Getting Through my Funk
Of course, I have felt sad before. But, this time I'm not talking about the heart broken or grieving kind of sad; I mean more of the "why?" kind of sad where you don't quite feel pity for others or yourself but you do sense a general disappointment with human kind and the state of the world. Although, again, this disappointment isn't the despairing kind like when pedophiles get out of jail or you watch too much true crime programming on A&E, but more of that upset that leaves you not knowing whether to laugh or cry.Let's review a few examples: I felt this kind of sad when I learned that a woman in Alabama had taken up a wandering, elderly stranger on his offer of a free home mammogram with no reservations or "red flags" going up. (It was her neighbor who suspected something was amiss and called the police, not her.) I sense it whenever I realize that "The Girls Gone Wild" guy will receive a check next week that amounts to far more money than I can ever hope to make in my lifetime. Having to sell fake hair at a mall kiosk, Donny Osmond's success, and the sign I saw at UAB advertising a "yart sale" cause this sensation as well.And, I've felt old before. There was the day one of my 7th grade students asked if I was the mother of another 7th grader. (I was 23.) There was the time I mentioned to the college freshmen I taught that I couldn't believe they actually made a sequel to that stellar Jennifer Lopez vehicle "Anaconda," and they stared at me blankly because they had no idea "Anacondas" could have a predecessor. There was even the time I asked a bartender if she wanted to see my id, and she said, "No, I can see your face." And, none of this touches on the fact that I regularly visit yarn stores, usually can't stay out for both nights of a bachelorette weekend, and have to order decaf coffee past 4 in the afternoon because otherwise "I'll be up all night."So, the other night when I couldn't sleep (probably because someone slipped me some caffeine when I specifically requested otherwise...), I watched "The Girls Next Door" about Hugh Hefner's 3 girlfriends. It was quite entertaining, especially when Holly, the main girlfriend, complained that she didn't like "Casablanca" as a love story because Ingrid Bergman's character "couldn't make up her mind."Oh, Holly...Well, in light of that comment and other zaniness, I did some internet searching the next day to learn more about the show and "the girls."And, that's when I started to feel both old and sad at the same time.You see, I am older than 2 of Hugh Hefner's girlfriends. Yes, not 1, but 2. In fact, Kendra, the self-proclaimed "most ghetto" of the 3 (she gets her grill next week, don't miss it!), was actually born in 1985.1985...Old and sad are definitely appropriate tags for my emotions.Of course, this is only a bit of what women have felt for centuries about aging and the double standard of male/female dynamics, but I will tell you that I might be changing my tune about botox in the very near future - especially if Jamie Lynn Spears shows up in an MTV video anytime soon.
Evolution
More on Reality TV
Late Saturday night/Sunday morning, I finally discovered "Project Runway" for myself. I don't know what took me so long to jump on the Heidi Klum bandwagon, but at least I'm there now. And, in light of my new discovery, I have to share my favorite moments from the last episode.For those of you who missed it, the designers were tasked with creating a woman's wear outfit primarily based around a "story" and a dog that was considered not only another entity to design for but also an accessory. (I use "story" incredibly loosely because while Heidi insisted each designer craft a tale around their outfit, as an English major and creative writing person, I think something was lost in the German to English translation.)At the end of the program, each designer unveiled their human and dog outfits while Heidi, Vera Wang, that lady from Elle magazine, and Ivanka Trump took note.The winner was a lovely blonde girl whose name I don't know. She designed a very pretty patterned halter dress with great accessories, including a chunky necklace and jacket. I take no issue with her outfit. My problem arose when Heidi asked for her "story."Lovely blonde aspiring designer said something like, "You know, she's a fabulous girl. She's very hip. And she's on her way to lunch with her other fabulous girlfriends before they all go out to have lots of fun and live the rest of their fabulous lives."Is this really a story? Really? If so, I'd like to know the plot. I'd also like to know the beginning, middle, and end. (Other than, of course, being on her way to lunch, lunching, and then drinking after lunch.) It seems to me that it would be much more appropriate to call this a "description" rather than a "story." Where's the twist? Where's the character development? What changes from the beginning to the end?But, my favorite part was when Ivanka Trump chimed in with, "You know, I really love this outfit. I would wear it. But, what really gets me is the story. I find it so easy to relate to."And, there you have it people - Ivanka Trump relates to ladies who lunch. When will the audacious revelations stop? Who knew "Project Runway" had so much to show the world? (And, by "the world," I mean the audience of Bravo network which is primarily composed of stylish gay men, various metrosexuals, and those of us who love James Lipton - basically, half the population of Remlap, Alabama.)(Also, as another side note, I once took a class with Ivanka Trump while she was at Georgetown, before she transferred to the University of Pennsylvania. The class was "Social Inequality." I don't think there's any need to make a joke when the truth is so rich.)Well, lovely blonde girl won the challenge while Angela (who is distinguished by having lots of brown hair and small glasses) and another designer were revealed to have the 2 worst scores.Angela is my least favorite of the designers, mainly because of her attitude, and when asked about her story, she said something along the lines of, "I was thinking of a British headmaster who runs an art camp in Paris."Huh?!?!First of all, if you're going to give a character a particular nationality, there needs to be a reason. Deciding you're going to have a British headmaster only to place her in Paris makes absolutely no sense. And, why would a headmaster be teaching an art camp? Isn't she more of an administrator than a watercolor instructor? (While this may seem silly, I fully believe that all stories should have relatively reasonable explanations for actions and turns of events. I don't appreciate it when a writer in a fiction workshop comes up with a 15 page short story about a child who runs away from home, encounters a clown who wants to rob banks, meets a vagabond former lawyer who talks to her about going back to school, and ends up living with a mechanic above a bakery, so why would I enjoy Angela's nonsensical description?)I also have a point of contention in the fact that Angela's supposed "British schoolmaster" outfit involved fishnet stockings, a bunched mini skirt, and a cleavage-bearing, low cut, silver top.Here's where I completely agree with Ivanka: I have no idea how Angela crafted a "story" about a British teacher that ended up with clothing that looked much more appropriate for a "street-walker."But, still, even after last week's poor team performance, Angela was "in" while other designer was the one to be "out." Then again, maybe Heidi knew what she was doing. Now, I have to tune in this week not only to see who completely broke the "Project Runway" rules, but also to hope that Angela gets the boot. (No pun intended.)
* Laurel Goes Super High Tech! *
First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who reads my blog, recommends my blog to friends, and keeps coming back to this site. I really appreciate your support.And, in the interest of making it easier to read my daily rantings, I have recently added a subscription option. That's right - you can now have my posts delivered directly to your inbox without having to worry about all that excessive web surfing. (Of course, if you're still hoping to go on disability for some nasty carpal tunnel syndrome, by all means, click away.) All you have to do is enter your e-mail address in the box just below the archives on the right hand side, and you'll never have to be without Laurel. (Except of course for the weekends, I do have a life after all - and, yes, constant Lifetime viewing counts as a life. I checked the Jaclyn Smith fan message boards.)So, thanks again, and please don't be shy about getting those subscriptions!
Public Transportation & Me
I know that I've been silly, that I've been living in denial all these years. What can I say? Hope springs eternal, even for a cynic like me. But, I know that I should have accepted certain consistent turns of fate long ago. Mainly:(a) I should never envision what I want to buy before I go out shopping because the mere act of mentally conjuring up what I want ensures that I will never find it,(b) checks will never arrive on or before the day that they are promised, so paying bills from said checks will only end in overdraft fees,(c) if I wait over an hour for a table at a restaurant, they will long since have sold out of the only dish I wanted to order, and, last but not least,(d) if there is a crazy person on a system of mass transit, he's going to sit next to me.And, as it so happens, as I boarded the bus from Damen to North and Clyburn on Friday afternoon - crazy found me and made himself at home. (If I were more interested in the horror genre, wouldn't Stephen King be so jealous of my set up? Him or Forrest Whitaker and "The New Twilight Zone"? I know "a bus ride with crazy" is a better premise than Jessica Simpson being turned into a doll by the anti-social kid she babysits.)Anyway, I should have known that something was wrong because within a minute of sitting down, I noticed that the man next to me started squirming in his seat, moving his shoulders up and down, and poking at me. When I turned to look at him, he stepped up his act and made a face. That's when I got that he thought I was crowding him in his seat. (This was ridiculous because (a) no one gets ample room on a city bus during rush hour and (b) as a fully grown man he had at least 40 pounds on me.) But, I was considerate; I pulled my bag closer to my chest and tried to scooch over. (Of course, I also pulled my bag to my chest in case he was one of those "uses his elbow to grope women's boobs on the bus/subway" kind of guys. After all, I watch Dateline. I know what's up.)Then, the standard warning came over the loudspeaker that any suspicious or unattended packages should be reported to the transit authorities immediately, and man next to me added, loudly, "Packages...Terrorists."It was uncalled for, but maybe he thought it was informative for others on the bus. At this point, I was willing to dismiss him as persnickety, but maybe not "crazy."At the next stop, a woman boarded in a bright yellow sun dress, and the man sitting next to me looked her straight in the eye and said, "Canary." I don't know if it was a comment on the color. I don't know if he was telling her she looked like a yellow songbird. I don't know if he was just trying to give his tongue a workout. With it only being the 1 word comment, it's hard to tell, but the woman smiled politely before nearly sprinting to the back of the bus.Little did I know that she was the lucky one.When the next passenger got on, my favorite bus buddy looked at her and said, "Blue hair...I hate f***ing vampires."Now, I could have been bothered by the hostility in his voice. Or, I could have been upset because he couldn't look past the superficial in a lovely young woman obviously still trying to find herself in the world. I could have even been bothered by the cursing.But, sadly, none of these are what really got me. As a dork and big fan of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," it was the complete lack of logic in his correlation that got on my nerves. (Anyone who might be tempted to point out my use of "logic" and "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" in the same sentence obviously does not accept/love the "fun" contradictions that comprise quirky little old me.) Nowhere in the vampire legend is blue hair connected specifically with vampires. Pale skin because they can't handle sunlight? Yes. Fangs, an inability to have a reflection in a mirror, having to sleep in soil from their homeland, eternal life, an aversion to garlic and holy water, wooden stake issues, etc.? Of course. I would even accept a comment based on modern perceptions of vampires like black hair, dark clothes, capes, and bat necklaces. But, I must stand firm on the blue hair. It's just not there.Unfortunately, when I was well into minute 5 of this thought process and thinking about actually saying something to my fellow CTA rider about his inaccuracy, I realized that I might need to re-evaluate who was the "crazy" in this scenario.
A Night Out
Last night I attended an open mike poetry event. But, it wasn't quite like the poetry readings I'm accustomed to as an English grad student. Most people were either comics working on new material or "poets" that were big into enunciation, rhythm, and bashing their ex-girlfriends for 3 minutes before getting a tad weepy and too introspective towards the end of their "Karen was a Filthy Whore" work in 16 parts, 14 of which include references to Karen's new boyfriend - the overly muscled Neanderthal who doesn't appreciate the subtleties of Albert Camus.I felt a little like I was in the much too serious version of "So I Married an Axe Murderer," and I did have to debate whether or not I was supposed to clap or click my fingers thrice in the air at the end of each performance. (Clapping prevailed, and I only made it through about 3 performances anyway. After something that ended "become, becoming, becoming again, lest we become" while the poet drew his hands in front of him like he was praying, I retreated to my mental happy place where Hugh Laurie entertains me on the beach with his oh-so-dry British wit and oh-so-tasty daiquiris.)But, my point is this - after listening to multiple men complain about the fact that their girlfriends left them for the aforementioned Neanderthals, I was wholeheartedly on the side of the exes. I started to imagine poet after poet writing little poems for their beloved or getting weepy when things were just overwhelmingly beautiful. I could even see knowing that your boyfriend was going to go whine in a bar with badly written verse every time you had an argument, and I felt smothered just sitting there.This is how I imagine month 4:"Yeah, yeah, it's a great poem. No, I really love you too. Yeah...I love you with all my soul and all. And, I'm sorry that your boss didn't understand your creative genius. Maybe next time you should just do the spreadsheet like he asked you to...No, I agree that consumer-based American culture can be like a stranglehold. No, this isn't the world Thoreau imagined...I already told you I liked the poem that you sent me...Yes, I love you completely...No, I think your sensitivity is attractive, I really do. I would never dump you for my personal trainer...Yes, the sunset was particularly beautiful today, but, no, I didn't cry when I looked at it....OH DEAR GOD, COULD YOU JUST SHUT UP FOR A FREAKIN' MINUTE SO I COULD WATCH SOME FREAKIN' 'LAW & ORDER,' AND NO I DON'T WANT YOU TO JUST HOLD ME WHILE WE WATCH THE RAIN - JERRY ORBACH IS TALKING!"Maybe I'm not like most girls, but I'd take the overly muscled Neanderthal if it was an (a) or (b) option.
Please Don't Disturb the Natives
Well, as I have always suspected, I should never worry about running out of ways to embarrass myself in front of strangers.Yesterday afternoon there was a knock at my door. I found this odd because I don't really know anyone in Chicago, and the few people who have been invited to my humble abode have "real" jobs and don't usually have time for lengthy visits in the middle of the day. (At least, this is what they tell me whenever I make too long phone calls to share the idiocy I saw on "Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency" or what I learned from Dr. Phil about internet dating.) Plus, who of a relatively sane nature would take those stairs for any purpose, let alone in an attempt to sell me Cutco knives or talk about the lord?When I checked the peephole, I realized that one of my worst fears had come true. (By the use of "worst fear" I am obviously exaggerating since "fears" is a very long list that includes plane crashes, the dentist, tall places without adequate fencing and/or walls, and having to watch "Vanilla Sky" again.) A few weeks ago, a note was stuck in my door explaining that since my lease had not been renewed for the next year, the leasing company might be showing people around the apartment whenever they felt like it. And, yesterday was that demonstrative day.I yelled out "just a minute" so that I could take a few moments to pull a sweatshirt on and wipe some of the more obvious dirt off the floor.Unfortunately, I didn't really have time to change out of my pajamas, wipe the crusted food from the corners of my mouth (because I may have been eating over the sink when said knock occurred), turn off my Lifetime movie, make the bed (again with the semantics, "bed" is actually an exaggeration of air mattress), wash the dishes, get the clothes off the bathroom floor, or swiffer.All of which are tasks that are probably normally accomplished before 3:00 in the afternoon.And, when you add my very excited dog to the mix, you end up with the shortest apartment tour on record. Last time I checked, girls with pointy boots pulled over their skinny jeans just to check out apartments have higher expectations than my more "relaxed" standard of living.Thus: my living quarters + strangers on a tour = Laurel's sufficient embarrassment for the week. (And some have said that math isn't my strong suit...)(Also, as a side note, of the 20 second tour, I did catch the leasing guy saying, "What's really nice about this unit is the balcony." I can't speak to Chicago rental norms, but the last time I checked a small jutting out from the window does not a balcony make. If you can't even open a folding chair on it, it's not a balcony. If there's only room for a house plant, it's certainly not a balcony. And, putting sliding doors there instead of picture window isn't fooling anybody.)
Heat Wave
I thought it was hot in Alabama. I really did. And, I don't think that there are many people who would argue with me on the point of whether or not it is indeed hot in Alabama. After all, I believe our seasons are best organized as: winter (6 weeks), spring (3 weeks sure to be full of early tornadoes), summer (months and months on end), and football (could offer any combination of the previous 3).Therefore, I'm having a hard time believing how hot I am in Chicago. At the end of every day, I'm pretty sure that I smell. And, I find some rather unattractive spots in conspicuous areas on my shirts.And, while the heat is nasty, what really bothers me about this weather has nothing to do with physical discomfort or general stickiness - it's an issue of pride.After all, if growing up in Alabama has given me anything, shouldn't it be an ability to withstand heat? And, shouldn't I be able to brag about the fact that I can take all that summer has to offer with no real consequences? (Admittedly, the one time I did boast of my ability to handle heat and mocked my Northern friends during my freshman year at Duke, I ended up being treated by a student EMT for heat stroke at a football game while they were fine, but bygones.) For all the redneck jokes I have endured and all the questions about whether or not my parents are cousins, shouldn't I at least have some sort of raw physical edge when it gets unbearably hot? Where is evolution and acclimation when you need it?But, alas, I cannot stroll through the streets of Chicago unmarked by sweat or heat while those around me scurry for air-conditioned cover and wipe their brows.Because of this, I must accept that no will be admiring my remarkably fresh presence in the city. And, growing up in Alabama might just have given me a love of fried foods and knowledge of all the words to "Friends in Low Places."Oh well. I guess I'll take what I can get. At least I didn't grow up with 6 months of darkness or anything.
Mondays
Years ago, when I was living in an "up and coming neighborhood" in Washington, D.C., my friend, Susan, was the first of my Alabama compatriots to pay me a visit. My house was a brand new federal-style townhouse, but it was also the first part of the neighborhood to be built up, so the surroundings were less than ideal. (I was just a tad accustomed to seeing crime scene tape on a semi-regular basis by the time I moved out.)Susan insisted on taking the subway, and since the stop was only 1 block from my house, I assumed that everything would be fine. (As a side note, I can't get used to saying "the el." I still want to say "metro" every time I talk about the train in Chicago. Why in the world does every city have to call their public transportation something different? I think it's odd. But, I guess it could be worse - I could be referring to Marta.)Anyway, about an hour after we talked, Susan still hadn't knocked on my door. Truthfully, knowing Susan, this wasn't that big of a surprise, and I didn't think much of it. (I add 45 minutes to all of Susan's eta's.) My roommate and I went out on our balcony and waited.And, about thirty minutes later, I saw her. There was Susan - wandering, dazed and a bit tilted to one side, down the alley behind my house. I called out to her, ran around to bring her inside the house, and then asked why she was walking behind all of the houses rather than coming through the manicured courtyard to the front door.She turned her eyes to me in something that I would call a "look of death."Susan then explained that she was lucky to even be there. Apparently, in the 1 block from the metro station to my house, Susan had been accosted by a man who wanted to sell her a dead pigeon wrapped in newspaper (Susan offered him double his asking price not to make her take the pigeon), and had a discarded shoe chucked at the back of her head by a homeless man (he missed.)In short, she was not pleased and thought I should pack my things and move out with her that night. But, instead we went to a bar, and all was smoothed over. (This tends to happen once Susan and I find a bar.) And, now Susan and I like to reference that night whenever there's a need for an "it could be worse" comment.So, as you sit at your desk today, thinking that the whole work week is ahead of you, ask yourself this one little question, "Is there a dead pigeon?"And, if the answer is "no," keep your hope alive.If, for some very odd reason, your answer is "yes," you'll have to fall back on the nearly foolproof, "Is there a shoe that probably spent at least 2 weeks in a city gutter flying at my head?"
TV Nostalgia
Since I have recently become reacquainted with some of the shows I used to love, I decided to make a list of some of the old sitcom standards I used to absolutely eat up:1. The clueless character from a nutty townSure, not-so-bright or spacy characters are still found all over television (as in Joey from "Friends"), but they don't seem to come from strange towns with their own bizarre sets of norms and customs anymore. Remember Woody Boyd from Hanover, Indiana on "Cheers"? The place that once voted Woody the "smartest student"? And, of course, Rose Nylund from St. Olaf, Minnesota? Does anyone else remember the episode where Blanche discovers Rose's St. Olaf war bonds and wants to cash them in? Rose pleads with her not to do it because it will bankrupt the town, and just as Blanche shreds the bonds, Rose tells her that St. Olaf is so grateful to Blanche that they're going to put a statue of her in the town square with money from the $500,000 emergency statue fund. Pure comedy.2. The cross-over / spin offThe women of "Golden Girls" lived down the street from Dr. Harry Weston of "Empty Nest." Sophia even kept Dr. Weston's dog when he was away. And, then, the hospital where Dr. Weston worked became the setting of "Nurses" and at one point starred a recently divorced Loni Anderson. "Growing Pains" spawned "Just the Ten of Us" by introducing Coach Lubbock. (I used to make my friends play "Just the Ten of Us" all the time with each of us choosing a character from the 4 older girls, Connie, Wendy, Cindy, and Marie.) "Who's the Boss?" gave us a young Leah Remini who moved to New York for "Living Dolls." "Diff'rent Strokes" gave us "The Facts of Life." Not since a hunky carpenter named Jake went from building a platform over the pool for Jackie Taylor's wedding to Mel Silver to living in an apartment building called "Melrose Place" have we truly seen a great spin-off. (This seems to keep coming up, but I prefer my spin-offs cheesy. I leave "Frasier" off my list, and for completely separate reasons, I'm also leaving "Joey" untouched.)3. The over-sexed oneI guess that a product of the openness of the 90's means that we can no longer have the truly over-sexed character. Remember when female characters were expected to be virgins when they got married? Tootie on "The Facts of Life"? Denise from "The Cosby Show"? And, the spectrum allowed its opposite: Mona of "Who's the Boss?" (whose constant cracks about Angela being flat used to amuse me to no end), the indomitable Blanche Devereaux, and Sue Anne Nivens of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," among others.Anyway, I just wanted to take a little walk down memory lane. Every time I accidentally end up watching something like "Four Kings" or "Home Improvement," I can't help but wish for the good old days.
A Site Worth Checking Out
Having hit a writer's block of sorts, I thought I would let you all know about something I enjoy greatly, but you might not have heard of:You can actually buy the TLC-advertised "Life Lessons" figurines at the Discovery Channel online store. (Now, I realize that some of you may be like a very dear friend of mine who had to stop watching The Learning Channel because she was worried she would never have children of her own after watching women climb naked into kiddie pools of warm water while their friends watch them give birth bent over on all fours on "A Baby Story." This is thoroughly understandable, but I promise there is a reason to give TLC another chance.) The figurines look like so many collectibles you could find at Hallmark or Kirkland's, but include truisms like "Merlot and e-mail don't mix," "Dating is awkward but so is becoming the crazy cat lady," and "Nothing can ruin a career faster than an office party."Enjoy: www.tlc.com
A Brief Note to my Leasing Company
Dear DemingOne, LLC:Don't get me wrong; I truly appreciate all that you have done to improve the standard of living in my apartment building. (Especially the central air.) My large picture window gives me a lovely view of the condo building across the street, and Lord knows I love the cable. I imagine that it's not easy to take a building that was constructed sometime during the Depression and make it worthy of a four-figure rent in the new millennium.And, while I also enjoy my exposed brick and hardwood floors, I can't help but wonder if there might have been better uses for your renovation budget. Yes, it's true that flooring and better walls improve the aesthetic of a home. (Although, I will admit that I still don't understand the "hipster" quotient of providing exposed air ducts. The large silver tubes that run across my ceiling just seem a bit lazy - especially the one that still bears the price tag from the warehouse.) But, my apartment is pretty, so bygones.However, with all of the funds that you obviously had to go into the building (those washers and dryers are quite state of the art), I can't help but wonder about one tiny thing - why in the world didn't you think about an ELEVATOR? Seriously, elevators are great. Not only are there bright, big buttons that you can push, but they also offer this crazy element of convenience that people the world over tend to be incredibly grateful for. Has anyone ever asked to walk to the top of the Sears Tower? When you're showing potential renters around, do they commonly ask whether in lieu of a workout facility there might be an obstacle to their homestead? Has Grandma ever said that she needs to waste 30 more minutes before her stories are on so it would be just great to encounter a flight of stairs before going back home?I think the answer to all of these question is "no." (Unless, of course, we're talking about sadists. I can't speak for the sadists.)The other night when I came home from IKEA with my new Swedish furniture choices, I literally felt my heart beating out my chest after climbing the 4 stories to my apartment again and again. And, when I came back from Target with a new Swiffer Sweeper Vac, I again worried about a premature, full-on body collapse. And, those are the somewhat extreme examples that don't even go into the daily routine wherein my dog beats me up 2 flights of stairs because I simply don't think I can go on anymore.In short, I love elevators. I think most people do. And, if I were to bet on a way to really compete in Chicago's tough rental market, I'd scratch the "cool" decorating for a well-run metal box that goes from floor to floor.Your truly,Laurel MillsP.S. Please don't take away my cable because I dared to speak my mind. If nothing else, my silence can be bought for a song (and by "a song," I mean cable.) Just keep me posted.
Summer in the City
Last week, I finally found my sunglasses. I’m still not sure how I lost them, since I was wearing them for 12 hours on the drive up to Chicago and then had them on my head for another 6 hours afterwards, but I did. I lost my sunglasses, which are more like an extension of my face, in an apartment that has nothing more than my clothes, some toiletries, and an air mattress.I’m special that way.Anyway, I was so glad to have my sunglasses back, because without them I was wandering around the city of Chicago without my veil of anonymity.As I explained to my friend, Sarah, I was also really excited because without my sunglasses, I felt like I had to smile at everyone I saw on the street.Sarah kindly shook her head and laughed at me, because, as she said, "People don’t do that in the city."I guess even Southern hospitality has its limits.However, what I’m more embarrassed about is that it’s not just that I felt like I had to smile at people on the street. You see, something about having that awkward moment of eye contact and smiling on the street causes me to say "hey" or "how are you doing" when in fact I don’t really want to engage this stranger in conversation, so it really isn’t an out loud "hello" but more of an under-my-breath, I might be schizophrenic or a panhandler kind of greeting.So, in addition to talking to myself on the street, I have also probably given my neighbors the impression that I am either mentally ill or in dire need of their spare change.Again, I guess I’m really just special that way.
"Borrowing" the Internet
As soon as I got my laptop, I immediately turned on the computer and started figuring out which wireless networks I could access from my neighbors without a password.One of the aspects I enjoy most about being able to pick up on other wireless networks is seeing what names people give their internet link.For being in the Midwest, most of mine were to be expected - Illini2003, Cubs are Number 1. There were even some that must be first or last names - Thompson, Fayette.But, my favorite by far is the one I least expected - "Lauren is a Whore."Now, I can only imagine that this is the work of an extremely embittered ex. Which, actually makes we wonder why the network is password protected. If I were that open about my animosity, I'd make my internet open to anyone and everyone. After all, isn't it better to get back at an ex if everyone knows about it? Wouldn't you like for strangers to sit around saying, "I just love my internet access. I use 'Lauren is a Whore' all the time."Plus, the double entendre would probably be good for a few laughs, especially during those times when you're tempted to drink wine, look at old pictures, and pretend that having James Blunt's "You're Beautiful" as your song was romantic and unique.At least, I actually sort of hope this is the work of an embittered ex. Otherwise, there might be a not-so-subtle call girl down the hall.
A Trip to Schaumburg, Illinois
Yesterday, in an effort to furnish my rather sparse apartment, I took a trip to the mecca of cheap furniture, IKEA. For those of you who don't know, IKEA is a large, Sweden-based company that specializes in furniture you assemble yourself at bargain basement prices.And, being based in Sweden, all of the furniture has really fun foreign names. Going through my purse this morning, I realized that at some point yesterday I was interested in Flarke, Muddus, Sultan Talliden, Forby, Sultan Jovik, and Lack. (Just making that list makes me want to talk to myself in a voice like the one Rose's cousin from St. Olaf, Hans, used when he began infatuated with Blanche on an episode of the "Golden Girls.") And, if only I had mastered how to get an umlaut symbol on blogger, the list would be so much more accurate.There's even a cafeteria in IKEA, so that if you get hungry in the middle of your shopping (which you will, the store is HUGE), you can stop for a snack of meatballs or lingonberry mousse - again, at bargain prices. $2.88 for a full crepe breakfast? Who could say no to that? For the deal, if not for the actual taste of the food...Personally, I have to hold myself back when I get near the vasen because it's hard for me to turn down anything that costs $1.98, even when that means I end up with a cartful of oddly shaped vases that I will never use. (The last time I got flowers and might actually need a vase? I'd rather not dwell on it.)Most of the time, I love IKEA. I really do.Now, I had a momentary upset when I realized that the large chair I wanted seemed to add up to a lot more in actuality than it seemed like it would on the website. Chair frame - $40. Chair cover - $29. I'm still ok at this point. It's when I realized that they wanted you to put a $120 mattress on a $40 chair frame that I felt like I was being duped. Who in the world would pay 3 times the amount of the chair frame for the padding that goes on said frame? And, who would spend that much at IKEA of all places? Not this savvy shopper. I found the cheap mattress that was rolled and packed without air so that it could travel easily and all was well. (Seriously, I doubted those air vac systems for storage until I unrolled my mattress. Who knew what a difference air could make? I mean, other than the air we need to live and breathe and all.) I got out of there with a big chair that can also be a spare twin bed for far less than the nearly $200 floor model.Leaving the store, I felt good. But, at home, I remembered the rub that IKEA can be.After getting everything in the car, and out of the car, and up four flights of stairs, I discovered a small problem. One of the stools I had bought had no hardware with it. No screws. No bolts. No nothing. I have no way to construct this stool.Now, of course, I can call IKEA and have them ship me the parts, but that will take time. And, there is nothing practical about driving two hours round trip for the screws that go to a $4.99 stool. I know the gas would cost more than the stool, but it still doesn't stop me from being angry about the unusable plastic circle and steel legs I now own. And, it made me think back on the chest of drawers I have from IKEA where the top two drawers don't have backs because they were missing from the box.Ugh. I guess you get what you pay for.As a side note, whenever I pass the food section at IKEA, I think about the full-on Swedish gift shop inside the store. And, then I wonder if anyone has ever lied about going to Europe only to bring their co-workers foodstuffs from IKEA after being out of the office for a week. "Chocolate for you, Melinda, my favorite HR rep. You just wouldn't believe how clean it is in Sweden. And, the lingonberries! To die for."
The Big Decisions
Well, now that I have cable it seems that the wonders never cease. Law & Order all the time? Of course, sign me up. Movies in the daytime? Yes, please. Strangers baring their souls for fifteen minutes of fame? How did I live without this? (Really - that's an actual question and not meant to be rhetorical. What did I do before? Read? Come on. What was I thinking?)Anyway, having cable has allowed me to re-enter the world of movies that I've seen but had almost forgotten how great they are - "The Wedding Singer," "A Mighty Wind," "The Shawshank Redemption"...(Does Ted Turner even take a breath between the end of that film and making the phone call that puts it back on the programming schedule?)And, hence, the other day I stumbled on a movie that I have seen, but don't actually love love - "The Matrix."Now, while it might not be cool to admit it, I love Keanu Reeves. I have thought he was adorable ever since "Parenthood," and "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" still makes me laugh out loud. Admittedly, maybe it doesn't require too much "acting" per say for Keanu to play stoned or generally unsmart teens, but I like him. I just do. I'm not going to defend it anymore. For this reason, I saw "The Matrix" in the theater.But, I never saw any of the other Matrix movies. And, I think my problem comes down to one relatively simple issue - there is no way in hell I would have taken the red pill.Sure, I'm not a risk taker. And, I'm probably not the person you want with you on a wildlife safari/mountain trek/run to the gas station after dark. I'll let you know right here and now - if there's trouble, it's every man for himself. And by "himself," I mean "me." I suggest you don't block my nearest exit.Therefore, I have no idea what would be compelling enough for me to give up my world of celebrity gossip, truffles, and new-found cable. (I'm thinking about getting a body pillow too. After that, I may not leave my house on the weekends.) And, our hero gives it all up for the "truth"? Now, what the hell is that about? The last time I checked few people actually liked the truth. I couldn't love "US Weekly" like I do if I was overly invested in truth. Nor could I continue to enjoy my aforementioned truffles while pretending that my jeans don't always fit the way they used too if brazen honesty was a priority. You know those people who brag about the fact that they "always tell it like it is"? Those people don't have friends. You just think they do because casting directors know they make for great reality tv.The truth has got to be overrated. (If you still don't believe me, call an ex and ask for the "real" answers. But, I guess I should apologize in advance - it won't be a pleasant conversation.)And the "Matrix" kind of truth is especially bad. It's waking up in your own placenta-like, gooey sac to unplug the back of your freshly shaved head from an overarching evil computer system before breaking free of a pod and leaping into space.Just to scratch the surface of why this would suck, I have spent two years growing out my hair. Even without the amniotic fluids, learning that I had no hair at all would be too much for me.In short, no thank you.No matter how much I like the action of the movie and Keanu's lovely presence, I can never get over that. I just don't know how it can be worth it. Did you see the sweater Neo had to wear on the strange space craft while he fought the all-encompassing forces of evil? And again - those fluids...Should I ever encounter a Lawrence Fishburne-esque revolutionary and bearer of great knowledge, my reply will be simple, "Blue pill, please. Nice to have met you."I suggest you do the same.
Downtown Doggie: Part 1
s we all know, or, at least, as we all should know, extreme specialty shops are usually run by crazies. (Now, as much as the term "crazy" get a negative connotation, this is not meant to be offensive. After all, most of us are "crazies" at some point in time. Speak ill of Scott Bakula? Meet Laurel’s wrath. Deny the overarching socio-political importance of Bruce Willis’ film choices? I breathe fire. I could probably open a store devoted entirely to yarn and "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" memorabilia, but that wouldn’t exactly make me normal. And, thus, you can pretty much guarantee that anyone willing to use 1,000 square feet solely for porcelain doll heads and antique figurines gives each item a voice at closing time and reenacts various scenes from the golden age of television in the dark, dialogues between Mary Tyler Moore and Ed Asner being a ready favorite.)So, as I was wandering in Chicago, attempting to find my way and learn the streets, I stumbled upon my first designer dog boutique. Projecting/fearing that Cassidy is unhappy with my decision to uproot her from Southern suburban existence for life in a 4th floor walk-up with a noisy nearby train, I went inside in search of a rawhide bribe.And, that’s when I encountered your requisite crazies. After all, I should also mention that this was around 3:00 in the afternoon, and, again, the "normals" should be at work.Well, it seems that a lost dog had wandered near the vicinity of the dog boutique and quickly been abducted into the world of the animal-loving, concerned pet store owner and friends.This is when I learned that it takes 5 grown women to determine what to do with a lost dog. The conversation inside went something like this:"The tail curls a bit like a poodle mix.""That’s true. But I definitely thought ‘samoyed’ when I looked at her.""Wait...Did anyone check to see if it is a her or a him?""The hair seems matted. I don’t think it’s well groomed.""Try putting a collar on it. That way it can’t run away.""It seems to take to the collar. I think that means it’s a house dog and not a stray.""I bet the fireworks from 4th of July scared it. That’s probably why it started running away.""Should we make posters? I could run to Kinko’s right now.""I don’t know. Maybe we should look for posters. Or ads. If it is a house dog, someone is looking for it.""I’m going to call the police.""Do the police handle lost dogs?""Let’s give it treats.""No, not treats. It looks too hungry for that.""I think it’s malnourished. It could have been wandering for days.""Soft food or hard food?""Always soft food. I think something with lamb. Most dogs aren’t allergic to lamb. It’s different from chicken that way.""Have the police picked up?""Should we be calling the SPCA instead?""Oh, look...It’s eating so well. I guess it hasn’t been too traumatized. That alleviates a lot of my fears.""Does anyone else think the dog’s part golden retriever?"And on, and on, and on...I had to leave with my $2 sausage treat before they recruited me for the task force.And, to think that the time I found a lost dog, I brought it to my apartment and then called the number I saw on the flyer with the dog’s picture the next day.There was so much more I should have considered. I guess I’m not as much of a dog person as I thought I was. (Although, I do think this little experience was a good cautionary tale before I put too much time into that yarn/vampire slaying enterprise.)