Chapter One: The Arrival
I take a deep breath just before laying my backpack down on the X-ray machine, and then walk through the metal detector with the excitement of a child on her first day of school. I look around me and am invigorated by the knowledge that at the top of that escalator lies my future.
Jenny Amadeo, Juror.
As soon as I walk through the glass doors into the jury waiting room, a very pleasant woman wearing a smart uniform and her hair pulled back in a high ponytail asks me to pull a number out of an old Christmas cookie tin decorated with images of dancing bears and elegant Christmas ornaments. What does the number mean? I’m on Panel 4. Is that good? Who else is on Panel 4? Why didn’t I get Panel 1?
It just hits me that I am about to begin live blogging my courtroom experience. I look around the room and realize that I’m the only one in here with a laptop. They’re all looking at me like, “Who does she think she is, typing away at her LAP TOP, like she owns this place? I hate her. I hate her so much.”
They all hate me, but I don’t care. I didn’t come here to make friends. I came here to judge people. They all already know that I’m going to be foreperson. I mean, come on! Which one of has the laptop – me or them? That’s what I thought.
This jury holding tank is actually quite nice. There are some healthy houseplants, several little tables (one of which I immediately claim as my own, because as you may recall, I have a laptop, which means I get dibs), two vending machines, a drinking fountain, and very clean bathrooms. I could live here if I wanted to.
Last night I had dinner with Natasha and reminded her that I was going to jury duty the next day. She was concerned.
“What if you get sequestered? Do they let you come back and get your things?”
“No, Nat. I’m pretty sure they just haul you off immediately, and don’t let you speak to anyone in the outside world. Then you have to wear the same clothes for two weeks, so just in case, I’m going to put on six pair of underpants.”
“Did you just say underpants?”
“Yeah, why? What do you call them?”
“I don’t know – underwear?”
“Whatever. I’m wearing six of them. My ass will look huge, but I’ll bet everyone will wish they had thought of that when they see me with clean underp- wear each day. The foreperson has an image to uphold, you know.”
But that got me thinking – what if I do get sequestered? Who will take care of my cats? Where will we be staying? Do you get conjugal visits? Not that I have anyone to get conjugal with, but it’s really going to piss me off if everyone is getting conjugal visits but me.
“Ooh, did you see that handsome man coming out of Juror #6’s room last night? What a dreamboat!”
“Yeah, and Juror #4’s girlfriend made him a cake with a cell phone baked inside it. And then they totally did it!”
Giggle giggle giggle!
Damn, I hate jury cliques so much.
That’s why I’m the lone wolf, sitting at this table by myself, just me and my laptop, typing away. Owwwooooo!
Chapter Two: The Observation
As a future foreperson, it’s my job to try to get a good read on everyone so I can figure out who the troublemakers are going to be. The holdouts. The Mary Mary Quite Contraries. I’ve already got my eye on that woman in the turquoise sleeveless blouse who keeps coughing. A real attention-seeker, that one. Look at me, look at me. I’m sick and yet I still came to court. You know what? We’re all sick, and we all still came to court because it’s the law. Now cover your mouth.
A man sneezes, and immediately three women say, “Bless you.” I’m not exactly sure what this means yet, but I take note of it. You have to take note of these types of things if you want to be a good foreperson.
I’m guessing the average age of this jury pool is 43, but that is skewed by the trio of septuagenarians in the corner.
The vending machine could be better stocked. I have recently developed a mild addiction to Kellogg’s Rice Krispie’s Treats that come in these beautiful metallic blue packages. I wish I had one right now. They have Twizzler’s, though. Maybe I’ll get some in a few minutes. Thankfully, I slipped two peppermint patties into my backpack before heading out of my house. I might want to ration those for later, though. A good juror is always prepared.
Everyone’s reading.
A young man in yellow is wearing a tan yarmulke held on by two shiny silver clips. I have a strong feeling he is Jewish. It’s this type of keen observation that could make or break a case. Devil’s in the details, as they say.
There is an enclosed glass area within the jury waiting room, and one woman sits in there alone. I don’t altogether trust her, yet her unabashed display of antisocial behavior intrigues me. I decide to keep a close watch on her.
A blonde woman in a pink blouse and white pants sporting perfectly manicured nails leans against the counter and, with a bit more attitude than necessary, asks the guard how she can get her $2 back from the vending machine.
“It just ate both my dollar bills. I tried everything to get it to return my money, and those were the only two dollar bills I had.”
For a moment, I think about lending the woman some change, but then I decide that I don’t like the way she walks. The guard calls maintenance. Obviously this woman didn’t read the summons, because it clearly stated, “Bring change for the vending machines.”
Five minutes later, a man taps on the glass door, then waves and points to the woman in the pink shirt. She grins slyly, struts up to the door and opens it halfway, then whispers, “I can’t leave this room!”
The man hands her a cell phone and walks away. This whole scene is very suspicious, and I am glad to see the guard approach the woman in pink to see what the man gave her. The guard reminds the woman that she must turn off her cell phone.
I don’t like that woman in pink at all. She has now dethroned coughing turquoise woman as the biggest troublemaker in this group. I hope she gets sequestered to a Budgetel.
Chapter Three: The Training
We are asked to gather around a television set to watch a short video on what it means to be a juror. I learn that the United States is the only country in the world that guarantees the right to a jury trial for a criminal or civil case. I learn that the Circuit Court of Cook County has served over 5 million people, and tries civil, criminal, and misdemeanor cases. I learn that we, as jurors, determine the outcome of the case. I learn that serving as a juror is both a privilege and a duty. I like the way the judge on the video pronounces “jur-oars.”
I feel very proud right now.
The man in the video tells us that during the jury selection process, we will be required to answer some questions, and while their intent is not to embarrass us, we must answer truthfully at all times. I hadn’t thought about the possibility that anyone might make me answer embarrassing questions. What exactly do they mean? Will they ask when I first got my period? The last time I wet the bed? If I ever shoplifted?
Exactly who’s on trial here? I’ve seen enough of The Practice to know how these slick lawyers always like to turn things around, and point the finger at the other guy.
“Sure my client stole a TV, but Juror #2 once stole four caramel candy bars from the box of candy that her brother was selling for band camp. What’s worse? Stealing from a stranger, or betraying your own flesh and blood?! Defense rests!”
Chapter Four: The Waiting
It’s only 10:30, and I’m already getting sleepy. I’ll never be elected foreperson if these people see me dozing off. Maybe I should go get a Coke. Not a Diet Coke, but a real Coke. I bet that will intimidate some people, but like I said before, this is not about making friends.
An older man in khakis walks back toward the vending machines by himself. Realizing that I must seize the moment, I grab some change and walk back there after him. I’ve already made too many enemies in this jury pool, so I need to find out who my true allies really are.
I stand back a bit as he peruses the vending machine options, and then say, “Nothing grabbing you?”
He is a bit startled, which worries me. Perhaps the woman in pink has already gotten to him. “Huh, wha-? Oh, yeah. I’m sorry, did you want to get something? I’m still deciding.”
I make a mental note of his indecisiveness. Perhaps he’s not the best wingman on this mission. Or perhaps he is the cleverest person in this room, and is trying to downplay his own wicked intelligence. I decide to approach him again later. I don’t want to scare him off just yet, as I think he could be a solid ally.
I’m bored.

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Today is the day I finally become a woman. Today I join the elite and secret society that is the jury pool. I suspect that a whole new world will be opened up to me after today. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look at things the same way again.
Will I be able to relate to my friends anymore? Few of them have ever done time. I’m sure they won’t understand when I try to explain that I can’t talk about what I have seen behind those doors. They won’t respect the code.
I imagine my writing is going to take a dramatic shift after today. The things I will see in there… writing is the only way to get them out of my head. Don’t you get it? I feel raw, exposed, edgy. I may look into the eyes of a three-time unpaid parking ticket offender, and live to tell about it. And you want me to write about candy? Are you kidding me?
Look, after today I’m going to have 11 new friends who will be the only ones who “get” me. Jury selection is a bond that cannot be broken by time or distance or apathy. I just hope you can understand that.

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All right – so let the madness end. I shall now reveal the much-awaited answers to what appeared to be overly difficult mystery photos.
Door #1
Okay, so even in the bigger picture it’s still a bit hard to tell – they’re just ordinary staples. No, Nat, they’re not gold-plated. The light just hit them that way. I mean, I do lead a flashy lifestyle, but c’mon! Gold-plated staples? Who do you think I am – Sir Mix-a-Lot? I wish.
Door #2
This one seemed pretty easy for a lot of you. iPod, uPod, we all Pod for iPod!
Door #3
Clearly the most difficult of the three, I will readily admit. Mainly because none of you ever thought I left my house, so the idea that I might have a nature photo was, I’m sure, inconceivable. I did find it interesting that one commenter immediately recognized this picture as phallic in nature. I’m not going to analyze that.
And now for prizes. I know, I said there wouldn’t be prizes, but what’s a game without prizes? Not a game I want to play, that’s for sure. No one got all three photos correct, but we had quite a few correct answers on #2, and a dark horse entry from Natasha on #1. First let me say that you’re all winners in my book. Of course, the title of my book is, “People Who Didn’t Really Win,” but that’s beside the point. You all participated and made people laugh with your creative, unusual, and downright vulgar responses (you know who you are), and that deserves to be rewarded.
For tax purposes, however, my accountant has advised me that I can only give gifts with sentimental value. This led me to think back to what I would do when I was a kid and didn’t have any money to buy my mom the expensive jewelry and cigarillos she always liked for her birthday. But since I wasn’t sure logistically how to send each of you a coupon “Good for one free hug,” I instead switched to Plan B, which is a series of original artworks.
The first one is called: On the Wings of Love
The second one is called: Run Jenny Run
So far there are only two pieces in this series, but I suspect I will be inspired to create more. Thanks again everyone for playing along – it was great fun!

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I stared at my calendar this morning in utter disbelief. We can’t possibly be heading into the second week of September already, can we? My four-day weekend is now but a distant, blurry memory. And with four days off, one would think one could come up with a clever and/or insightful essay to post. Something that would lighten the burden of returning to work after the unofficial end of summer.
But unfortunately, the trauma of spending what seemed like all day Sunday in IKEA with Dee-Dee proved too much for me. Although we both had maps and tape measures, we would desperately lose each other at least once every seven minutes.
“Dee-Dee! Dee-Dee! I’m in the container section! Are you by frames?”
“Jenny? Jen, where are you? Come toward my voice!”
By the time I could geo-locate her voice, she had already moved on to the floor lamp section. There’s nothing worse than looking for a skinny, blonde-haired, blue eyed person in IKEA. Talk about your needle in a Scandinavian haystack.
And on a side note, a friend of mine just got her wallet stolen, and within hours her bank called her to question some erratic behavior on her credit card. They thought it was odd that she spent $300 at the Nike Outlet and $50 at Bath & Body Works in the Loop. So why, I ask you, doesn’t my credit card company ever call me just to double check that it was actually me who spent $300 at IKEA, and $80 at Old Navy, and $50 at Borders in Schaumburg all in a two hour timeframe? It would appear that my spending habits outwit all fraud-detecting software. I am untouchable!
Anyway, as I looked at my calendar and realized it was time to post something new, I recalled a conversation I had last week with Natasha, after I mentioned that I finally learned how to post photos on my site. I told her that since I really don’t know what I’m doing with this camera yet, and still haven’t figured out at least half of the icons on the menu bar (like that one that kind of looks like a hermit crab – I mean, what the hell does that function do?), I wasn’t sure what types of photos to post.
“Why don’t you make a game out of it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if your camera’s so tough to figure out, why don’t you just post stuff and let everyone guess what it’s supposed to be?”
“Wait – you mean, I should make everyone else do all the work and compensate for my inexperience?”
“Exactly.”
“I like it. I like it a lot.”
Once again, Natasha comes through in a pinch. So I thought I’d kick off the unofficial end of summer with a Game! Game! Game! No, there are no prizes, other than my undying admiration.
So the rules are really simple: just try to guess what the photo is. That’s it. I’ll post the answers tomorrow morning. And really, I don’t want to give too much away, but considering the state of my social calendar, if you guess “Jenny’s cat,” you’ll be correct about 90% of the time.
Here’s an example of how it will work – try to guess what this picture is:

And pretend it’s the next day now, because I’ll post the answer here.
See! I told you to guess “Jenny’s cat!”
Okay, now for the real thing. Guess away – oh, and in the event of a tie, the tie-breaker will be whichever commenter’s name comes first in the alphabet. So you may all want to change your name to Aaron, just in case.
Photo 1:

Photo 2:

Photo 3:

13 Comments; | Filed under: Photo Quiz

Okay, really folks, this is it. I mean it. I’m not going to write about candy anymore, I promise. At least not until my arms heal from all the deep scratches I sustained while chasing my cats around for 45 minutes, trying to get them to pose wearing candy necklaces. Sometimes they’re just no fun at all.
And really, let’s face it – it’s Friday before a long weekend, half of your office is gone, you’re all somewhat bitter about having to be there anyway. So why not take a minute and let this tiny corner of the blogosphere get to know you a little better? Because just like Tom Cruise, I care about you. I care about all of you, almost as much as I care about Brooke Shields. And I’ve done the research, so stop being so damned glib, would you?
All right, so on to this week’s Weekly Opinion Poll:
Question: What kind of sweet treat launches you immediately into a nostalgic trip back to your childhood? (write-ins are welcomed)
A. Blow Pops
B. Candy buttons on the paper strip
C. Candy necklaces
D. Lik-m-Aid Fun Dip
E. Necco wafers
F. Pop Rocks
G. Razzles
H. Rock Candy
I. Wax bottles/lips
(Oh, and if you need any help remembering the name of your favorite candies, go here!)

16 Comments; | Filed under: Opinion Poll

Stretched out on my love seat and lazily flipping through a copy of Chicago Magazine, I propped the phone under my chin as I talked with my friend Vivian. It was 9:30pm, which meant that her free nights and weekends minutes had kicked in.
“I never knew you were so obsessed with candy,” she said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a commercial on TV for the next season of The Amazing Race and momentarily lost my train of thought. “Obsessed? Who said I was obsessed? What do you mean?”
“I mean you write about candy a lot on your blog. I just didn’t know you had such a sweet tooth.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, Jen, you do. Just in the last few weeks you wrote about giving up candy, then there was the Krispy Kreme bread pudding. Just seems like a favorite topic of yours.”
I tossed my magazine onto the floor and popped a caramel Dove Promise into my mouth, pressing it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue until the soft caramel oozed out. “Viv, I’ve known you for what – ten years? When have I ever not had candy in my house? I don’t know, it’s just… who I am. I like candy. Doesn’t mean it’s an obsession.”
“Look, you don’t need to get defensive. It’s just an observation.”
“Well, maybe I’m obsessed with candy, but you have vices too, you know!”
“Like what?”
“Uh, hello? When’s the next season of America’s Next Top Model coming out?”
“September 21. Oh, and did you hear that they got rid of Janice Dickinson and are replacing her with Twiggy? What an awful idea that is. I don’t think the commentary is going to be nearly as funny anymore. I mean, Twiggy’s just skinny. Janice Dickinson was the world’s first supermodel. You know that the apartment the models lived in during the first season is right across the street from my office, don’t you? And really, they can never top that original season with Adrienne and Elise. Remember when we saw Shandi in the sub-“
“Viv. Vivian! Weren’t we talking about me and my candy obsession?”
“You’re the one who brought up ANTM. Anyway, that was really all I wanted to say. I just didn’t know you liked candy so much. I guess we never really know our friends, do we? All righty, ditey. I should get going – it’s pretty late.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.”
After I hung up, I looked over at my coffee table and saw the freshly opened bag of chocolates that I had picked up at the grocery store on my way home from work. They didn’t taste as delicious as the package had promised, but somehow just seeing them there made me feel good. I don’t know – I felt safe, I guess.
And the more I thought about it, I came to the conclusion that maybe the reason I talk about candy a lot is because it has been my one constant companion throughout my 34 years – helping me make new friends, easing the pain of lost ones, comforting me during sad days, celebrating with me in the good times.
Somehow, candy has played a larger, more critical role in my life than any one person or event. And for that, I’d like to dedicate my story to candy, as candy has dedicated itself to me.
Diary of a Sweet Tooth
1971
I am born. To my knowledge, no one brings me candy.
1974
I taste my first Smartie and know what it is to feel joy.
1975
My brother and I dress up as Raggedy Ann and Andy for Halloween. We come home after trick-or-treating, dump out our candy on the living room floor, and sort everything into three categories: chocolate, non-chocolate, and stuff that mom might eat.
A few years after this, my brother loses his taste for candy, and our relationship begins to deteriorate.
1976
My best friend Tina has a birthday party with cake, balloons, games, and a piñata. Hordes of five-year olds race around the house, squealing with hyperactive delight. Angered by the noise, Tina’s father walks into the living room and yells in a booming voice, “I think there are enough corners in the house for everyone to stand in!”
The piñata breaks.
I don’t move.
Eventually, I bend down to pick up the lone root beer barrel that has fallen at my feet.
1977
My brother informs my mother that if she continues to hide our Easter baskets, he will no longer bother looking for them.
I look at my brother and realize I am staring into the eyes of a total stranger.
1978
We are celebrating something in my 2nd grade class. Mrs. LoCicero is the most beautiful teacher in the world – even her name is like a song.
There are cupcakes with white frosting and multi-colored sprinkles, but somehow we don’t have enough for everyone. Mrs. LoCicero looks worried and asks if anyone doesn’t want a cupcake. I walk up to her and hand mine back, untouched. She asks if I am sure and I nod yes.
I watch as she walks back to her desk, digs in her purse, then gives me a stick of Wrigley’s Double Mint gum. She says I can chew it in class.
Forbidden fruit.
1979
As we sit on the step by the back door, my mother sips coffee and tells me about when she was my age. Her grandparents would sometimes give her money for candy like black licorice pipes. I don’t think that sounds like candy I would like. Then she describes her favorite treats, which were little coconut candies in the shape of watermelon slices. The red part was really red and the green part was really green, and they even had the little black seeds.
They sound so beautiful. I close my eyes and wish I could taste them.
1980
Mr. Wendell catches me passing a Tootsie Pop to Danny T. He grabs a wastebasket and walks from desk to desk, confiscating our illegal candy stashes and throwing them in the trash.
He then returns to his desk and spits on the candy.
1981
The Fosters and I decide to make our own Pixie Stix by mixing packets of Kool-Aid with sugar. After reaching the perfect formula, we pour the powder into a Tupperware container, lick our fingers, and dip them in. Our fingers remain pink for days.
Mrs. Foster catches us making this mess in her kitchen, kicks us out of the house, and screams that we’re all going to get worms. I am not sure what this means, but it worries me.
1982
My class takes a field trip to Old World Wisconsin, where I learn how to make soap from lye. I catch a small green snake by the smokehouse.
At the end of the trip, we stop at the souvenir store and the Olde Tyme Candy Shoppe. I see black licorice pipes, but they still don’t sound good to me.
There are nine tall glass jars containing multi-colored sticks of hard candy, in all different flavors. The flavors are written in calligraphy on yellowed pieces of paper. I buy the orange and white striped one.
1983
I walk to Belmonte’s Grocery on the corner because he has the largest selection of Now & Laters anywhere in the city. He even has Butter Rum flavor, but I don’t like that kind. I buy two packs of Bub’s Daddy gum, which is a foot-long piece of bubblegum, covered in white dust.
A friend and I try to chew the entire stick to see who can blow the biggest bubbles. I get bubblegum on my eyelashes, and my jaw hurts for a week.
1986
My friend Angela and I are killing time after our summer school gym class. We ride our bikes to the drugstore and buy cans of Coke and packs of Sixlets. I ask Angie how many Sixlets she thinks I could fit up my nose.
We almost crash our bikes.
1987
On the table next to my grandfather’s recliner sits a covered candy dish made of opaque white glass. I lift the lid and am disappointed to find spice drops. It’s always spice drops. Except at the holidays, when it’s those tiny striped pillow-shaped hard candies that stick together.
I quickly replace the lid and grab a handful of black olives from the kitchen.
1992
I am in Paris. The French do not like candy. A rich American girl in my dorm has her boyfriend send her a case of Rain-blo bubblegum every few weeks. She has an eating disorder, I’m pretty sure.
I watch her as she sits at my sink, chewing package after package of gum. Before all the sugar is gone, she spits the wad of gum out onto a napkin. She then drinks mineral water because she says this will wash the calories out of her.
I watch the wad grow larger and larger. She never offers me a piece of gum and I never ask for one.
1996
My friend Vivian and I decide to play hooky from work and drive out to Old World Wisconsin for the day. We watch a man butcher a pig the way it used to be done, and learn how to render lard.
The Candy Shoppe is still there. I buy three different flavored candy sticks, but they don’t taste as good as I remember.
1998
On a business trip to Mexico, doe-eyed little girls in dirty dresses run up to me and want to sell me little packets of Chiclets. I am defenseless.
2001
It is Christmas. My brother finds what appears to be a small white pill on my parents’ carpet under the coffee table. He half-jokingly scolds my mother for being so careless around his infant son.
I grab the pill from his hand and eat it. It is a Good ‘n Plenty.
2004
I tell my nephews that if you microwave a Marshmallow Peep, it will get so big that the eyes will pop off. They think I am teasing them. We all gather around the microwave, and they never doubt me again.
2005
I have dinner with my parents and spend the night at their house. In the morning, I walk to the back of their property to find my dad digging in the garden. I catch a small green snake by the raspberry bush.
My father apologizes for not having any candy in the house. He is trying to lose weight.

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There comes a time in every woman’s life when she will unconsciously do something or say something or perhaps just think something that will trigger the visceral response, “My god, I have officially become my mother.”
As an adult, there have been many instances where I have caught a glimpse of my mother in me, like the other day when I said, “Oh, for crying in a kerchief!” in a business meeting, without even a hint of irony. I laughed it off, and told myself that I had been watching too many I Love Lucy reruns.
Or like last month when I caught myself singing, Momma’s Little Baby Loves Shortenin’, Shortenin’ to my cats.
But for me, the true defining moment came this weekend as I was paying my bills. I had just written out the check for my cell phone bill, but couldn’t immediately find the envelope amidst the pile of papers that had amassed on my dining room table. I pushed aside an old issue of People Magazine, and tossed out three or four gardening catalogs (Gardening? I don’t even have a window box. Who does their mailing lists?), until I finally found the Sprint envelope. I shoved my check inside, then flipped the envelope over to slap on a stamp, only to be met by this image.
And that’s when it hit me: My god, I have officially become my mother.
Growing up under the tutelage of a quintessential child of the 50’s was not easy for a self-proclaimed tomboy like me. On a normal workday, my mother would wear stilettos, a garter belt, and stockings with the seam down the back, and I swear to you, she was not a hooker. I, on the other hand, have never owned a pair of shoes with a heel over two inches, and wearing pantyhose makes me want to claw my legs off.
She started dying her hair at age thirteen, and has been every color of the Clairol rainbow over the years, aside from jet black. “No one looks good in jet black dyed hair,” she would always tell me. “Not even Elvis.”
Last year, when I finally had to concede that I could no longer pull out my grey hair without leaving huge bald patches, I reluctantly asked my mother to help me dye my hair for the first time. She took a disturbing amount of pleasure in watching me squirm and scrunch my shoulders up around my ears as she dumped what felt like a bucket of pig’s blood onto my scalp.
“Isn’t the fifteen minutes up yet? It’s dripping. It’s dripping down my back! Mom, it burns!”
“That just means it’s working. Sometimes we have to suffer for beauty.”
But our biggest point of contention by far revolved around the topic of makeup. As a teenager, most of my friends would innocently waltz out of their houses on weekends, bright-eyed and clean faced, only to later meet up in the Burger King parking lot with eyeliner and cigarette lighters in hand, leaning into rearview mirrors as they smeared thick black lines around their eyes before the boys from the soccer team showed up.
As I tried to sneak out of the house to meet up with friends, my mother would hear me squeak down the stairs toward the front door, then call for me to come back into the living room so she could inspect me first.
“You don’t really think you’re going out looking like that, do you young lady?”
I would stare at the ground, and pick at invisible pieces of lint on my sweater. “Mom, I gotta go. Lori’s waiting for me.”
“Jenny, get back upstairs and put on some lipstick and a little mascara or you’re not going out at all!”
Sometimes I can still see the image of her coming at me with her latest tube of whatever lipstick came in the Clinique Bonus Days giveaway. I would close my eyes tightly and wrestle my head from side to side as she squeezed my lips into a pucker, trying desperately to tart me up before sending me out to see a movie with friends.
“Mom! It’s too orange. I don’t want any – no! Wipe it off!”
“Oh, for the love of Pete, Jenny. It’s just a little lipstick. And besides, it brings out the green in your eyes. See how pretty you look?”
Growing up, there was never a piece of paper, grocery receipt, envelope, or catalog in our house that didn’t have my mother’s lip prints on it. Anything was fair game when it came time for her to reapply. I cannot begin to count how many times I turned in homework, only to find my mother’s logo branded on the back page. I can mark important moments in my educational history by the varying shades that would appear on my work:

Is it Friday already? Has another week passed? It seems impossible, but here we are, almost in September. I should explain that I have been a bit preoccupied this week dealing with the depression of… a friend. Yes, my friend… Penny… she’s been very depressed this week. Penny also likes to write sometimes, but she hasn’t written lately because she’s been in a funk. In fact, she was just recounting a conversation she had the other day with her dear friend… Bivian.
Bivian: “Hey Penny! What’s up with your blog? Why haven’t you posted anything new this week? It’s almost Friday!”
Penny: “Oh, hi Bivian. I’m not in the mood. I don’t want to write anything. Nothing’s funny anymore.”
Bivian: “What? What are you talking about? Why?”
Penny: “I don’t know. No reason. I bought a digital camera on Sunday.”
Bivian: “Cool! What kind?”
Penny: “A really nice one. It’s really pretty, and silver, and makes bird chirp sounds when I turn it on. But it has five megapixels.”
Bivian: “Five mexapixels is fine! That should take really nice photos.”
Penny: “Yeah, but they should have warned me.”
Bivian: “About what?”
Penny: “Not to take a self portrait with it.”
So then Vivi-, I mean Bivian asked Penny… oh forget it. Look, I’m talking about myself here. I’m Penny. Penny is me. I bought the damn five megapixel camera. I took a self portrait. And now I’m dealing with the ramifications, which have yet to be remedied by glass after glass of fruit fly tainted wine.
Look, I know I should have known better, but there are only so many pictures of my cats that I can take, don’t you see?! And I don’t have an artistic eye, so trying to take moody photos of a door frame just didn’t work for me. So I did what eventually everyone with a digital camera does. I took off my glasses, licked my hand and patted down my hair, looked to the side, held the camera at arm’s length and pressed the button.
Why? Why didn’t the instruction manual come with some WARNING! stickers? I even flipped through the French version – there was nothing that said ATTENTION! at all.
If I worked for Canon, you know what I would do? I would have the customer’s best interest in mind at all times. I would make sure that they put clear warning labels in every digital camera manual. It would say something like:
WARNING: Self portraits taken at arm’s length with a five megapixel (or greater) camera will destroy any delusions of youth and beauty you once had.
Because here’s the thing: when your pores each take up 100,000 pixels, it’s not a pretty sight.
And then there’s the zoom function. Oh god, the zoom. Hmm… what’s that? Oh, it’s just a varicose vein in your eyeball. IN MY EYEBALL, PEOPLE!
It is only by the grace of god that I haven’t figured out how to post photos on this site yet, because oh, when that fateful day comes. Hide your children.

17 Comments; | Filed under: General

Sometimes in winning, we still lose.
I don’t remember who once told me that, but I’m sure it irritated me at the time, because I hate when people say things to try to make me think. I think enough on my own, I don’t need Confucius-esque aphorisms to make me spend more time in my head.
Anyway, like I said, I’m sure it irritated me then, just like it irritates me now to find out that whoever said it was right.
But let me back up a bit.
I was on the phone with Dee-Dee Saturday morning, waiting for my bagel to finish toasting, when I opened up my trash can to toss away the empty bagel bag. The second I lifted the lid, at least five fruit flies swarmed up into my face, and I almost dropped the phone.
“Oh gross! Oh… oh, gross!” I yelled.
“What? What is it?”
I slammed the lid shut and said, “Okay, I just threw something in the garbage, and like a hundred fruit flies flew right in my face!”
“Oh, yeah. They’re really bad this year. My sister has them upstairs, too. You should just set out a glass of wine.”
“A glass of wine? Why?”
“Because the flies will go in it and drown.”
“So then I’ll have a glass full of dead fruit flies?”
“Better than a house full of live ones, don’t you think?”
“You make a good point.”
After I hung up the phone, I just felt so dirty – I mean, what kind of ramshackle hovel am I living in that gets infested with fruit flies? I don’t even eat fruit! Now, microwave popcorn flies, or frozen pizza flies, or cheese and crackers flies – those I could understand. But aside from that puzzling bag of generic dried apricots my grandmother gave me for my birthday this year, I can’t recall the last time there’s been a piece of fruit in this apartment.
But I realized that it was too late to worry about the past. What’s done is done, I always say. I needed to stop asking “why me” and focus on “get the hell out of my apartment, sucka fruit flies.”
I pulled the cork out of the half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir sitting on my counter, and grabbed a juice glass from the sink. Just as I was about to pour the wine, I thought about how my father would always tell me that if something was worth doing, it was worth doing right. So I walked over to the cupboard, grabbed a nice red wine glass, and poured it halfway full. Within ten minutes, I saw a bold, wide-eyed fruit fly prancing around the rim of the glass.
“Come on… go in. That’s it… closer, closer,” I said softly, watching intently as the fruit fly tiptoed down the inside edge of the glass, already mildly intoxicated by the delicate bouquet of this 3-day old wine.
He kept walking around the edge in circles, getting slightly closer to the sweet liquor, but never close enough to slip in. Remembering that a watched pot never boils, and apparently a watched fly never drowns, I decided to do some housework. About half an hour later, I walked back to the kitchen to see if any progress had been made. Sure enough, there were now three fruit flies waltzing around the glass, inhaling the pungent perfume of sour grapes.
I peeked in the glass to see how many of their dead comrades they were mourning, but was disappointed to find nothing but wine in the glass. It would appear that my apartment had been infested by a swarm of true connoisseurs. These were not your ordinary wine chugging set. No, clearly they intended to savor the experience, trying to detect the subtle cherry and black pepper undertones in this once fine Pinot.
Unfortunately, I had things to do. Natasha was coming over in another hour to go shopping, so I didn’t have time to host a fully-guided tour of Napa Valley. I waited until the flies returned to the edge of the glass and grabbed the closest weapon I could find, which turned out to be a take-out menu for the Thai restaurant down the block. Just when one of the flies stepped off the rim and snuck his way down the inside of the glass a bit, I slammed the menu on top of the glass, trapping him inside. Then, I swirled the wine around, knocking him off the edge and into the crimson vortex.
I watched him swim around for a while as I waited for his companions to return. Another twenty minutes went by, but there was no sign of the other flies, so I realized that if I was going to get rid of all these unwanted guests, I needed to lay more traps. I grabbed two more wine glasses, filled them each halfway up with the stale Pinot, and then set one on the dining room table and one on my coffee table. All the bases were covered.
I felt pleased with myself when, after another half hour, I saw that my traps were working – three more flies had met their fate. When Natasha came over, as soon as she walked in, she saw the three glasses of red wine sitting out and asked, “You got company?”
“Mmm… kind of. It’s complicated. I’m having a fruit fly problem, and Dee-Dee told me to set out wine. I think they’re all gone now, though, so we should probably be fine.”
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Erratic, flitting, fruit fly-like movement.
“Dammit! There’s another one! Hold on, Nat. Stay right there – I’ll be right back.”
I ran into the kitchen to pour a fresh glass of wine and set it on the mantel, where the fly was last seen headed. Just as I returned to the living room, with glass of Pinot and soggy take-out menu in tow, I saw Natasha raise both her hands, slap them together, and flick the dead fruit fly onto the floor.
“Can we go now?” she asked, brushing her hands on her jeans.
I paused for a minute, looking down at the tiny corpse of my enemy on my hardwood floors. The battle was over. The war was won. Yet somehow, I was the one who had been defeated.

11 Comments; | Filed under: General

I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I wanted to, and sometimes desire is reason enough. I knew I should have ordered the salad, but when I ran across the street to McDonald’s for lunch, all I could think about was how badly I wanted French fries. Then I saw their new marketing campaign, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted the new Premium Chicken Sandwich and French fries.
I placed my order and stepped aside while they lovingly slapped together my #7 Crispy, when suddenly I heard a loud “pop!” Fortunately, my years spent growing up on the mean streets of rural Wisconsin taught me exactly how to handle this type of situation. After unburying myself from the elderly woman and twin toddlers I had used as human shields, I stood up and realized that it hadn’t been gunfire, but in fact, the heating light bulb above the French fry tray had exploded.
Glass shards shattered all over the bin of freshly salted, piping hot fries.
Clearly, McDonald’s does extensive crisis management training with its employees, because within seconds, the manager appeared out of nowhere with a giant garbage bin, ordering his trainees to dump out each and every fry.
“But… those ones on the side look fine,” I thought. I mean, they were already boxed up and ready to go. “I can be real careful and eat around the stabby pieces, honest!”
The flustered cashier offered me two apple pies instead of my piping hot, glass covered fries, but somehow it just didn’t seem like much of a deal. Since I didn’t want to wait for the manager to pull out the McAbacus to figure out how to refund the fry portion of my value meal, I just took my lone Premium Chicken Sandwich and silently slumped away.
This experience made me think – what had I done to make the universe feel like I didn’t deserve those fries? I don’t eat fries all that often – I swear! I usually get the grilled chicken salad with lowfat Paul Newman dressing. I haven’t been overindulging lately, have I?
And then I remembered.
Last Saturday. 6:27pm. La Grange Park, IL
My friends Ozzie and Lily had their annual barbeque, to which I brought my annual potato salad like the good guest that my momma raised me to be. In a frustrating turn of events, three other copycat guests apparently didn’t get the memo that I am in charge of potato salad. I brought it last year, I brought it this year, I’ll bring it next year. We ended up with twelve pounds of potato salad for ten people. This is why understanding roles and responsibilities is essential to an effectively functioning society.
But anyway, aside from the opportunity to spend time with their hip-hop gangsta children, Zoë and The Deke, I was intrigued by Lily’s marketing ploy in this year’s eVite:
“Krispy Kreme bread pudding will be served.”
Now, let the record reflect that, as a general rule, I hate bread pudding. Along with rice pudding, or potato pudding, or noodle pudding, or any other pudding made from some starch that was once part of a dinner.
But Krispy Kremes? Krispy Kremes are never for dinner, unless you live in North Carolina, where doughnuts have their own level in the food pyramid, just below fruits and vegetables.
I could see this dessert had potential.
I waited all afternoon in eager anticipation of this curious treat. I forced myself to be polite and eat thirteen carrot sticks, and four cheese puffs, and two bratwursts, and half a hamburger, just to make Ozzie and Lily feel good. I didn’t want them to think I came just for dessert.
Finally, Lily slid open the patio door with her foot and carried out a tray of what would prove to be the most revolutionary dessert ever to make an appearance at a barbeque in all of Illinois. Nay, all of the Midwest.
Typically, even if I love a particular dish, I don’t usually ask people how they made it. This is partly because, based on how frequently I turn on my stove, I know this information will come in about as handy for me as the quadratic equation does. But really, the main reason I don’t ask that question is out of fear that the cook, like a certain acquaintance of mine, will launch into a fifteen minute epic step-by-step description of how to prepare the dish:
“First, I buy the chicken whole – you always have to get them whole – and I cut up the parts into quarters. If you get the ones that are pre-cut, they can sometimes be okay, but usually I just find that the whole ones taste a lot fresher. You probably should wait until they go on sale at the Pick n Save – sometimes my sister saves the coupons for me. Then, I rinse them with cold water, but not too cold, making sure to flush out the cavity really well. You can put salt and pepper in the cavity now or later, depending on how salty you like it. Jenny! Are you listening to me? Next I take about one cup of chopped celery, two teaspoons of nutmeg, a quarter stick of butter-“
“Dammit, woman! I just asked if I tasted tarragon!”
Anyway, I’m not sure if I remembered the recipe 100%, but I think this is pretty close to how Lily told me she made the Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding:

Three dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts

Two cups of dark molasses

One 64-oz can of fruit cocktail, heavy syrup

Two cups of brown sugar

Two cups of raisins

Three cups corn syrup

One teaspoon nutmeg

One quarter teaspoon cinnamon
Mix all ingredients together in a food processor until it forms a thick dough. Mold the dough into the shape of a beehive, wrap in rice paper, and place in the crook of a tree for 7 to 10 days, or long enough for the queen bee to lay her eggs and the worker bees to produce at least two cups of honey.
Once you have collected enough honey, place the dough hive (bee larvae and all) into a 10” x 13” glass baking pan and bake at 350˚ for 25 minutes.
Let the pudding cool, then top with cream cheese frosting and one large syringe of insulin.
Serves 80-100.

I’m telling you right now people, I could only eat about two tablespoons of the pudding before I felt myself drift off into a gentle diabetic coma, but those were the two most amazing tablespoons of food ever to dance across my taste buds. You can’t know. None of you can. Except Nat, and Seamus, and about eight other of the luckiest people alive. We all know.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that if I have to get glass in my French fries, Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding made it all worthwhile.
Which leads me to this week’s Weekly Opinion Poll!
Question: What food item that will most likely kill you is your ultimate guilty pleasure food?
A. Ice cream
B. Pizza
C. Deep fried cheese curds (Shout out to Wisconsin! Go Pack Go!)
D. Potato chips
E. French fries
F. Whipped cream out of the can (Right, like I’m the only one?)
G. Chocolate
H. Red red wine
I. Krispy Kreme bread pudding

27 Comments; | Filed under: Opinion Poll