Once, what now seems like eons ago, I worked for a Dutch company. At first, I loved the idea of working for an international organization, and dreamed of one day getting to see our headquarters in Amsterdam. According to corporate lore, our company was known by all in the Netherlands, and our brand was so strong there that we could command twice the price of our nearest competitor. But eventually, I would come to understand what it meant to be the unprofitable country within a global firm’s portfolio.
Whenever someone from “headquarters” paid a friendly visit to one of the US offices, it would inevitably end in tragedy. Within one month of giving a tour to one of our Dutch counterparts, we would have to initiate a complete reorganization, cut staff by 20%, and increase profits by 35%. And stop using so many envelopes. Because of this, we began to live by the mantra, “Trust no Dutch.”
Time and distance taught me that perhaps it was unfair to apply this standard to an entire country. I mean, I really do like tulips, and I think they make Edam cheese there, which I find quite tasty on a Stoned Wheat Thin cracker. I will admit, however, that I am still perplexed by the Holland/Netherlands thing. Why must they have two names for their country? What are they hiding?
Naming conventions aside, I realized that I could not pass judgment on the people as a whole based on this one experience. I learned to overcome my aversion to people with blonde hair, blue eyes, and double “a’s” in their last names. Everything was going fine… until this past weekend, that is, when I paid a visit to my local apothecary.
As I browsed through rows of tinctures and cough lozenges, I came upon a shelf of European candies. One bag in particular caught my attention: Licorice Made in Holland – Double Salt Salty kind.

I thought, I love salt, and I love licorice, and if the Dutch deem it a worthy combination then surely it must be divine! I bought a bag and headed out to a movie with fellow blogger, Dave, who happened to be in town for business. Somewhere in the middle of Pirates of the Caribbean, during a particularly noisy fight sequence, I ripped open the bag and grabbed one of the tiny discs.

I popped the candy into my mouth, bit down, and was instantly struck by the overwhelming taste of Play-Doh and Palmolive. Now, I am a grown woman, properly raised in the ways of social graces, but the taste of this candy, and the flood of saliva that immediately followed, forced me to audibly retch the licorice into the half-empty bag of popcorn at my feet. I then took a napkin and wiped the last remnants of it from my tongue. Five swishes of water later, and the taste still lingered.
Of course, this did not stop me from offering a piece to Dave at the end of the movie. “No, really. It’s so bad, you have to try it. It might be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Dave graciously acquiesced. And then retched the licorice into his empty soda cup. He couldn’t even bite all the way through it, it was so bad.
So once again, dear Holland – if that is your real name – you have betrayed me. And if you think I’m just going to forget about this, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve got my eye on you, Netherlands. Trust no Dutch, indeed.

25 Comments; | Filed under: General

What would you do if you came home from work and found that the floor of the back stairway leading to your apartment had just been painted, and your front door was deadbolted shut from the inside?
I think I would probably go back to my car, pull two grocery bags out of my trunk, and tie them tightly around my nice work shoes, thinking that plastic wouldn’t stick to the paint as much.
In this case, I would be wrong. Dead wrong.
As a Plan B, I might want to walk up to my neighbors’ doors in the bagshoes, so that no one could trace the bagprints back to my apartment.
That’s what I think.

17 Comments; | Filed under: General

“Hey, Jen. Sorry I missed your call – I was at a poetry reading.”
“Of course you were.”
“So did you end up seeing Strangers with Candy?”
“No, I mostly spent the day at the cemetery.”
[silence]

“Viv? You still there?”
“I’m here. Okay, now exactly why were you at a cemetery?”
“Well, it was really gorgeous out on Sunday, and it just seemed like such a waste to spend the day in a dark movie theatre.”
“So you spent the day in a graveyard instead?”
“Mmm hmm.”

“Did you go with someone?”
“No, just myself.”
“All day?”
“Mostly.”
“Weren’t you creeped out? Crazy people live in the cemetery!”
“Well – it’s not like I went at midnight! It was the middle of the day. Although, there was one point where I got a little weirded out. I saw this dripping faucet that looked kind of cool, so I squatted down to take some pictures…”

“Uh huh.”
“…and one by one, about thirty crows flew into the two trees next to me. They didn’t come all at once – it was very Hitchcockian. And then they all started cawing at the same time, so I got the hell out of there.”
“You are such a freak.”
“What? It’s the largest cemetery in Chicago, and I’ve never been there. It just seemed like a good way to spend the day.”
“Taking pictures of dead people.”
“Not the people, just their tombstones. Did you ever notice that the ground in cemeteries is really soft? It’s kind of hard to walk on. And the next time I go, I’m going to be sure to get a map. I kept getting lost and having to listen for traffic to find the way out.”

“Oh my god, you’re crazy.”
“But then I saw this group of people who didn’t quite seem like mourners, because they all had sandals on and were carrying water bottles, so I casually followed them toward the exit.”
“Did you duck behind tombstones to hide from them?”
“No, but I did pretend to be taking pictures of this one angel statue.”

“Jenny, I really think you need to get involved in some group social activities.”
“What do you mean? I do stuff! What’s so wrong with going to a cemetery for fun? People do it in Europe all the time!”
“So on a gorgeous summer weekend, you decided to spend the day – by yourself – getting lost in a labyrinth of death and decay, and photo documenting the entire thing?”
“Well, geez, when you put it that way…”

30 Comments; | Filed under: General

You know how there are those things you have had on your To Do list for ages, and when you finally accomplish them, you feel like you can pretty much coast for the rest of the year? Well, I can pretty much coast for the rest of 2006 because after almost four years in Chicago, I finally crossed off the most dreaded item on my list: I got Illinois license plates.
I can’t even explain how amazing I feel – I was literally giddy when I walked out of the DMV. I found myself whistling a happy little tune, and my step had more bounce than usual. For four years, every time I would look at my old Wisconsin license plates, I would feel a twinge in my belly. The “America’s Dairyland” motto flashed at me like a constant reminder of my failure.
I hadn’t realized how stressful it had been to live a constant lie for so long. I felt just like River Phoenix in Running on Empty – always having to stay one step ahead of the law, never being able to build any lasting relationships with people, singing Fire and Rain with Martha Plimpton… it was killing me slowly.
And it’s not like I never tried to get Illinois license plates – I was all set to get them two years ago, even went down to the DMV, but was then thrown out when I brought the wrong paperwork.
“That’s not your title. That’s your application for a title. You need the actual title.”
“It’s not? Uh… oh. Okay.”
I went home and dug through my “HONDA” file, finding nothing but old registration forms and a maintenance handbook. My title was lost! After a few calls to the dealer, I was sent some paperwork to request a new title. The new paperwork asked a lot of questions I wasn’t prepared to answer, so I filed it away in the “HONDA” file, where it remained for another two years.
Then finally, after waking up once again in a cold sweat after the recurring nightmare where my car gets towed for a simple parking violation, but then I can’t produce the title to claim my car, so then my car gets sold at a police auction for $200, I decided I had better give it one more try. I sat down a few weeks ago and spent an entire day going page by page through every single file cabinet in my apartment. I found something that looked kind of like my vehicle registration, except it had the word “Title” across the top.
So that’s what a title looks like? Huh. I thought it would be, I don’t know, bigger.
I took every document in my files that had anything to do with my Honda – even the oil change schedule – and headed off to the DMV. Beforehand, however, I started concocting my story for when the disgruntled city employee tried to give me a hard time.
“Okay, so according to this form, you brought the car into Illinois in 2002. Why are you just now getting the title transferred?”
“Um… well, see… when I first moved here, I had a job really far north, so I spent most of my time at my parents’ house in Wisconsin. So really, the car spent more time in Wisconsin than it did in Illinois.”
“Oh, is that right? Well, why don’t I just call your parents right now and ask them? Is that what you want me to do?”
“No wait – don’t call them! Don’t call my parents! Okay, fine! I lied! My car never spent time there – it was always in Chicago!”
“Okay, we’ve got a Code Orange here. Repeat – Code Orange! Auction off her car immediately.”
I nervously wiped the sweat from my upper lip as I walked through the doors. I was told to first talk to the revenue department. There was only one man ahead of me, and his paperwork wasn’t filled out correctly. I quickly double checked mine as the woman with a Russian accent yelled, “Next in line!”
“Okay, so you drove the car for at least 90 days in Wisconsin before moving to Illinois?”
“Uh, yes.”
That’s it, Jenny. Keep your answers short and sweet. Criminals talk too much – that’s always how they get caught.
“All right, then you don’t have to pay any additional taxes. Just take this paperwork over to the audit department.”
I glanced from side to side, a bit in disbelief, and said, “That’s it? Okay, thanks so much!”
At the audit department, I had a choice of two employees, and went with the young ditsy looking one. I laughed as she sassed her older, no-nonsense boss. I didn’t get impatient as she took two calls while reviewing my paperwork. I joked with her about how everyone leaves the Special Darks, as she lamented the lack of Krackels in the department candy dish.
She told me I owed $143, and pointed me to the cashier. Just as I turned, ready to run full-speed over to the cashier, she stopped me. I felt sick.
“Oh wait. You left this part blank – where did you get your car?”
I didn’t look up, but just mumbled, “Dealer. In Milwaukee.”
“Okay, that’s all I need.”
I actually did a Tiger Woods arm pump when I walked out the door with my new plates in hand, my new title to arrive in three to four weeks. As soon as I got home, I called my friend Natasha to share the good news.
“Cool! So did you already put your new plates on?”
“Kind of. I got the back one on fine, but the bolts on my front plate are rusted solid, so I couldn’t get it off.”
“So wait – now you have one Wisconsin plate and one Illinois plate?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh that’s gotta be illegal. You’re totally going to get towed!”
And me without my title.
* * *
So in addition to this being a cautionary tale for all you procrastinators out there, this also seemed like an excellent opportunity to have another Opinion Poll!
Question: Which simple task has been sitting on your To Do list for ages, and slowly eats you away from the inside?
1. License plate renewal
2. Dentist/doctor appointment
3. Haircut appointment
4. Oil change
5. Cleaning out closet
6. Calling relative/old friend
7. Other (please explain)

28 Comments; | Filed under: Opinion Poll

Since I know, as well as you, that it’s a really bad idea to write about work on a public website, please understand that the story I’m about to share is based on a discussion I had with a friend of mine. It has nothing to do with any place I have ever worked. But I’m going to write it in the first person so that you feel more connected to the story. You know, since you don’t really know the friend I’m talking about, and all.
There’s this person I work with who brings in candy all the time, which normally I would be really happy about, since I enjoy candy as much as the next guy. Actually, probably a lot more than the next guy. In fact, I’m eating a Charms Blo-Pop as I type this. But the thing is, she brings in deceptively awful candy. All the time. It looks like brand name candy, has the logo wrappers and everything, but at about the second chew, you immediately realize that something is just not right.
Did you ever get a bad peanut in your M&M’s? Where it kind of tastes burnt, or it’s harder than a normal peanut and you check to see if you chipped a tooth? Usually you can cover that taste up by popping another one in really quickly, but just imagine if the next one, and the one after that, were all equally as bad. Where the exception would be the M&M that actually tasted good. This is my world.
Is there a place you can go to buy really old candy that no one wants anymore? Like the Payless Shoe Source of sweets? Does the Dollar Store sell reject bags of candy? Because I just don’t understand how someone can consistently bring in old stale candy. Once in a while you might get a bad run of Snickers, sure. But every time?
You would think the tip off would be the off-holiday themes, like the pastel egg-shaped York Peppermint Patties suddenly appearing in August. Or the black and orange M&M’s in May. Or the E.T. themed Reese’s Pieces. But people apply different standards to office food. It’s like we’re on Survivor and suddenly fish eyeballs just seem like a really good source of protein.
Anyway, so today it was Nestle Caramel Treasures. I resisted at first, I honestly did, because my gut told me it was too good to be true. I smelled a trap. I mean, who gives away good caramel? I’ll tell you who – no one, that’s who. No one gives away good caramel, but what they do give away is dehydrated caramel. Desiccated caramel dust resting inside a waxy shell of chocolate, all wrapped in seductive purple foil.
Was this sitting in her attic for two years? Or perhaps frozen and defrosted fifteen times? How can you even make candy that inedible? And the worst part is that it didn’t get any better by the fourth one.

24 Comments; | Filed under: General

By Jenny Amadeo, age 7

[click to appreciate the fine quality of my artwork]

Once there was a pretty red bird who caught a worm for her babies.

And…… when she got to her nest her babies were….. gone!

When she saw her babies were gone she got very frightened and she did not no what to do.

But when she looked down she saw a rabbit with her baby rabbits and she looked all around and she did not see her babies.

But when she looked up in a tree she saw a squirrel with her babies.

And then she bit his tail and the squirrel let go of the babies and she got her babies back.

The End

Notes:
1. My favorite part of this story is that my mother apparently used the cover to balance her checkbook.
2. I believe that The Bird is an allegory of the ongoing war on terrorism, where the pretty red bird represents America, the squirrel represents al-Qaeda, the babies represent the world, and the rabbit represents England.
3. And this story captures the genesis of my life-long love affair with periods of ellipsis and starting sentences with prepositions.

21 Comments; | Filed under: Nostalgia

Right wrist up
Left wrist up
Right wrist down
Left wrist down
Torso turn pop shrug right
Torso turn pop shrug left
Arms up
Arms down
Lean right
Step left
Come together
Knees swirl
Body drop
And up
Step back
180 pivot
Right foot drag
Left foot drag
Shake it like you got something
Everybody got that? Now faster, with the music…

15 Comments; | Filed under: Breakdance

[The overdue conclusion to Dinner: The Birth of Squirrelly-J]
Still reeling from the gift of breakdance poetry, I flip through the book as Natasha and Farnsworth lead me into our favorite bar. Having recently discovered that this bar has a secret list of “off-the-menu” drinks, Farnsworth is on a mission to become an insider.
This week, it is some pomegranate martini that looks and tastes exactly like Robitussin. My mouth waters a bit, and not in the good way, as I take a sip from Farnsworth’s glass, but he seems to enjoy it. Natasha and I are feeling like scotch, so we order a Glen of some sort.
Three seats open up at the corner of the bar, and we quickly move in. As I stir my scotch, waiting for the ice to melt a bit, I can hear two men having a loud conversation behind Natasha.
“Who’s that woman – she was in that movie…? Thelma and Louise. Who’s that woman?”
His eyes were barely half open as he leaned into his friend at the bar.
“Uh, oh wait. I can totally picture her. Davis. Geena Davis.”
“No, no. The other one. That other woman in Thelma and Louise.”
“Uh… I can’t-“
“SUSAN SARANDON!”
He yells this loudly, but the bar is noisy so it doesn’t quite make a scene.
“SUSAN SARANDON! That’s who you look like! You. You look just like Susan Sarandon.”
I suddenly realize that he’s talking to me. He is pointing at me with his martini glass, its contents sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
I glance over at Natasha, who is holding back a laugh, then back to the man and say, “You’re very kind – thank you.”
“No really. You look just like her.”
“Maybe it’s the hair,” Natasha offers, clearly questioning any true resemblance.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you look like Susan Sarandon?”
I suspect that this conversation could continue all night, so I agree with him. “Yes, someone once told me I looked like her.”
“Really?” Farnsworth asks, equally incredulous.
This isn’t a lie. I know that someone did tell me that, but can’t remember who it was. For a moment, I think it was Vivian, but then recall that she used to tell me I looked like Lesley Ann Warren, who we both agreed was the poor man’s Susan Sarandon. So I suppose this would make me the poor man’s Lesley Ann Warren.
The two men go back to their side of the bar and focus their attention on getting another round of chocolate martinis. This bar works in cycles, we always note. There will suddenly be a mad rush of customers, smiling people arriving in groups of four and five, and then just as quickly, we will look around to see open tables and available bar stools.
The tide flows, and suddenly Natasha is being shoved off her seat, unintentionally, by a crowd of noisy men who have just arrived. She leans in to whisper something to me.
“I don’t even have half a cheek on the stool anymore. I think both those guys are sitting on my seat!”
I laugh as I see her carefully trying to balance herself with one foot on the ground, the other one hooked under the stool so as not to entirely relinquish her claim on that seat. Suddenly, Natasha’s eyes widen and her back arches. The man behind her touches her shoulder and starts to say something.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you arright?”
I see Nat grabbing a stack of cocktail napkins, and realize that this man has just spilled his drink down her back. Or more precisely, due to the way she was perched on the stool, down her ass. She takes it remarkably well, considering.
“Please just tell me that wasn’t a chocolate martini you dumped down my back.”
“Wha-? No, iss just a vahka gimlet. Iss all alcohol.”
“Nothing to worry about Nat, that’s really just an antiseptic,” I say reassuringly.
As she works to pat dry the bottom of her jacket and top of her jeans, the man walks over between us. I turn to Farnsworth who is sitting next to me, hoping he will come to our aid. He has now ordered a cherry martini that smells like Luden’s cough drops, and I note that the evening has taken on a distinctly medicinal theme.
It becomes apparent that I am on my own, as the man begins asking me random questions.
“D’you live in this neighborhood? My friends over there are always trying to get me to move up here. Do you own or rent?”
“Rent.”
“Yeah, iss so fuggin’ esspensive.”
“No kidding.”
“’Specially if you’re single. Fuggin’ married tax credit.”
I nod my head yes, as though I have some idea what he is talking about. He rambles off a few more thoughts on married people, and then launches into a discussion about the Log Cabin Republicans. I can’t tell if he’s for or against, partly because I am singularly focused on preventing him from spilling the remainder of his drink on me.
As he sways back and forth, getting more and more passionate about rising property taxes, I have to steady his hand at least twice. In the end, I am unsuccessful, and grab another stack of napkins to sop up the spillage on my jeans.
“I think it’s time for you to switch to water,” I say, rolling my eyes at Natasha.
“Yeah, I’m really pretty drunk. I sh’go talk to my friends over there before they get pissed.”
I watch as he stumbles over to the other side of the bar, ping-ponging his way through the crowd, to join the movie buffs from earlier in the evening.
Nat, Farnsworth and I finish up our drinks, and then decide it’s time to head out, as this latest wave of bargoers doesn’t seem to be dissipating anytime soon. Just as we are leaving, I hear, “Susan Sarandon!”
I grab my jacket, look up and give an acknowledging nod to the man at the end of the bar. He lifts his glass to me and says, softer, “Susan Sarandon.”

24 Comments; | Filed under: General

I think I just discovered the cure to my intense aversion to hugging coworkers: five Heinekens and six karaoke duets. It’s hard not to hug your VP of Sales after you’ve just executed the perfect rendition of Paradise by the Dashboard Light together.
But oh, my head. Stop screaming. Please?

24 Comments; | Filed under: General

“Fat Albert, you’re like an out of work school teacher.”
“Huh?”
“Nooo class.”
“Hey, hey, hey!”

No, that doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but I’m really at a loss right now. My knees are aching, I wince when I bend, and the muscle spasms between my shoulder blades have just now stopped. Why? Because some out-of-shape 35-year old office dweller thought that her god-given rhythm and unconditional love for Michael “Boogaloo Shrimp” Chambers could carry her through a Hip Hop/Funk dance class. Stupid, stupid rickety ass old hag.
Holy effing eff, you effing 22-year old skinny effing dance majors who have effing taken this effing class five effing times already. How I effing hate you. From this day forth, I shall call you all Midge.
Effing A.
Here’s what we were taught:
The motorcycle
The lean and rock
The pop
The stab
The side slide
Here’s what I learned:
The carpal tunnel
The spinal contusion
The abdominal spasm
The blown ACL
The whiplash
Mofo.
Well, I’m gonna pop and lock a few Tylenol PM’s, chase them with some Maker’s Mark, and dream of Big Daddy Kane, gold tooth and all. Tomorrow’s another effing day.

22 Comments; | Filed under: General