The bird slaughter continues:

Monday: Wren

When will it stop? When will the madness end? The strange thing is that this time, the bird was covered in a purple shroud and wearing tiny Nike running shoes. What could this possibly mean? And why would a bird need to wear running shoes? It just makes no sense. No sense at all.

I will not rest until this mystery is solved.

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Overheard in the Elevator

Blonde Woman: “Hey, do you know when Girl Scout cookies come out?”
Other Blonde Woman: “Uhh… I’m not sure. But I think my husband just bought something from the Boy Scouts, so it should be pretty soon.”
Blonde Woman: “I hope so. I have to order some of those Samoans. Those are the best!”
Other Blonde Woman: “Now which ones are those?”
Blonde Woman: “Those are the ones with the caramel and chocolate and coconut.”
Other Blonde Woman: “Oh, yeah. Those are good! But I thought they were called Caramel Delights?”
Blonde Woman: “Umm, I’m not sure. Maybe. They’re good, whatever they’re called.”

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You know what’s weird? Now that I work downtown, I see far more woodland creatures than I ever did when I worked in the lush, tree-lined suburbs of northern Illinois.
The only difference is that in the city, all the animals are dead.
So far this week I’ve seen a dead bird every single day on my way out of the train station.
Monday: Nuthatch
Tuesday: English sparrow
Wednesday: Starling
Thursday: Yellow finch (Or possibly a wadded up McDonald’s bag. It was in the street so I couldn’t really get a good look.)
On Tuesday, I saw a woman in a business suit rip a piece of paper out of her fancy leather portfolio, pick up the sparrow, and deposit it in the trash can. I wonder if she does that kind of thing all the time. Maybe she canvasses the city looking for dead animals so she can give them a (semi) proper final resting place. Do I admire her or pity her? I’m just not sure.
This mass slaughter started to get me a little worried about what might be killing the small birds of Chicago. Is the air so polluted here that they are literally dropping from the sky? Is there a massive gas leak in the area that our inferior human senses just haven’t been able to detect yet? Is there a sniper on the loose?
As I stared up, looking for signs of a rifle or a high-powered slingshot, I realized that my train station is in a thirty story glass building, and these birds were just victims of their own poor eyesight. They saw the building just a few precious seconds too late. Oh, sweet little nearsighted birds. I think, if only I could mend those broken wings. Fortunately, this is a fleeting thought, and I quickly go back to sipping my BananaBerry Jamba Juice.
You know, if that woman really wanted to do some good, instead of daintily scooping up the bird carcasses and tossing them in the garbage, she would paint a gigantic picture of an owl on the building so the birds would stop slamming into it. That’s the problem with these do-gooders – they lack planning. Anyone can clean up the mess after it happens. But what those birds really need is someone who’s more proactive. Am I right or am I right?
Well, I’m off to work. What will it be today? Any bets? Even odds on sparrows. A robin will get you ten to one odds. Twenty to one on a hawk. Sixty to one on a swan. Takers?

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Yesterday

I ate two mini Twix candy bars
and three ghost shaped marshmallow Peeps
for breakfast.
And I defy anyone to tell me that was wrong.
Then I washed it all down
with some Diet Pepsi.

That was just plain wrong.
I’m so sorry.

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Now that the pressure of the job hunt is behind me, I’m looking for ways to release the stress that built up in my body during my sabbatical. It’s high time I treat myself to some pampering to channel my stress energy out of my pores and into the universe, where it belongs. And since I’ve never been one for Tae Bo, or any physical activity that resembles hand-to-hand combat, what I really need to do in order to bring my mind and body back into balance is spend an hour in a flotation tank.
Shortly after I moved to Chicago, Natasha added this activity to my list of must-do’s. This item fell just below tap dance lessons and just above dog shows in terms of priority. She did all sorts of research and found out that the oldest flotation tank facility in the US just happens to be right here in our own backyard. For those of you who are unfamiliar with flotation tanks, here’s the description from the Space-Time Tank site:

“A flotation tank is a 8’x4’x4′ enclosed structure which diminishes light and sound. Each tank holds 10 inches of water with 800lbs. of Epsom salts enabling a person to float effortlessly. The water is heated to an average skin temperature (93.5°) reducing the sensation between body and water. The tanks are fully ventilated and the solution is sterilized after each use with concentrated Hydrogen Peroxide and Ozone.”
Who wouldn’t want to spend a few hours in that?
After signing on a few more adventuresome friends, we scheduled our appointments for the tanks. Initially, I had a few concerns that I discussed with Natasha. Some of the key ones were:
1. What does one wear in a flotation tank?
2. Will I get claustrophobic?
3. What if I just obsess about work issues for the entire hour?
4. What if I get locked inside?
5. Can I get typhoid fever from floating in a tank?
6. Will I revert back to my Neanderthal origins and emerge as part monkey, a là Altered States?
With my list of concerns in hand, Natasha headed out to research all the facts she could find about flotation tanks, and returned with the confidence of a pro. She addressed my questions one at a time:
Attire
Now, I’m no prude, but when it comes to fashion, I’m pretty modest. I just didn’t know – was I supposed to wear a swimsuit? Underwear? Scuba mask and snorkel?
As I would quickly learn, unless you want to be known in the floating community as a complete freak, you wear the same outfit you were born with, sans umbilical cord. At first, I was a little uncomfortable with this. I mean, is that sanitary? Although, I don’t suppose a Speedo ever really served as any true protection against water borne diseases.
Plus, Nat sent me all sorts of links to websites that discussed the purification process used after each person floats. Apparently, not even a prehistoric water parasite could survive in that level of salt content. So there I was, naked as a jaybird. But without feathers.
Claustrophobia
A valid concern, I thought. Will I have a panic attack? If I scream, will anyone hear me? Our charming and informative guide told us that if we did get claustrophobic, we could prop open the door with our towel and leave a dim light on.
I must admit that I did have a very brief panic attack when I first crawled into the tank, although I’m not sure if that was due to the enclosed space, or due to the fact that I was buck naked sitting in 100 degree salt water. It was really the humidity that freaked me out more than the darkness. Because it’s enclosed and so warm, the air is very thick, and for a moment I thought both my lungs had collapsed. They hadn’t. I made myself calm down, put out my cigarette, and then the panic quickly subsided.
Work
A week before going to the tanks, I had to fire one of my more emotionally unstable employees, and it was a fairly unpleasant experience for us both. I had this fear that during the entire time I was floating in the tank, all I would be able to think about would be her, and all of the other crazy people I had to deal with at work.
Fortunately, an amazing thing happens in the tank – you cannot concentrate on anything, even if you try. Your mind just keeps wandering from thought to thought in a seemingly random pattern. It’s exactly the same phenomenon that would occur whenever my old boss would talk to me about his philosophy on the benefits of micromanaging employees.
Trapped
I suppose this goes hand in hand with the claustrophobia concern, but I had a genuine fear of being locked inside this tank. In my mind, the tank had a giant deadbolt on the outside that they needed for some security reason.
Of course, there are no locks on flotation tanks. There are no latches, and there aren’t even any handles. It’s just a little door that you could easily push open with one finger. I know because I tested it out several times.

Disease
My doctor assured me that I could not catch typhoid fever from a flotation tank. And then she asked me to find a new doctor. Apparently she’s still upset about when I paged her at home on a Sunday because I thought I had a rare combination of polio and gout.
Monkey
If you’ve seen the movie Altered States, you understand what I mean by this. For those of you who haven’t seen it, here is the edited version: William Hurt’s character is a scientist researching different states of consciousness and one of the techniques he employs is a sensory deprivation tank. After spending some time in one, he turns into a caveman. I can’t really explain it any better than that, so you’re just going to have to rent it on your own.
I thought I was being pretty clever when I joked with the owner about this fear. Apparently, a few other (hundred) people have seen this movie, and they all thought it would be hilarious to make this exact same joke to the owner. Since the film came out in 1980, he has heard this joke approximately 628,408 times. It was perhaps funny the first two thousand times he heard it, but evidently it has worn thin. Is it my fault that he works in an industry with limited material to pull jokes from?
So the flotation tank experience was amazing, and one that I must repeat soon. And the best part is that I did not, at any point, turn into a monkey. But I am typing this with my feet right now.

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The weirdest thing happened to me at work last Friday. The administrative assistant for the marketing department came by my desk with an envelope, handed it to me, and walked away without saying a word. When I opened it up, I saw that it was a check from the company written out to me.

I saw that all my co-workers also had similar envelopes in their hands, so I leaned over to my neighbor’s cube and asked what this was all about.

“It’s Friday. You know – payday.”

Payday? I explained to my colleague that I had been out of the workforce for a while, so I wasn’t quite sure how everything worked. After I assured her that I was serious, she kindly explained the procedure for me. Apparently, we come to work every day and do stuff, say stuff, write stuff, and then after two weeks of that routine, the company sends us money.

But that’s not even the best part! I hope you’re sitting down, because the rumor going around the office is that in another two weeks, they’re going to send us more money! I promise you I’m not making this up.

I swear, I’m just waiting for that bald guy from Candid Camera to pop out of the supply closet and let me in on the prank. But my co-workers assure me that it’s no joke, or if it is, it’s been going on for 30 years with still no punch line.

Then, later that day when I was in the elevator, a woman was telling this other woman about a trip she took to Hawaii for two weeks. I couldn’t help but chime in by saying that I was so impressed that her boss would allow her to take time off during the week. Then she told me the strangest thing. She said, “Well, he doesn’t have much choice. I’ve been here so long that I get six weeks of vacation a year. Gotta take it sometime!”

I guess there’s this thing called “vacation pay” where the company actually gives you money to NOT work for a couple of weeks during the year. I know it sounds absolutely insane, but at least three different people told me the same story. All I can say is that I feel like I hit the jackpot with this company!

I’ll let you all know if the company actually sends me more money in two weeks. I mean, can you imagine? Well, I guess I should get going – I have some forms to fill out for something called a “corporate benefits plan.”

Let’s see here… medical, dental, vision… what the? You mean to tell me the company pays for most of my benefits? I don’t have to worship at the altar of COBRA, evil goddess of healthcare, anymore?

Ohmigod. Somebody pinch me!

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Picture this: October 7th, 72˚ and sunny, slight breeze, one of the last nice days before the brutal Midwestern winter takes hold. Before I head back into the office after lunch, I decide to collect my thoughts while leaning on the railing and looking out at the crystal brown waters of the Chicago River.
Over to my right, I notice three nice looking young professional men – probably in their late twenties or early thirties – who seem to be enjoying this setting as much as I am right now. As I’m watching one of the last sightseeing boats of the season cruise by, my peaceful afternoon is disrupted by a horrific sound. It’s the unmistakable sound of someone “hawking” and then spitting into the water.
I don’t turn to see where the sound came from, because I already know. Okay, maybe he has a cold. This behavior is still unacceptable, but I’ll excuse it just this once.
Then I hear laughter, more hawking from multiple sources, and more spitting.
All three of these grown men wearing important ID badges and dress pants and ties are spending the last ten minutes of their lunch hour watching each other spit over the railing. I try to ignore them and am fairly successful until I hear one of them say, “Dude! See if you can hit that duck!”
I look down and, to my horror, see an innocent tiny brown duck desperately paddling her way toward our side of the river. Turn back now, little duck! Turn back!
This is not possible. I cannot be standing next to three men who probably have MBA’s from fancy colleges and who earn $100k a year at their financial services company and who have important jobs where people call them boss and who are currently having a contest to see who can spit on a duck.
But alas, ‘tis true. I leave before they succeed in hitting their target, but not before shooting them all the dirtiest “What in god’s name is wrong with you pathetic losers?” look, as well as slipping them a minor Sicilian curse as I walk by. Their tongues should be swelling up. Right. About. Now.
This is an alarming trend – look around you – people are spitting at an unprecedented rate. And it’s now an equal opportunity filthy habit: I see men, women, children, grandparents – all spitting their way through the day.
What is wrong with these people? Either learn how to swallow, or get that post nasal drip problem looked at by an expert, pronto! You’re making me sick, people!
I’m only days away from calling in some favors and forming an anti-spitting vigilante street gang. You do not want to mess around with my homies. They catch you spitting and not only will they politely ask that you wipe it up with an anti-bacterial handiwipe which they will provide free of charge, but they will also give you a plastic bib that says, “I’m a big drooling baby. Spank me.” Wearing the bib is a totally voluntary thing, but you should see the look on people’s faces when we hand it to them. You can totally see that they feel ashamed right before they throw the bib on the ground and spit on it.
Okay, so I didn’t say that these were tough vigilantes, but cut me some slack. I’m a tap dancing cat owner from a small town in Wisconsin. Exactly what kind of favors did you think I could call in?

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Just when I was ready to retire Ask the Professor, I received a package that, like all good mail, both intrigued and disturbed me. It was an unmarked brown padded envelope that contained a small voodoo doll, complete with pins and an instruction booklet.

Also enclosed was a typewritten letter with the following request for Professor Plum (Note: I had to edit the letter because it rambled on for two pages, named names, and was clearly the product of a slightly unstable individual):

Dear Professor Plum:

I left a very unpleasant work environment earlier this year, and although I have come to terms with my anger through meditation and aromatherapy, several of my co-workers who also left have not been able to overcome their feelings of hatred toward our former employer. I want to help them out, but I’m not sure of the best way to do that.

I came across this voodoo kit and am wondering if you think it would be a healthy way for them to deal with the anger they feel. I would hate to inadvertently contribute to the rage they already harbor. I have enclosed a sample kit so that you can get a real feel for what they would be using. I look forward to your response.

- Wanting to Help, Cambridge, MA

Dear Wanting to Help –

Although mildly disturbed by the fact that you somehow discovered my home address, I am glad that you decided to write in. But before I get to the question of your former coworkers, I want to back up a bit. Although you say that you have come to terms with your anger, the fact that you’re sending voodoo dolls to strangers tells me that you might have a little self-exploration to do.

As you know, I have a PhD in jobology, not to mention over 48 years of management experience. So with that sort of résumé, you didn’t really think I would fall for the, “my friend has a problem” routine, did you? Let’s just call a spade a spade: by “friend,” you mean you; by “meditation,” you mean vodka-induced blackouts; and by “aromatherapy,” you mean recreational drugs. Am I right?

Look, I’m here to help, but don’t yank my chain. Professor Plum has been around the block a few times in her day.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, you definitely came to the right person with this problem. So you want to relieve some of your pent up rage by stabbing sharp pins into an effigy of your old boss. But you’re also afraid that if you allow yourself to actually focus some of these violent emotions outward into the universe, they may consume your life, and you might end up on the ten o’clock news wearing fatigues and camped out in a clock tower somewhere near Lubbock, TX. Sound pretty close?

Well let me calm those fears once and for all. There is no better way to deal with rage – particularly corporate rage – than to release it out onto others. Keeping anger deep inside you is highly counterproductive and can be very damaging to the stomach lining. Once you let it out, a sense of peace and resolve will immediately pass over you. Trust me on this one.

So in short, releasing your anger is good, but I’m not sure you’ve got the right tools for the task at hand. In the immortal words of former president Ben Franklin, “A job worth doing is worth doing right.” Anyone smart enough to discover electrolysis is smart enough to dish out job advice, I always say. So if you are going to open up your hate valves, which, incidentally, are located slightly below your pituitary glands, you need to have the right tools. And trust me, no mass-produced voodoo kit made by Hasbro is going to do the job.

I’m not saying that I have any first-hand experience in this area, but I guess if I wanted to make my former boss feel some of the pain he/she inflicted upon me for so many years, I might first book a ticket to New Orleans under an assumed name. Then I might go to a taxidermist at 167 Bourbon Street. Once I found the shop, I might want to wander over to the back entrance, knock on the door four times quickly, and say “I’m here to have my gator stuffed” to the woman who answered the door. Her name might be Madame LeChevre. If you happen to have a lock of your former boss’ hair, I’d suggest bringing it along. For a small fee, my guess is that Madame LeChevre might be inclined to stitch you up a real special voodoo doll that could actually do some damage.

That’s just something I might try if I were you. Hope all works out well for “your friends” – I’ll be waiting on pins and needles to hear the outcome. Pins and needles! Get it? And to think I almost retired!

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I’m really getting worried about my roommate, Judy. She’s just not herself lately. She’s moody, constantly yelling at me, never wants to hang out anymore. I was talking to her brother the other day and he said that she’s been really weird with him as well. Apparently they used to get along really well, but now he said it seems like he can’t do anything right around her.
She’s been sleeping all day, pacing around the apartment at night. I just don’t know what’s going on. The scariest thing is that I’ve caught her throwing up in the bathroom a couple of times. And once she just threw up right in the living room in front of me.
I think Judy might be bulimic.
Oh yeah, did I mention? Judy’s a cat. She’s Siamese, a breed known for its slender physique, but I think maybe she has been taking the pursuit of a perfect 10 body a little too far.
I know that I’m at least partly to blame. Ever since I started working again, I haven’t had much time for her. I’m sure she’s tried to talk to me about her problems, but I was too busy watching Survivor or reading blogs to listen. And it probably doesn’t help that there have been so many extreme makeover type shows on TV. After a while, even a trim feline like Judy is bound to develop self-esteem issues.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have bought that 2004 Cat Fancy Desk Calendar. I like to look at pictures of cats wearing sunglasses – I mean, who doesn’t? – but I never thought about the impact it might have on my own cats. What kind of message am I sending them when I make such a big fuss over a bunch of airbrushed pictures of cats I don’t even know, all gussied up and hamming for the camera? God, what have I done?!
I probably wouldn’t have even found out about her disease if I hadn’t walked in on Judy in mid-binge. On Sunday night, I heard a strange rustling coming from the kitchen, and when I went to see what all the ruckus was about, I saw Judy’s slender tail sticking out of the cupboard. As I went over to get a closer look, I found her in the middle of eating almost an entire box of pumpkin shaped Halloween marshmallow Peeps. An entire box! I didn’t even get to try them yet! I’ve never even tasted the pumpkin shaped ones before! I had just cut open the plastic wrap a few hours earlier to let them dry out a little (that’s the way I like them).
She turned around as soon as she heard me screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Not my Peeeeeeeeeeps!!”
Judy tried to act nonchalant, but her face said it all – orange marshmallow sticking to her whiskers, blue-eyed guilt at being caught in the act. The one thing I’ve always read about bulimics is that the binge and purge cycle causes a great deal of shame, which throws them into a deeper depression, further fueling the disease.
I cannot let Judy spiral downward any further than she already has. So as soon as this year is over, I’m going to throw out my 2004 Cat Fancy calendar. But maybe I’ll just keep the June picture as a motivational tool for all three of us. I think we all have a little healing to do, and this may just give us the inspiration we need.
Oh, June. I don’t know if I could have made it through all my months of unemployment if it hadn’t been for him. Every time I felt like I couldn’t go on, I’d just flip open that calendar to June, and somehow I just knew that everything was going to be all right. I mean, if that little guy can make it, then there’s hope for us all. Don’t you give up, little buddy! Hang in there!

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Fall.
New job.
New attitude.
New hair color.
New tap dance class.
My friend, Doubting Seamus, was eagerly anticipating the start of the next tap class so that he could ridicule Natasha and me when we didn’t sign up. After he dropped out, and Nat and I decided to take a brief hiatus from tapping, Seamus was positive that we would never return. He just didn’t believe in himself and his manliness enough to stick it out for another session, and he wanted to bring us down with him.
I’m not angry, though. I pity him. It saddens me to see such raw talent as his go untapped, so to speak. But as countless episodes of Dr. Phil have taught me, you have to want to be helped before you can accept assistance from anyone. Once he has seen the error of his ways, Nat and I will be there to help him with his Maxie Ford combinations.
But getting back to the first tap class – Nat and I were a little hesitant going in because we never told Teacher we were taking a break. We weren’t sure what kind of reception we would receive.
Would she snub us?
Would she welcome us?
Would she remember us?
As we cautiously entered the studio, dusty shoes in hand, we were pleased to see several familiar faces. And when Teacher came in, her usual fifteen minutes late, she greeted us both with a huge smile and a, “Hey! They’re back!”
Everything was going to be just fine.
In addition to the four or five “regulars,” there were also about five new students in the class. Gosh. It seems like just yesterday that I was one of those awkward, needy Tap I graduates, trying to keep time with all the Tap II pros.
We started out with the usual tap bar exercises to warm up our ankles. Then, Teacher surprised us by diving right into some much more advanced moves.
Single double time step.
Double triple time step.
Soft shoe essence with break.
Grapevine combination.
Nat and I actually surprised ourselves by effortlessly falling back into these routines we hadn’t practiced for two months. Hey! It really is just as easy as riding a log. Or falling off a bike.
Teacher could see that some of the newbies were struggling, so she asked Nat and me to switch places with them so they were closer to her. Then, Teacher asked me to step in front of the class and demonstrate a few different steps while she went to her car to get some more CD’s.
“See how Jenny does the military cramp rolls? She’s not dragging her feet – watch her ankles. Good! Good!”
This positive reinforcement and unexpected position of authority triggered something inside me. Suddenly, I was drunk with power. As soon as she walked out the door, I grabbed Teacher’s cane and started pounding out the rhythm on the floor.
“Come on people! With the beat! You sound like a herd of elephant right now!”
The newbies alternately stared at the floor, and at my feet, which were just a blaze of shuffles and flaps. They were intimidated and intrigued all at once.
“New girl! Yes, you in the back! Look. If you can’t tell the difference between a shim-sham and a flim-flam, I hear there’s still room in Tap I! This is embarrassing! The holiday pageant is coming up in less than eight weeks and not one of you knows the ‘Happy Feet’ routine yet! I hope you like disappointing orphans and senior citizens!”
Just as I was about to have them all drop and give me twenty, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror:
My knuckles, white from clenching Teacher’s cane.
Little spit bubbles forming in the corners of my mouth.
My eyes tightened and wrinkled with frustration.
The thick veins bulging from my forehead.
Oh god. I’m her. I’ve become that girl. I am Midge. The most hated of all tap students. What have I done?
So right there, in the middle of a flawless Cincinnati, I dropped the cane, grabbed my bag, and ran out of the studio. I’m not sure how Nat made it home that night since I drove, but I had to get out of there to collect my thoughts and lower my blood pressure.
I’m still planning on going back this week, but this time, I’m going to lay low. Teacher’s going to have to burden someone else with the job of demonstrating for the class. I clearly cannot be trusted with such a huge responsibility. At least not until I make it to Tap III.

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