Ladies and Gentlemen! Children of all ages!
Please direct your attention to the blogger in the top hat, Dean from Inspired by a True Story. Dean is doing his part to foster a stronger community of bloggers who write about daily life, so he has raised the big top, tightened the high wire, and packed up the clown car in honor of his new blog carnival, Carnival of the Mundane.
What’s a blog carnival, you ask? An excellent question, since that’s exactly what I asked. I thought my countless hours of internet surfing had taught me a thing or two, but I was unfamiliar with the concept, so here’s Dean’s explanation:

A blog carnival is a post published by a single blogger (whoever is hosting that edition) and consists of a collection of links to other posts that have been emailed to the host. The host then tries to present the links to those posts in single post of his or her own with a little context, maybe even some clever commentary.
I’m thinking of a carnival for those of us whose material is everyday stuff, a showcase for those dedicated to drawing out the humor or insight from the humdrum.
I’m calling it the “Carnival of the Mundane.”

Dean will be looking for folks to submit entries to be included in his first carnival, so get your tickets, grab some cotton candy, and head on over to Dean’s place to learn more. He’s the second booth past the Bearded Lady.

10 Comments; | Filed under: General

All good things must come to an end, and this orgy is no different. It was a wild ride, filled with togas and tomatoes, light bulbs and lamp oil, and the honest love between a man and a cat, but now we must move on.
I learned so much about all of you during this last day and a half that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look you in the eyes again. But in the uncomfortable silences and tentative conversations that will surely follow, I will always hold on to the fact that we threw one hell of a party. And for that, I can never thank you enough. Please be advised that a new host has been selected for the next comment orgy, and s/he will kick off the new year with a bang, so to speak. This should give you ample time to rest up.
So now, getting back to our regularly scheduled programming, I give you the results of the most boring and apparently insultingly easy photo quiz ever:
1. Stupid jingle bell
2. Dumb fake little Xmas tree
3. Crappy gift bow
4. Broken yellow Xmas bulb
5. Gross fat free Marshmallow lovers brand hot cocoa
6. Disgust- oh, I can’t even pretend to hate you, sweet delicious little Snowman marshmallow Peeps! C’mere, you!
The two bonus photos were clearly a bit more difficult, so fortunately I didn’t have to give up my blog (Although Nicole frightened me with her ability to guess the first bonus question. Is she psychic, or just a tap dancer?).
Bonus Photo:

Super Secret Double Bonus Photo:

Oh, and the secret theme? Things my cats have tried to eat.
Okay, fine, so they didn’t really try to eat the robot, but if it hadn’t been behind glass, they surely would have.

Thanks for playing along everyone! See you next time!

13 Comments; | Filed under: General

A few weeks ago, a discussion began on Brandon’s site about the cult of comments, and how as bloggers, we can become obsessed with getting this immediate feedback from our writing. We debated our fascination with, ambivalence toward, need for, love of, and internal conflict surrounding the instant gratification that can come from having this dynamic interaction with groups of relative strangers.
From this topic of dynamic interaction with groups of relative strangers, certain individuals drew the obvious connection, which of course, is the orgy. And on the seventh day, bloggers created the comment orgy. Because I love lists and appreciate structure, let me quickly explain the rules of engagement:

1. Blogger is tagged to write an entry for comment orgy.
2. Blogger writes an entry.
3. Blogger strives to get as many comments as possible on said entry.
4. Blogger passes the orgy baton (Eww.) to another blogger of his/her choosing.
5. If blogger fails to get 100 comments, the orgy dies.
6. If the orgy dies, shame will fall on that blogger’s house. Forever.

I was so excited to get tagged because I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I might actually enjoy leaving comments on other people’s blogs almost as much as I enjoy writing my own blog. Leaving comments on other sites is akin to running up and down a high-rise apartment building, kicking open random doors, yelling something funny or clever or poignant, and then running off to the next apartment.
I get to leave before anyone discovers that I’m telling the same story I tell at the Christmas party every year. Or that the joke they all laughed at was something I heard on late night television last week. Or that the top button of my pants is undone because they’re too tight for me now, and I’m hoping my long sweater covers that up.
My predecessors in this groundbreaking endeavor – Brandon, Romy, Pea, and Jen – each taught me the ways of the comment orgy. In the brief time we spent together playing the lute, feasting on wild boar, feeding each other peeled grapes, and eventually vomiting in a trough side by side, I learned so much about what it means to build a community through interaction via comments.
Having each successfully hosted a comment orgy at their respective sites, they pulled me aside to make sure I understood how these things worked.
“Talk about boobs,” said Brandon. He repeated this over, and over, and over.
“Yeah, that actually worked really well for me,” Romy added.
Pea shook her head, “I just talked about Salma Hayek’s boobs. Who can resist?”
“No, no,” Jen interjected, “The fastest way to 100 comments is to post a picture of your own boobs. That’s what I did.”
I tossed my throat-tickling feather in the trash, rinsed my hands in rose water, wiped my mouth on my toga, and said, “Guys, hey – it’s not that I don’t appreciate your advice, because I totally do. But when have you ever known me to talk about boobs? And post a picture of them? Come on, people! I wasn’t raised that way.”
So really, I’d like to think that we can start a lively and diverse discussion by talking about more intellectual endeavors, like politics or religion. I’d like to raise the level of discourse on this site to at least one notch above gutter. Frankly, I refuse to stoop to the level of showing pictures of boobs just to solicit more comments.
With that in mind, I thought we could start off this orgy with a different type of exhibition: one of art, rather than flesh. So below please find a series of still life photographs I was recently inspired to take as a tribute to my love of blogging. I trust that this will launch us into a more high-brow discussion of art, rather than a sinful display of lusty decadence.
Let the high-class orgy begin!

162 Comments; | Filed under: General

“Anyway, that’s seriously the last time I’m going out with them. It just always gets out of control. So, what are you up to tonight?”
“Uh, I don’t know. I think I’m going to work on a mystery photo quiz for tomorrow.”
“Cool. What’s this one about?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a mystery now, would it? Don’t worry though, it’s gonna be a really easy one.”
“Easy?”
“Yeah, you’ll figure them all out in no time.”
“See, Jen, I hate when you say that, because it’s like I can’t win. If I guess them all, it’s only because they’re easy. And if I don’t get them right, it’s like you think I’m dumb.”
“No, but… no. Of course I don’t. That’s not what I meant…”
“You just shouldn’t say anything about it. Now I don’t even want to guess.”
“But… no, I mean… it’s really not that easy. Some of them will be hard. I just… it always seems obvious when I take the pictures…”
“Yeah, well maybe I’ll start my own mystery photo quizzes and we’ll see how well you do.”
“Don’t be that way.”
“Yeah, not so fun being on the other side, is it?”
“No. It’s not fun at all. Mystery photo quizzes suck.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
So with that, I give you the most difficult mystery photo quiz in the entire universe. If you so much as get even one correct, you are smarter than 99.7% of the population. But really, I think I already knew that about you. Good luck!
One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

BONUS PHOTO!
If anyone guesses this one correctly, they can have my blog*

*By “have” my blog, I mean read it whenever they want, from the comfort of their own home.
OH WAIT! Just in case you guessed the Bonus Photo, you also have to get this one right. Then you can really have my blog**

**By “really have” my blog, I mean bookmark it as a favorite or add it to Bloglines.
SUPER DOUBLE BONUS QUESTION: What is the theme of these pictures? [Hint: it might not be as obvious as it initially seems. The eagle has landed. A red cow walks backwards in the moonlight. This blog will self destruct in thirty seconds.]

15 Comments; | Filed under: Photo Quiz

One of the things I so enjoy about my friend Vivian is her keen ability to weave a quote from some famous writer into normal conversation. It makes me feel intelligent and arty, like I’m drinking wine with Picasso and Hemingway in Gertrude Stein’s Paris salon. Except when Viv quotes Tyra Banks from America’s Next Top Model, because then I just feel fierce.
It’s a skill I could never possess because I happen to have a keen ability to forget things shortly after reading them. I inherited this talent from my mother, I suspect, who has seen The Maltese Falcon no less than thirty times and still cannot remember how it ends.
So when I was chatting with Vivian this weekend, and she quoted the line, “More love now than last year,” I had to know more.
“More love now than last year? What a beautiful line! Who said that?”
“I know, isn’t it lovely? Muriel Rukeyser wrote that. She’s one of my favorite poets.”
I repeated the line softly to myself, and said, “I need that to be my new mantra. 2006 is going to be all about ‘More love now than last year.’ It’s perfect – and it can apply in so many different ways. Thanks, Viv!”
“Anytime.”
Last year, Natasha declared that 2005 would be the year of “Less talk, more action,” so I think this is the perfect progression.
As soon as I got off the phone, I started searching to find the source of this line that Viv had quoted, and discovered that the poem in its entirety is even more perfect than that one line. So although perhaps a bit early for a New Year’s resolution, this is my simple wish for all of us: more love now than last year.
This Place in the Ways
Having come to this place
I set out once again
on the dark and marvelous way
from where I began:
belief in the love of the world,
woman, spirit, and man.
Having failed in all things
I enter a new age
seeing the old ways as toys,
the houses of a stage
painted and long forgot;
and I find love and rage.
Rage for the world as it is
but for what it may be
more love now than last year
and always less self-pity
since I know in a clearer light
the strength of the mystery.
And at this place in the ways
I wait for song.
My poem-hand still, on the paper,
all night long.
Poems in throat and hand, asleep,
and my storm beating strong!
- Muriel Rukeyser

15 Comments; | Filed under: General

It had all the makings of an historic occasion. I was meeting up with fellow blogger Jessica from Daughter of Opinion for dinner and drinks. Jessica is a successful stockbroker and was in town for a big stockbroker convention. Her hotel was conveniently located within walking distance of my office, so we decided to meet after work on Tuesday.
I arrived at her hotel promptly at 6:00pm, saw Jessica lounging in front of a gigantic Christmas tree in the lobby, and walked up to greet her, “Jessica! So good to meet you! Hope you’re not too tired out from your stockbroker conference. I want you to know that tonight has all the makings of an historic occasion.”
She looked a bit confused, glanced to left and right, then stood up and said, “Jenny?”
“Yeah – of course it’s me! Okay, so about this historic evening. Are you aware of the fact that right here, in your very hotel is the famed Trader Vic’s Bar and Restaurant, the bar that invented the world-renowned Mai-Tai? And are you also aware of the fact that Trader Vic’s is closing at the end of this year, never to return to Chicago? You probably aren’t aware of this because you were on the trading floor all day, and the announcement was just published in the Sun-Times this morning. This could be our only opportunity to taste a Mai-Tai the way the Polynesian gods intended it to be made.”
Jessica was surprisingly easy-going for a stockbroker, and said, “Hey, whatever you have planned sounds great. I’m totally easy-going.”
“But that’s not all! Are you also aware of the fact that hometown hero Marshall Field’s department store was recently bought out by the evil Macy’s empire, and that this will be the very last official Marshall Field’s Christmas window display? We have to go admire their world-renowned window displays before they desecrate the stores with the Macy’s logo. It’s just up the street.”
“Sounds great. Like I said, I’m totally easy-going.”
Part One: Dinner
We went to an Italian restaurant near her hotel that is known for its phenomenal cannoli and exclusively Russian waitstaff. After a lively discussion about jobs and travel and blogs and family, I was ready to move on to this world-renowned cannoli. Sadly, I now suspect that they only have one world-renowned cannoli at this restaurant and simply pass it from table to table, knowing full well that nothing, short of a diamond bladed jigsaw, could crack the impenetrable exterior.

At one point, Jessica tried to use a pepper mill as a makeshift mallet to drive a fork into the cannoli shell for me, but to no avail. I eventually just had to scoop out the filling and leave the exoskeletal remains for the next unsuspecting diner. With her stockbroker’s keen foresight, Jessica wisely ordered the cheesecake.
When the bill arrived, Jessica whipped out her corporate American Express Platinum card, which I protested with a dramatic, “No! You’re not going to pay for dinner – it’s on me!”
She waved me off with a toss of her perfectly manicured hand and said, “Jen, relax. I’m expensing it. As long as we talk business, it’s not a problem.”
“Well then, let’s get down to business. What’s that you say? Porkbelly futures are down and we’re closing at margin? I can’t call that! I’m a bear in a bull market! I’ll lose my shirt! Buy! Sell! Buy! Sell!”
Jessica raised one eyebrow and said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking stockbroker lingo. We’re doing business. Wink. Wink.”
“Uh, Jen. I’m not a stockbroker.”
“Sure you are. You’re here for a stockbroker convention.”
“No. I’m in sales. I’m working a tradeshow. But even though I’m not a broker, I’m pretty sure that nothing you just said made any sense.”
“Can we still expense this?”
“Of course.”
“Makes sense to me.”
Part Two: Marshall Field’s
For many in the city of Chicago, the loss of the Marshall Field’s name is a big one. For over a century, families have gathered in front of the store windows to see their world-renowned Christmas displays. Mine was not was one of those families, however, so I had never seen the glorious displays with mine own eyes.
After finishing off our wine and coffees, Jessica and I ventured into the blustery night to witness first-hand the elaborate decorations at Field’s. I was certain that nothing would kick-start the holiday cheer like a good old-fashioned Christmas window display. As I pushed past the crowds to get near the first window, I looked in and saw this:

I glanced over at Jessica who smiled politely and said, “Oh, how pretty. I guess that’s… Cinderella? And… oh, is that a lizard by her feet? I guess I didn’t remember there being a lizard in Cinderella.”
I just stared at the display, my faced pressed so close to the window that a circle of fog appeared on the glass with each frustrated exhale. “Are you kidding me? This is hideous! What the hell kind of Christmas display is this? That doesn’t look like Cinderella, it looks like that one puppet… that ventriloquist puppet. What’s her name?”
“Madame?”

“Yeah! These are horrific! What, is this Marshall Field’s final ‘F* You’ to the city of Chicago? And what does Cinderella even have to do with Christmas in the first place?”
“Yeah, good question!”
“I mean, where’s Santa? Where are the reindeer? No snowmen? No bags of gifts? Not even a lousy glittery snowflake? This is an outrage!”
As we continued on past the windows, hoping for some improvement, we realized that we had started at the wrong end. The way we were walking, the story of Cinderella was being told backwards, beginning with a handsome prince stealing sparkly glass slippers from his young bride, and ending in a depressing portrait of sister-on-sister abuse.
A fitting conclusion to this grotesque Theatre of the Macabre holiday display.
Ever the trooper, Jessica tried to control my rant by changing the subject, “Oh! That stepsister looks like the woman from Wicked! Have you seen that?”
Semi-oblivious to her question, I felt a tug at my sleeve, and turned around, “Huh? Wicked? Oh, yeah. A bunch of us saw it a while ago.”
“How did you like it?”
“Um, I thought it was really good. Great costumes and really cool set. But so many of my friends had seen it in New York and thought it was amazing that I think it was just built up too much. You know how sometimes someone keeps telling you how great something is going to be, that when you finally see it, it just falls flat?”
“Kind of like how I kept hearing about that world-renowned Marshall Field’s display?”
“You’re funny. Especially for a stockbroker.”
Part Three: Mai-Tai
Finally the moment had arrived for us to taste a piece of history and settle into a couple world-renowned Trader Vic’s Mai-Tais. I grabbed a table near the bar, ordered our drinks, then bee-lined for the ladies room. By the time I got back, the drinks were ready and waiting.

“Oh, Jen. You totally missed it! The bartender set the drinks down and said, ‘I give you hope Mai-Tai. I give you fortune Mai-Tai.’ Then he left without explaining anything.”
“I give you hope Mai-Tai? Fortune Mai-Tai? What does that even mean?”
“Don’t know. He was very mysterious.”
“Well… give me the fortune Mai-Tai, ‘cause I’ve got nothing but hope. And you’re a stockbroker, so you don’t need fortune.”
“Jenny, I’m not a stockbroker.”
“Ha. Yeah, right.”
After a few elaborately staged photo shoots, we toasted our good health, hope, and fortune, and took our first sip of history. We had no idea that history tasted quite so bitter.
I grimaced a bit, smacked my lips a little and asked, “Do you like it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe this is one of those drinks that you need to have a couple sips of before you really get the true taste. Let’s give it a minute.”
A minute and three more sips went by, and it still tasted like I was drinking a glass of bile on the rocks, with a lime twist.
“Jess – I don’t like it. Mai-Tais are nasty! Ugh. Sorry ‘bout that. Guess I’m starting to understand why Trader Vic’s is closing.”
I looked over and realized that Jessica had already drained her glass, and was busy stabbing a piece of pineapple with a clear plastic sword. “Yeah, I didn’t really like it all that much, either. I definitely wouldn’t get another one. Unless you did.”

After scanning the menu for a few more minutes to find an alternate drink, we realized that each of the 74 drinks on the menu was some slight variation on a Mai-Tai, so we took this as our sign to call it a night.
So that evening, I learned the cold, hard lesson that building things up too much in your head can be self-defeating. You only set yourself up for heartbreak and disappointment because the reality can never live up to the fantasy. The cannoli was stale and nothing like my mother’s. The scenes from the Marshall Field’s window display are certain to pop up in some recurring nightmares I will discuss with my therapist over the next decade. The Trader Vic’s world-renowned Mai-Tai gave me sour belly.
But through all these shattered dreams, one bright ray of hope emerged: I discovered that stockbrokers are some of the most charming, funny, and genuinely sweet people you’ll ever meet. And that makes a month of Cinderellamares all worth it.

19 Comments; | Filed under: General

I saw her familiar black furry coat walking toward the door so I waved to catch her attention.
“Finally! God, I was starving to death!”
Natasha strolled into the restaurant, unaware that my body had almost begun to eat its own organs to survive. My pancreas had all but dissolved by the time she arrived.
“Sorry, got stuck on a conference call. You been here long?”
“No, not that long. Let’s get in line, though. It’s starting to get crowded.”
I turned to the woman standing next to me and said goodbye before lining up to order my usual tomato, basil, and mozzarella sandwich. As soon as we sat down at our table, Nat asked, “So who was that woman?”
“Who? Her? I don’t know. Just some woman who started talking to me. We bonded over the fact that we were both waiting for our lunch dates and almost died of hunger.”
Nat rolled her eyes, “Ha. Whatever. I thought maybe you knew her.”
“Nope. She was just really nice. Kind of overly chatty, though. She told me she really liked my sweater, and that it really brought out the color in my skin. And then she asked me what I did, and where I worked.”
Natasha cocked her head to the side and squinted a little bit. “So, out of the blue, she just started asking you all this?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“And then did she try to sell you some Mary Kay cosmetics?”
I stopped in mid-bite, a piece of basil hanging precariously from my bottom lip. “Huh? Wha- why did you ask that?”
“Ohmigod! She did, didn’t she? She totally tried to sell you Mary Kay!”
“Okay, that’s really weird. Just when you were walking in, I asked her what she did and she told me she worked for Mary Kay. Then the conversation suddenly felt a little uncomfortable, but then you came up and I just walked away.”
“Yeah, I called it. I can always tell a Mary Kay salesperson.”
“How did you know?”
“That’s their M.O. They sneak up on you, disarm you with some completely random compliment, and then go in for the kill. Once, just as I walked out of my office building, a woman jumped out of her car and told me I had nice teeth. Nice teeth. Who says that? Then she tried to tell me about their new fall line of lipsticks and mascaras. They’ll say anything to get you to buy their crap.”
My mouth suddenly felt dry as I tried washed down the crusty sandwich with some Diet Coke. I looked down at my sweater, then back at the woman, making sure not to let her catch me looking. A flood of emotions washed over me. Deception. Betrayal. Manipulation.
Why had I been such an easy victim? How had she singled me out? What had I done wrong? God, I’m so naïve sometimes! Oh, you stupid, stupid trusting person. She didn’t like my sweater at all! She didn’t think it brightened my skin! She probably wasn’t even waiting for a lunch date! She just wanted to sell me the MK Signature™ Gold Glimmer Set!

[Show you have a golden touch when it comes to gift giving. This glamorous gift set comes with everything you need to shine this holiday season: Gold Glimmer Body and Face Gel (2.2 fl. oz.), plus Gold Glimmer Lip Gloss (.27 oz. net wt.) and Gold Glimmer Top Coat (.33 fl.oz.) for nails in a quilted gold bag. Perfect for all skin tones and available for a limited time only!]
Or no! She probably took one look at my rough reptilian hands and thought, “I can sell this poor sap our Deluxe Satin Hands® Pampering Set, and make my bonus before Christmas!”

[Give an irresistible treat that looks as good as it feels in a chic, iridescent gold and orange gift bag. This pampering set of can’t-wait-to-feel-great goodies includes: Satin Hands® Cleansing Gel (3 fl. oz.), Buffing Cream (3 oz. net wt.) and Hand Cream (3 oz. net wt.), and Extra Emollient Night Cream (2.1 oz. net wt.). Available in this holiday gift bag for a limited time only.]
I couldn’t even finish the Rice Krispie treat that Nat and I bought to share. I just felt sick to my stomach. “Nat, I’m so glad you told me. I can’t believe those Mary Kay ladies are so aggressive. It’s like some kind of a cult.”
“I know, Jen. Gotta watch out for those Mary Krishnas.”
“Yeah. Frickin’ Mary Krishnas.”

17 Comments; | Filed under: General

While I was contemplating Wednesday’s entry about the politics of book clubs, I was talking with my friend Vivian and she revealed something to me that was so shocking and upsetting that I almost dropped the phone. Vivian is one of the most well-read people I know, so I was a bit speechless when, after I confessed to never having read Salinger, she dropped this bombshell on me:
“Well, I never read anything by Judy Blume.”
[uncomfortably long silence]
“What? You’re joking, right?”
“No, I just never got around to it.”
“Come on, Viv. You must have read something of hers. Every girl under the age of 18 has read at least three of her books.”
“Not me.”
“Blubber?”
“Nope.”
“Superfudge?”
“Uh uh.”
“Okay, I know you read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. You had to have read that.”
“Jenny, no. None of them.”
“Well, then how did you know what to do when you got your period?”
“I read lots of science books, mostly. And Nancy Drew.”
So this got me thinking – maybe the new theme of my bookclub will be “Something old, something new.” We’ll read a classic that we’ve never read before, and a classic that we have already read. But all the classics we have already read will be Judy Blume novels.
I’ll have to strategically partner up the old books with the new, for optimum reading enjoyment. At some point, I’ll have to expand beyond Judy Blume, but this should keep us going for at least a few months.
So with that, my completely non-Thanksgiving themed Thanksgiving day Opinion Poll is this:
Q: Which of the following book pairings would make you most want to join my new and exciting book club? (Alternate suggestions are welcomed. Seriously, folks, what the hell am I going to read? Okay, fine – you don’t even have to pair your suggestion up with a Judy Blume novel. My only requirement is that you not suggest James Joyce. Seriously. I’ve had Ulysses sitting on my bookshelf for over ten years and have never made it past page 50.):

1. Moby Dick / Blubber
2. Romeo & Juliet / Forever
3. The Scarlett Letter / Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.
4. Mrs. Dalloway / Wifey
5. The Great Gatsby / Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great
6. Catch-22 / Then Again, Maybe I Won’t
7. Other (please explain)

PS – Thanks, Christine for suggesting an opinion poll!
PPS – Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Honestly, I think you are some of the coolest, smartest, funniest, kindest people I’ve never met, and you make this so much fun for me! And that’s not just the pre-Thanksgiving scotch talking, honest!

27 Comments; | Filed under: Opinion Poll

“Did I tell you that Nat and I are starting a book club? It’s just the two of us so far.”
Dee-Dee remained focused on the plate of snacks I had just set in front of her, and began assembling mini roast beef sandwiches and neat stacks of cheese and crackers.
Without looking up from her plate, Dee asked, “Cool, can I be in it?”
I looked at Nat, rolled my eyes dramatically and said, “No, you’re in that elitist book club in Milwaukee. You need to stick with your own kind.”
“No! I’m not in it anymore! I got kicked out, like over a year ago.”
Backstory:
Several years ago, when I still lived in Milwaukee, a friend of Dee-Dee’s started a book club with some of her colleagues who worked for a local television station. One of the members was an evening news anchor, which gave her a moderate amount of celebrity and apparently first say on every book selection for the club. Dee-Dee said she could get me into this book club. She said we would be a team. She said a lot of things. But just like Johnny Bravo, when the book club only wanted her, Dee dropped me like a hot potato. I stopped watching that news station, burned all my books, and moved to Chicago.
I looked over at Nat again to confer, but she was busy rolling up slices of prosciutto into tiny tubes and pressing them between two crackers. I turned to Dee and said, “Well, maybe you can join. We’ll let you come to our first meeting, and see how it goes. We need to see how you interact with the group, and make sure you bring a positive dynamic to the book club.”
“So… you want to see how I fit in with the group? The group that is just the three of us right here.”
“Yes, this group here. We’re not letting just anyone into our book club. One bad apple spoils the whole bunch. Girl.”
“Okay, well what book are we going to read?”
“I’m not totally sure yet. Nat and I were thinking that the theme of this book club could be ‘Books we should have read by now.’ The first one might be Catcher in the Rye.”
Natasha perked up, “Jenny just wants to read that so she can pick up little arty boys in bars.”
“Shut up! I do not!”
Dee-Dee gave me a confused look. “Huh?”
Before I could change the subject, Nat launched into a description of our night on the town last Friday. We both needed to blow off some steam after a long, stressful workweek, so we met for dinner at a tapas restaurant and started the evening off by splitting a bottle of Spanish red. Shortly after desserts were polished off, we still felt a bit parched, and decided to continue on to a local hangout that serves the best Old Fashioneds in town. Or perhaps just the strongest. In any case, by the time we finished our first Old Fashioned, I was in a much better mood and feeling quite chatty.
We were sitting at the bar when an adorable black-capped, twenty-something scrawny poet boy sidled up next to us. He ordered a whisky, pulled out a book and started reading. Since my earlier attempt at socializing with a different barstool-mate failed miserably after his model-esque girlfriend showed up, I thought I would try a different approach:
I leaned in a bit and said, “We have a bet going that you’re reading Salinger.”
No one can resist a woman who gambles.
He gave me a crooked grin, paused a moment, then flipped the book over. Sure enough, it was Nine Stories, by JD Salinger. (Fortunately, Nat had caught a glimpse of the cover of his book earlier and said it looked just like her old copy of Franny and Zooey. I like to gamble, but only with house odds.)
I started to chat him up a bit – he had just moved here from Lincoln, Nebraska, didn’t know many people, was finishing up his Masters before moving on to his PhD, really loved the city but wished he had someone to show him around… when suddenly Nat jumped in with, “Yeah, we were both just saying how we’ve never read Salinger!”
After I burned Nat a look that would melt steel, the conversation took a rapid downturn. My grey roots and wrinkles began to show in the harsh candlelight of the bar, he started talking about text messaging, I tried to explain my job in a way that sounded hip, and then got all confused. These things happen as you get older.
“Way to go, Nat! Why’d you tell him I had never read Salinger? What the hell kind of wingman are you?”
“Mmm, the honest kind?”
“Yeah, because honesty is really what you look for in a good wingman. Why didn’t you just talk about my body fat percentage and fondness for doing paint-by-numbers while you were at it?”
“Jenny, that’s silly. I don’t know your body fat percentage.”
The evening ended shortly thereafter, with me walking back home alone, cursing the day I chose French as my major.
Back in my cheese and meat filled apartment, Nat chimed in, “Hey, why don’t we read Pride and Prejudice?”
“Ugh! No way. No way are we reading that!”
When I suggested the theme of “Books we should have read by now,” I hadn’t taken into consideration the fact that many of the books I should have read by now are really old books, often set in what is commonly known as “the days of yore.”
Nat and Dee-Dee laughed, knowing my long-standing internal struggle with period pieces. I can’t even look at the poster for the movie Pride and Prejudice without getting drowsy. When I’m reading, the mere mention of a corset or antechamber makes my eyes start to get heavy. Add to that, chapter upon chapter of long, drawn-out unrequited romance with the “Oh, Mr. Darcy” this and the “Why, Miss Doolittle” that, and I’m lucky if I can reach the bed before collapsing on the floor in a twitching mass.
“Pick something else. Something less flouncy.”
Dee-Dee suggested, “Okay, how about To Kill a Mockingbird? Absolute classic, and a definite must-read.”
“Are there corsets?
“No.”
“Handlebar mustaches?”
“Mmm, don’t think so.”
“Well, all right. So I’ll plan the first meeting. Maybe we could have an Italian night, and make gourmet pizzas, and have fancy antipasto platters with salami and pepperoni and olives and peppers! I’ll pick out a couple nice wines – a Chianti would probably be good. Oh, and we can listen to my new Rosemary Clooney CD – it has Mambo Italiano on it. It’s so good! Hey – if we plan it for a Wednesday, we could make it coincide with the finale of America’s Next Top Model, too! I should also probably pick up some cannoli from the bakery on-“
Dee cut me off, “Jen? At any point during your book club meeting are we actually going to discuss the book?”
I looked at the growing list of groceries and projects I had started, and replied, “I think we’ll just need to play that part by ear. That’s a lot to cram into one evening.”
“I think I’m starting to understand why these remain the ‘Books you should have read by now.’”

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I took Judy to the vet as soon as the office opened at 8:00am, and already there were three other people ahead of me. As I explained her symptoms to the woman at the front desk, I tried to calm Judy down by letting her crawl underneath the wool sweater I had thrown in her cat carrier before heading out the door.
“She’s been vomiting all night, and seems really unresponsive. She won’t eat or drink anything, and her breathing seems really shallow.”
“Okay, we’re really overbooked this morning, but we’ll make sure she gets in to see the doctor. The breathing thing worries me a little.”
I peered into the carrier and said, “Yeah, me too.”
A loud man with a Cocker Spaniel came in the door, and he hovered very close behind me while I filled out my paperwork. His dog barked incessantly and kept jumping up at the counter where Judy’s carrier was sitting. Judy buried her head deeper into the sweater, and then remained motionless.
“Shush! Quiet, Dexter! C’mon Dex. Quiet! Heh. Your cat’s getting him all riled up. He doesn’t like cats much.”
Jackass. Move your stupid ugly barking dog away from my sick cat before I scratch your eyes out.
I turned Judy’s carrier away from the dog, and said, “Yeah. The feeling’s mutual, I’m sure.”
Once I had completed the paperwork, the vet’s assistant tied a little tag around the handle of my cat carrier that said, “Judy Amadeo,” and told me that she would call me when the doctor was ready.
The door opened again, and this time, an elderly woman came in with a very slow-moving dog. The woman was wearing a fur coat – fox, I think – and her hair was sprayed up in an unkempt bouffant. She had a Russian accent and too much makeup, and kept asking her dog if he wanted to sit down. But I think that both she and the dog knew that if he sat down, it would be too difficult for him to get up again, so he just stood there.
I watched the dog as he open-mouth panted and trembled, his cloudy eyes staring straight ahead. His long, matted fur was once quite glossy and beautiful, I imagined.
“Yesterday morning, he couldn’t even get up. I had to lift him up so he could walk to his bowl.” She patted the dog gently, stroking his ears, and said, “You’re tired, aren’t you Nikolai? Yeah. I know you’re tired. You don’t wanna sit down? That’s okay.” She turned to the elegantly dressed woman sitting next to her, who had an equally distinguished black Dachshund sitting preciously on her lap, and said, “I just can’t stand to see him suffer like this. He’s in so much pain.”
I was watching the Russian woman’s face as she leaned in and said something softly to her dog in Russian, when she looked up and caught my glance. I looked into her grey eyes for what seemed like a very long time.
1… 2… 3… 4… 5…
I pulled back the corners of my lips into something that was not quite a smile, but rather an acknowledgment, then looked away just in time to stop a tear. I opened Judy’s carrier and pet her underneath the wool sweater. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”
“Judy?”
I looked up.
“You can bring Judy into Exam Room 3. The doctor will be right in.”
As the doctor examined Judy, I explained that she had been vomiting violently all night, and hadn’t gotten any better this morning. I told him that she has a terrible habit of eating things she shouldn’t, like plastic bags and string. I try to make sure they’re never accessible, but somehow she can smell a grocery bag from across the apartment.
He took her back for some X-rays and IV fluids, since she was severely dehydrated. I went back to the waiting room, to wait.
Cocker Spaniel and Collie were both gone, but Dachshund was still there. A new dog had arrived, and my heart sank again. It was a young dog, but had what looked to be an enormous scar all the way down her spine. Her tail was between her legs, and she was shaking. I wondered what awful surgery she must have just had, and thought of Judy.
A young woman with some kittens leaned over to the scarred dog’s owner and said, “Oh, how adorable! Is that a Ridgeback? She’s just beautiful!”
The woman nodded yes, and thanked the kitten woman.
Ridgeback? Not a scarred back?
I’d never heard of such a thing, but my mood lightened a bit to know that dog wasn’t there being fitted for a wheelchair.
A different vet’s assistant came out and asked for Oliver, the black Dachshund. His owner handed him over, and sat back down. Within about 20 minutes, the woman returned with the dog and said, “Here he is. We clipped his nails and squeezed his anal glands, so he should be good to go.”
I involuntarily made a slight retching noise at hearing this, when she continued, “Yeah, his glands were really full. When was the last time you had him in?”
I immediately started humming inside my head and turned my attention to the parakeet on the countertop, afraid of overhearing further graphic details of the anal glandular capacity of this once regal looking canine, who had now been reduced to wiener dog status in my mind.
That’s funny. That parakeet keeps putting his head under that bell like a hat. That’s funny. That parakeet keeps putting his head under that bell like a hat. That’s funny. That parakeet keeps putting his head under that bell like a hat.
I looked around the room and thought about how people always say that pets and their owners eventually begin to take on the same characteristics. I had to admit, it seemed to be true: The loud, obnoxious man with his equally annoying Cocker Spaniel. The old, gentle Russian woman with her disheveled, aging Collie. The young chatty couple with their talkative cats, Bert and Ernie, who needed shots before going on vacation. The well-dressed, polished woman with her well-behaved, classy Dachshund. Barring the anal gland part, they really did start to seem alike.
The vet’s assistant told me I could go back to the exam room again.
“Well, looking at the X-rays, there’s nothing blocking her intestines, so that’s good news. It really concerned me that she eats plastic bags. Basically, she responded well to the IV fluids, her skin and coat look much better, but she still seems really scared. She hasn’t vomited at all, so that’s a good sign.”
“Okay, so… you didn’t find anything wrong? Can I take her home?”
“Yeah, we gave her some antibiotics and I want you to feed her baby food for the next day or so. Turkey or beef flavored. Just a teaspoon at a time. Oh, and you should pick up some Prevacid.”
“Prevacid? You mean like the people kind? For heartburn?”
“Yeah, just give her a quarter of a tablet a day for the next two days.”
“So… you’re saying my cat has acid reflux?”
“Kind of, yeah. And she eats things she shouldn’t.”
I paid my $275 bill, carried Judy out to the car, and thought: How alike we are, indeed.

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