graphs in HTML, so I can’t attach my complete findings in this blog, but let me share with you the one major conclusion: the more challenging my song selection was, the more successful I was on the interviews that followed.
Here are some brief highlights from the study: earlier this summer when I chose easy crowd-pleasers like “Copacabana” by Barry Manilow, and “Mickey” by Toni Basil, I secured very few first interviews, and was not asked back to any second interviews. As I studied the months when I selected more difficult songs like “Me & Bobby McGee” by Janis Joplin, or “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen, I realized that I had landed far more first interviews, and had a much higher percentage of second interviews as well.
I’m sure some of you naysayers are going to say, “Nay.” And then you’ll probably say something like, “Don’t you think it’s more likely that as you go on more interviews, you’re getting more confident, and that confidence is spilling over into your song selection? And don’t you also think that as time goes on, and you send out more and more resumes, it’s just logically more likely that you’re going to secure more interviews?”
See, this is why naysayers annoy me so much. You’re always trying to rain on someone’s parade. Here’s an idea – why don’t you come up with your own theory, and then I’ll tear it to pieces. How’s that for a change?
Anyway, I don’t want my theory getting clouded by facts, so I’m sticking to my guns on this one. With that in mind, I am going to undertake what will quite possibly be the greatest karaoke feat ever attempted. A feat so unbelievable that it will all but guarantee me a new job. An amazing new job. I, along with my brave friend Natasha, am going to learn all the words to the Sugar Hill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” and perform it later this month.
If this doesn’t land me a job, then I’ll concede and throw my theory out the window. But if I’m right, and I feel certain I am, then I may have just stumbled upon what will perhaps prove to be the 21st century’s greatest discovery to date: we possess the ability to alter the course of our destiny through karaoke song selection.
Now, I’m a big fan of American Idol, so I know that song selection is critical. Heck, that’s been Paula Abdul’s greatest and only advice to contestants for the past three seasons, but I never dreamed it could have such far-reaching and major implications. Having said that, I must go now. I only have a few weeks to change my life forever. Wish me luck.
“I said a hip, hop, a hippie to the hippie, the hip hip a hop, and you don’t stop, a rock it to the bang bang boogie, say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat…”

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

I spent last Sunday at my parents’ house celebrating my mother’s birthday. It was a small group – just my parents, my grandmother, my aunt, and me. Before dinner, my aunt, who is a nun, said a special prayer for me to find a good job. Now, although religion has never played a big part in my life, I will say that I was really touched by the gesture. I mean, heck, it can’t hurt, right?
It’s funny, but for a non-religious person, I’ve probably spent more time with nuns than the vast majority of Catholics. My aunt used to live in a convent, so we’d spend a lot of holidays there with the other sisters. And once she moved out of the convent, her home served as a way station of sorts for all the traveling nuns. It seemed like there was almost always a roving sister or two at our holiday meals. I never really understood where they were traveling to or from, but the nuns in her order were quite the jet-setters.
When my aunt lived in the convent, my brother and I loved visiting her there, in part because in a convent that once probably housed 200 nuns, there were now only a few dozen. So, it was kind of like being able to run around in an empty hotel. Looking back, it kind of reminded me of the hotel from the movie The Shining, but without the haunted shrubbery and bleeding walls.
As kids, our favorite room in the convent was the basement. It was enormous and almost entirely empty except for a piano, a couch, and shuffleboard equipment. We would just run around there like lunatics, jumping on the couch, and pounding out our idea of music on the piano. In the closet, we’d always find a few kickballs that were mostly flat. I guess it never struck me as odd at the time, but what the heck were nuns doing with kickballs? Somehow I don’t see them rallying together for a heated game of dodgeball after morning mass. Of course, now it’s hard for me to get that image out of my head.
My Aunt Therese is kind of like Morgan Freeman’s character in Shawshank Redemption. She’s the nun all the other nuns go to when they need something. I can’t prove it, but it’s possible that my aunt runs the Catholic black market. She always seems to get truckloads of “donated” goods that she then sells at garage sales every few months. The profits all go to the church, or so I’ve been told.
But where exactly does she get all these things? Boxes of barrettes, cases of candles, palettes of Precious Moments. I’m not making any accusations here, but I’ve got to wonder if somewhere along the way, there’s a truck driver or a stock boy who was made an offer he couldn’t refuse.
I really don’t want to imply that these transactions are anything but on the up-and-up, but it did seem very suspicious to me that one of the nuns just kind of disappeared after she accidentally destroyed twelve boxes of candles when she left them in the church van one hot August day.
I remember asking, “Aunt Therese, what ever happened to Sister Fredo? She never comes over for Christmas dinner anymore.”
My aunt just smiled a little and said, “Sister Fredo… she went away. She’s working at an orphanage in Panama now.”
“Oh really? Is she working at the same orphanage that Sister Barbara, Sister Anita, and Sister Margaret all went to?”
“Who? Oh… yes. Yes. They’re all working at the same orphanage now. I think your mother would like some help with the dishes, don’t you?”
Although I can’t confirm it, I suspect that “working in an orphanage” is the nun equivalent of “sleeping with the fishes.”
Every so often, my aunt will try to recruit me to join the convent. Although she’s in her 60’s, she’s still the youngest nun in her order, so they’re on the lookout for some fresh blood. I’m pretty sure that joining the convent is a little like joining a street gang – once you’re in, you’re in for life. Although, I imagine it’s a little bit more like the West Side Story version of a gang rather than the Boyz ‘N the Hood version. But still, whenever she brings this up, I try to avoid the topic altogether.
My latest diversion technique has been to offer up my marketing services to help the church recruit new members. I think they just need to take a little different approach in order to reach today’s younger, career driven audience. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far – it’s a little rough, but I think I’m on to something!
Stuck in a dead-end job? Going nowhere? Ever feel like you’re just not making a difference?
If you answered “yes” to any of these questions, we may just have the career path for you!

• Work for a highly respected boss who knows what it’s like to serve others!
• Tight-knit community of outstanding co-workers!
• Team environment, relocation assistance, travel perks!
• Business casual atmosphere!
• Guaranteed job security!
• Flexible hours, great benefits, ability to move up – way up!

If this sounds like your calling, send in your resume and cover letter immediately for your chance at a career that will earn you the respect of millions! Applications without salary requirements will not be accepted. 

Filed under: General on July 28th, 2004 | Comments Off

In an effort to make myself a better, more interesting person, I’ve been trying to spend a good portion of my summer catching up on some of the reading I have meant to do all year. You know – the books that EVERYONE is talking about, but for some reason you just haven’t found time to pick up yet.
Well, finally I went out and bought the book that’s been sweeping the country, Play Poker Like the Pros by seven-time winner of the World Series of Poker, Phil Hellmuth, Jr. I know, I know – most people cannot believe it when I tell them that I haven’t read it yet, but hey, better late than never, I always say.
I’m only about a third of the way through, but I have to say, it’s every bit as good as Oprah said it would be. I’m so glad that her book club started reading the classics, otherwise I may never have even heard of Hellmuth’s masterpiece.
I really have my friend Seamus* to thank for turning me on to poker. Texas Hold ‘Em poker, to be exact. Most people, especially those with cable, are now familiar with this popular and exciting card game. It combines the best of the entire gaming world: intense drama, high stakes, clever nicknames, and dark sunglasses. Every few weeks, Seamus gathers together a group of friends and hosts a poker tournament. Somehow, I’ve actually won a few times, which is really a blessing since my cats and I have grown accustomed to a steady diet of Fancy Feast.
My small-scale success at poker got me thinking: do I really need to go back to a nine-to-five, “yessir/no ma’am” kind of job? Is it possible that there’s a better career waiting for me in Reno, NV? I mean, let’s face it – if Ben Affleck can win $360,000 in one game of Texas Hold ‘Em, then surely, with a bit more practice, I should be able to earn enough during the course of the year to keep me sitting pretty in lattes and Steve Maddens.
My parents were surprisingly understanding when I casually mentioned my latest career aspiration to them a few weeks ago. Of course, these are also the same people who said they would totally support me if I decided to quit my job without another job lined up. If only I had understood that their definition of “support” meant emotional, not financial, before I kicked over my desk, deleted the entire company database, and yelled, “Take this job and shove it!” on my way out of the office. A word of advice: it’s best to actually cross the bridge before you burn it to the ground. 
So anyway, back to my career in poker. It’s pretty much a male-dominated scene, so I was really happy when my friend Natasha* decided to start playing as well. We feel that higher levels of estrogen in the room throw off the males’ bluffing ability. It also helps that Natasha and I occasionally slip Benadryl into their drinks.
Last weekend, before we went over to play poker, Natasha and I thought we’d stray from the poker standard of beer by bringing over a bottle of scotch. We talked a lot about what type of liquor would make us stand out from the crowd, seem sophisticated yet carefree, approachable yet mysterious. As we wandered through the dusty aisles of the corner liquor store, I was struck by a phrase that has since become my mantra: scotch is for winners. I felt it as soon as I met Johnny Walker Black, and I still believe this to be true. After I won everyone’s money, however, the men came up with a new mantra for me: scotch is for really annoying unemployed tap dancers who are graced with obscene beginner’s luck.
You say tomayto, I say tomahto.
Beginner’s luck or not, I feel I at least need to give the professional poker circuit a fair chance before I truly rule it out and recommit myself to a life of blue cubicles and Excel spreadsheets. With that in mind, I will not be posting any updates this week Friday through Sunday, as I am hopping a charter to Atlantic City for the weekend. Wish me luck, and keep your eyes out for me on the World Series of Poker, airing Sunday nights on the Travel Channel!
*Please note: all names, possibly even mine, have been changed to protect the innocent. I am also trying to avoid a potential lawsuit once I start discussing the seedier aspects of my life. The Seamus and Natasha to whom I make reference in this entry are not, in fact, my actual friends Seamus and Natasha. These are different people whose names don’t even start with those letters. My real friends Seamus and Natasha will now be known as Lyle and Annabeth. If, in the future, I meet people named Lyle and Annabeth and they’re interesting enough to make it into my blog, I shall call them Humperdink and Buttercup.

Filed under: General on July 27th, 2004 | Comments Off

It’s the end of July, and still no job. Money’s tight, bills are mounting, I bought generic shampoo last week, for god’s sake! And the feelings of rejection and failure are starting to eat at my belly. Sometimes, late at night, thoughts start running through my mind. Crazy thoughts. Scary thoughts. I try to block them out, focus on the positive things in my life, but sometimes when I wake up, I just can’t breathe, like there’s a heavy weight on me, pinning me down. Usually that’s when I realize that 30 pounds of cat decided to curl up on my chest for the evening, but it’s not only that.
This is starting to scare me – I mean, I know that most people have experienced similar thoughts, but very few truly act on them. Things will get better, right? I don’t need to do anything drastic, do I? Well – I don’t want to keep it bottled up anymore, so here I go – I have seriously been contemplating getting a roommate.
I’m really hesitant to consider a roommate because I can’t say that I’ve had all that successful a history when it comes to sharing my living quarters. I think the tone was set by my first roommate in college, Tina. Tina was a year younger than me, very quiet, wore giant glasses, and was a psychology major. I didn’t know it at the time, but over the years I came to learn that there are three types of people who major in psychology:

1. People who were truly interested in a career helping others work through their personal issues. This type makes up the smallest percentage of all psychology students.

2. People who took psychology in high school, had a crush on the teacher, and thought it would be an easy “A” in college.
3. People with severe emotional problems who thought that getting a psych degree would be cheaper than checking themselves into the nearest mental institution for rehabilitation and/or electroshock therapy.

Tina, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, fell firmly into Category #3. She seemed nice enough at first, but as the semester rolled on, I started to notice some bizarre habits of hers.
Although we had cable in the dorms, there were only three TV shows that Tina would watch: Three’s Company, Little House on the Prairie, and Sesame Street. I wish that I were kidding about the last one, but really, I’m not. It was kind of a guilty pleasure that she engaged in when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, or wouldn’t be home for a while.
I used to listen with great envy as my friends would tell me stories about how they had walked in on their roommates smoking pot, or having sex with a TA. If only those were my problems! I was too embarrassed to tell them that just a few days earlier, I caught my roommate humming “C Is for Cookie”  while she waited with baited breath to find out if that day’s episode was sponsored by the number 7.
While Tina’s list of odd habits was long, the one that almost drove me to the brink of insanity was her obsession with pencils. Our desks were on opposite sides of the room, so when we were studying, our backs were facing each other. Without fail, every night before settling down to study for her latest psych test, Tina would pull out a brand new box of number 2 pencils and start to sharpen them in her electric pencil sharpener. Now, I’m not an ogre – sharpen your pencils if you want – go ahead! I mean, I will say that most people I know over the age of eight successfully made the transition from lead to ink, but hey, if carbon is your gig, go with it. My issue was with the fact that she would sharpen no less than ten pencils at a time. Slowly. In her electric pencil sharpener.
I would just sit at my desk, gritting my teeth as the “rrrrrr – rrrrrr – rrrrrr” of the sharpener droned on for minutes. Why would anyone need more than two sharp pencils at a time? Sure, you need a spare in case one breaks, but why did she need more than half a dozen? It just made no sense.
The other major problem Tina had was that she had some sort of sleep disorder that put her into an almost comatose state every evening. In order to wake up on time for her classes, she had to put her alarm clock on the highest volume it could reach. Again, fine – so you’re a deep sleeper. No big deal. Except for the fact that she couldn’t have her alarm anywhere near her bed, or she would just turn it off while she was still half asleep, and then fall right back into her sweet dreams of Bert and Ernie.
This meant that she had to install the alarm at the opposite end of the room, which coincidentally, was pretty much right next to my head. That way, when the blaring alarm would sound each morning, she would leap out of bed like a maniac, jump over to the alarm, and slam it until it turned off. Once out of bed, she was released from her sleep spell and could proceed with her daily routine. So for a semester, I had the equivalent of a mini-coronary each morning as I awoke to the sounds of an air raid going off in my room.
Years later, I received a call from the Milwaukee Police Department about Tina. No, she hadn’t been arrested. She actually was applying to be a police officer and gave me as a reference. In an award winning display of passive aggression, I just told the officer that I didn’t remember much about Tina, except that she had trouble getting up in the morning, liked watching Sesame Street, and would spend long stretches of time sharpening things at her desk.
I felt it was my civic duty.
So, all that being said, you can see why I’m a little gun shy when it comes to sharing my apartment with someone else. I guess I should really think about what I’m contemplating here, and the effect it will have on my friends and family.
I think I’ll do what usually helps me when I am overcome by these feelings – call the number a friend of mine gave me the last time I went through this.
“Roommate hotline. This is Susan. How can I help you?”
“Uhh, hi. My name is Jenny, and I’m thinking about getting a roommate.”
“Okay, Jenny, I’m going to ask you to put down the Classified section. Just put it down, so we can talk…”
 

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

SWF, thirty-something, former professional. Seeks fun-loving companion for coffee, cat-sitting, occasional tap recital, possibly more. No game players or druggies, please.

I did it. I placed a personals ad. Not in a newspaper, of course. Please – that’s for freaks and stalkers. No, I did it like all hipster, city-dwelling, tech-savvy individuals do it: I kicked it Internet style.
Even a lone wolf like me needs to run with the pack every now and then, so I decided to try my luck in the world of cyber-romance. At first I tested the waters on match.com. I figured, any company that can spend this much money on advertising MUST know what they’re doing, right? Unfortunately, I quickly realized that my sense of humor does not translate well over the Internet, especially to complete strangers. This became painfully clear to me when, after sending a few particularly witty emails to prospective suitors, I found out the hard way what the function “Block User ID” does. These people thought I was crazy, and out of fear for their own safety, shut me off from being able to email them.
With my ego slightly bruised, yet still intact, I immediately toned down my approach, and started over by sending nice, normal emails. As I discovered, the realm of Internet dating is governed by a few cardinal rules: don’t send emails that are too long, nothing too clever, nothing that sounds overly needy, and never, ever send an email on a Friday night, lest people think you’re a loser with nothing better to do on a weekend than surf through hundreds of online profiles.
After half a dozen or so failed matches, I decided to let my subscription to match.com run out, and tossed my profile into the Internet dating graveyard. I had completely given up on the idea of cyber dating when a friend of mine sent me some information on a site I hadn’t heard of: eHarmony.com. At her insistence, I begrudgingly said I’d give this final site a try. If only I’d had the foresight to check the cult watch website first, I would have discovered that eHarmony ranks just below Scientology, and slightly above the Hare Krishnas in terms of overall threat level.
I guess my first clue that eHarmony was a cult should have been the picture of the founder, renowned relationship expert and clinical psychologist Dr. Neil Clark Warren. Something about his eyes just reminded me a little too much of Jim Jones.
“Never trust a man with three names,” my momma would always tell me. And boy, was she right. She said that anyone who needed more than two names was compensating for something. Of course, she also used to tell me that any man whose eyebrows met in the middle was actually a werewolf, but that one’s been a bit harder to substantiate.
For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, here’s how eHarmony works: it is entirely geared toward matrimony, so Dr. Clark Neil Warren has devised a patented 29-point personality profile that will all but guarantee a perfect match, sending you and your new mate off into wedded bliss. First, you spend about three hours online taking a very extensive and scientifically proven personality assessment. Next, they generate a personality profile from your assessment that is used to find your mates. Finally, the eHarmony gurus start emailing you the profiles of people they believe have the potential to be your future husband or wife.
What the heck – what’s a mere three hours to find true love? As I waded through page after page of inane questions about whether I’d rather read a book or eat a steak, I found myself trying to figure out what the questions were after. Do I ever feel like smashing things? Never – Sometimes – Frequently – Always. Hmm… if I say “Never,” I’ll seem like a liar, or worse, repressed. If I answer honestly and say “Frequently,” I’ll seem like I have issues with rage, and may be banned from the site altogether. So I guess the safest bet is to say “Sometimes.”
Question after question, I found myself psycho-analyzing every word to uncover the hidden motive. After playing the different scenarios over in my head, I ended up answering a good number of questions with “Sometimes.” Now, apparently when you try this deceptive approach to beat the system, Dr. Warren Clark Neil decides to punish you by sending you the most loathsome personality profile imaginable. It’s been a while since I took the assessment, so I’ve pushed most of the details of my profile down into the dark lair of my subconscious, but I do remember a few key phrases like:
“You rarely express an opinion.”
and
“You are content watching others have fun around you.”
and
“You should cut your losses now, purchase a few more cats, and take up quilting.”
After spending the next week on a steady diet of Zoloft and Caramel Nestle Treasures, I decided I was ready to check back with eHarmony and see who the good doctor had lined up for me to marry. I logged onto the site, pulled up my profile, clicked on “Check Matches” and was stunned by this message: “We’re sorry, but at this time, there is no one in our database who is a match for you.”
No one? Come on now, no one? I thought, “Maybe I just need to expand my search.” So instead of limiting myself to just Chicago, I chose all of Illinois. I’m sure there are some good people who live in the suburbs, right? Still nothing. All right, screw it – let’s go with the entire US. I mean, hey, I like to travel as much as the next gal. Again, no matches. You have got to be kidding me! I then opened up the criteria as wide as they would go – the world. Earth. If you reside on the same planet as I do, I will consider dating you. I chose the planet Earth as my potential dating pool, and yes, Virginia, there is no one in the world who is compatible with me.
The hunchback in Tibet? He thinks I lack ambition. That 75-year old leper from Peru? Apparently I’m not “outdoorsy” enough for him. Not one person. On the entire planet. Is compatible with me.
Curse you, Dr. Clark Warren Neil! Curse you, and your wretched 29-point personality profile!
“Stick to the basics,” my momma would always tell me. And boy, was she right. I’m done with all these high-tech, scientifically proven Internet dating techniques. The only science I can trust is chemistry – that uncontrollable spark that cannot be predicted by self-proclaimed relationship experts, manufactured in any marketing boardroom, or quantified by some computer program. In fact, there’s a cute mop-haired guy with funky glasses in the coffee shop right now who keeps looking over at me as I’m writing this. What do I need the Internet for when I’ve got Starbucks? But I wonder if he’d consider waxing that eyebrow before I take him home to meet mom?

Filed under: General on July 20th, 2004 | 1 Comment »