Technology is a dirty little bitch

Best Buy Trip #1: Purchase new printer because parents' old printer is being a dirty little bitch and doesn't work any more.

Discover fancy schmancy new printer won't work with Windows Millenium Edition.

Best Buy Trip #2: Purchase Windows XP Home Edition.

Install new operating system. Discover new operating system is a dirty little bitch and won't support internal modem.

"Go to blahmodems-dot-com to download current drivers."

Well if the dirty little bitch of a modem was working, we could do that couldn't we?

Drive to Panera for wireless in hopes of downloading drivers to Mac.

"Our wireless is down. It could be down for just a few minutes or the whole night," says the dirty little bitch behind the counter.

Best Buy Trip #3: Explain modem situation to Geek. Geek suggests purchasing new modem for $40. Purchase new modem.

Tear apart computer, attempt to insert new modem card. Discover new modem card is a dirty little bitch and is too big.

Best Buy Trip #4: Take too big modem card and computer to Geeks for help. Get ridiculed by Geeks for bringing in 'antique' computer. Realize receipt for too big modem is at home. Get external/usb modem.

Install new new modem. Install new printer. Connect to Internet. Rejoice loudly whilst cursing Microsoft, Best Buy and Geeks - the lot of them, dirty little bitches.

Best Buy Trip #5: Return too big modem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Plain White T's - All That We Needed
I am reading: HP 6
And I am: Tired of technology

Home

It’s Sunday night and she’s sitting propped up against two pillows in her old bedroom.

Of course it’s very different now. But if she closes her eyes, it is the way it used to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The drums start slow and hesitant. Then they grow stronger, more powerful. When the wind catches them it's even louder. It's the marching band practicing at her old high school across the street.

She opens her eyes and smiles. Sage green walls and carpet. The flowery, thick comforter over her on the bed under one window.

A blue electric typewriter sitting on the desk in the corner under the other window.

A wall of books to the left in the closet, organized alphabetically. Judy Blume. Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Madeline L’Engle. Laura Ingalls Wilder.

There’s a stereo on the dresser flanked by two big speakers on the floor. A smoky gray lid over the turntable. The click click click sound of the 8-track player finding the next set of songs. And the big beveled tuner dial - heavy and hesitating as it moves from country to rock to pop.

She’s on her stomach across the bed reading a new album cover and singing along with the songs. The Police. Devo. Queen. Prince. Bob Seger.

The phone rings soft in the corner and it’s Dannette or Lisa or Amy or Denise. Later, in high school, it’s boys – David or Joe or John.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s always a book on the nightstand. Stephen King for some unfathomable reason.

More books on the shelf under the nightstand. Maybe a diary hidden behind.

In the drawer, small wooden 3-dimensional puzzles she did as a kid. The classic cube. A sphere. And the impossible elephant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She’s on her back under a boy named Jamie. Her family is away for the day and she’s kissing – serious kissing – for the First Time Ever. Led Zeppelin comes on the radio and it’s a perfectly perfect moment that will last forever.

Or maybe it’s just the memory that will last forever because the boy (who couldn’t be farther from perfect) doesn’t make it much beyond that hot, sweaty, silly afternoon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now it’s almost midnight.

There’s a train whistle blowing. It’s urgent yet big and comforty since it’s the same train that rolls through every night around this time.

She’ll sleep well here tonight. She always does.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Led Zeppelin – D’Yer Mak’er
I am reading: HP 6
And I am: Home

Rudy it is then

Speaking of silly quizzes, here's something interesting: Select a Candidate.

Confession: I like this survey straight out of the gate. For 'Age' I get to choose 36 - 40, which makes me feel younger for some reason.

Answer a few questions and it lets you know which candidate shares your views on the war in Iraq, immigration, tax cuts, universal health care, gay marriage, abortion, blah.

For me, Rudy gets the landslide: 34 points. Apparently I agree with him on:

Immigration
Taxes
Stem-Cell Research
Health Care
Abortion
Social Security
Marriage
Death Penalty

Next: Democratic candidate Bill Richardson with 28 points. Joe Biden, another Democrat, gets 26 points.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So where's your man Barack in all of this, Hed?

He scored 20. Along with Clinton and Kucinich. Bleh.

The thing is, I've love-love-loved Rudy ever since seeing him speak at Benedictine University back in 2002. But I'm not sure he's electable.

As for Barack, I like his refreshing personality and charisma, but I don't like where he stands on the majority of issues.

Confession II: If Michael Douglas' character in The American President were running, I'd vote for him in a heartbeat. Twisted, yes. Also a sad, sad commentary on our current candidates when my favorite is a fictional character from a movie back in 1995.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Predictions: I'm going with Giuliani for the Republican nominee. Not that I'm a conspiracy theorist, but I suspect a well-timed U.S. terrorist attack in 2008 gives him the nostalgic Republican edge in the election. The one-two punch is complete when Clinton, the Democratic nominee, self-implodes with a juicy, lesbian-related October surprise. Obama gets a little less green and looks good for a re-run in 2012.

Based on this quiz, who's your candidate? And were you surprised?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Fray - All At Once
I am reading: HP6
And I am: Still waiting for Comcast

Giving good interview

During that brief in-between-jobs malaise, I read tons of articles about job hunting.

Monster. CareerBuilder. Yahoo.

All of them - completely worthless.

So here are a handful of helpful interview tips from someone who recently broke the land speed record for getting fired/hired.

Don’t Sweat Your Pants: Dealing with Nervousness

I don’t get nervous interviewing because of Trivial Pursuit.

Growing up, we lived in a tight-knit, game-playing neighborhood. Some of my best memories are of playing Trivial Pursuit on the sun porch with my neighbors – adults and kids – on summer afternoons.

Interviewing is like playing Trivial Pursuit, only better, since every question will be related to your favorite pie category (I always liked green - Science & Nature - for some reason. Makes no sense.)

If you know your topic and have done just a little homework, it’s easy enough to get all the answers right and win the job.

“But Hedy, I sucked at Trivial Pursuit. Monopoly was my game.”

Real estate? Seriously? How’s that working out for you these days?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, sorry, here’s a better analogy.

Remember the first time you got laid? With someone other than your hand?

Unless you were some kind of sexual savant, it didn’t go very well, did it?

Of course you were nervous. You had no hands-on experience. But you reallyreallyreallyreally wanted it. And seriously, who performs well in the back seat of the family Buick with your head smashed against a door handle?

Now, think about the next time you had sex – comfortably situated on the bed of your girlfriend’s out-of-town parents with the soundtrack from Bladerunner playing.

Better, yes?

The more you do something, the better you get at it, right?

So get out there and interview.

If you’re nervous about interviewing, make a point to do it at least once per quarter. Even if you’re not looking for a new gig. Actually, it’s better if you’re NOT looking for a new job because then there’s no reason to feel pressure.

Interviewing when you don’t need a job keeps you sharp. It helps with networking. And it does wonders for that sweating-through-your-shirt-nearly-shitting-your-pants feeling that comes with the high pressure of finding a new job.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tip: Wash your hands in warm water rather than cold to eliminate sweaty palms. I have no idea where I learned that but trust me, it works.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Getting Good

Eventually, all of us neighbors got good at Trivial Pursuit because we played enough to memorize the answers. If you interview often, you’ll get good at answering the standard questions.

Where do you want to be in five years?

Wrong: “Drunk and naked on a beach in St. Martin?”

Right: “Here. Working here and making a difference for [insert company name].”

Regardless of the question – always make the answer about them and their business, not about you and your goals.

If you say “In five years I’d like to be a senior-level blah blah with a team of minions, making blah blah” they’ll think you’re nothing but a salary-chasing job-hopper and show you the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tip: Look good. Get a haircut. If you need to buy a new shirt or suit to make yourself feel better, do it. However, DO NOT BUY NEW SHOES. A potential employer will not appreciate you doing a Passion of the Mel thing, bleeding on their carpet because of blisters from bad shoes. Trust me on this one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do Your Homework

It’s never been easier to learn about the company where you’d like to work. Of course you’ll want to check out their web site – they’ll expect that.

But what they won’t expect is that you’ve Googled key words from their web site to read articles published about the company, their industry, their competition, and the key people who’ve made their business successful.

Doing your homework also helps you ask well thought out questions. If you really want this job, you’ll have a few questions of your own. Interviews are always better when it becomes more of a conversation. It gets the interviewer thinking about actually having you in that position and what it would be like.

Of course, don’t over do it with the questions. Two employers ago, we brought in a woman to interview for a marketing position.

She asked all the questions. We couldn’t get a word in edgewise and we knew nothing about her when she left.

And then she wondered why we didn’t hire her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Classic Three-Way: Interviewing with Multiple People at the Same Time

Unless you're Cameron Crowe losing your virginity to three hot, stoned groupies in the movie Almost Famous, your first time is usually one-on-one. It's the same with interviews.

If you do well in enough first interviews eventually you get a shot at the big time: The Second Interview.

This is your time to really shine and show 'em everything you've got. The people interviewing you might start out asking you questions one at a time, but eventually they'll be pounding you simultaneously from all sides. Stay cool. Stay focused on your goal and give them exactly what they want. You'll quickly figure out who's the lead decision-maker of the group - focus most of your attention on him. But it's also important to make sure you're paying attention to the dude sitting quietly in the corner waiting for his shot at you. Being able to think and react quickly while addressing the demands of multiple people is the key to a successful three-way. Interview. Ahem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time Management

If you've lost your job, take a few days to cry. Eat Duncan Hines Chocolate Fudge Frosting from the can. And watch Working Girl or The Devil Wears Prada over and over and over again.

Once you're ready to commence huntin' for that new job, DO NOT waste another moment of your precious time on Monster or CareerBuilder or other job sites.

The best jobs never get posted. So work your network. First thing on Monday after I was let go – everyone I know knew I needed a new job. Mostly because of the loud, uncontrollable sobbing. Ahem.

What's more, the jobs that do get posted on career sites have already been filled - by someone who knows someone there. The position got posted because of some bullshit bureaucratic policy requiring all jobs to be listed publicly.

LinkedIn is a good site for professional networking - it's like MySpace for grown ups without all the drunken photos, bad music, and mindless quizzes.

Also, don’t limit yourself to the people you know from your industry. Think of everyone you know - friends, neighbors, acquaintances - the people who know you best. The new gig I’ve got starting October 1 came from a guy I met on the train.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Mythical Trick Question

“If you could be any animal, what would it be?”

“How about a big fucking snake so I can bite your retarded little gourd off for asking such an absurd question?”

The fact is, people who are serious about hiring don’t mess around with ridiculous questions like this. I suspect that most of those trick questions were made up by unemployed journalists writing unhelpful articles about interviewing.

Also, do you really want to work for someone with a burning need to know what you wanted to be when you were 10 years old? Seriously.

“When I was 10? I don’t remember. But I can tell you this: I didn’t want to grow up to be interviewed by some pseudo-psychological chooch who wastes my time with silly questions. Are we done here? I think so. Thanks.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, so maybe after reading this you won’t be a porn star when it comes to interviewing.

But it can be fun if you take a little time to get better at it.

And trust me, stay out of Buicks. Nothing good ever happened in the back seat of a Buick.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Bladerunner soundtrack
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 6
And I am: Waiting for Comcast

Seven days

Friday, September 7, 10:35 a.m.

“Heather, when you have a minute, could you stop by my office?”

“Sure thing, let me dump this at my desk,” I say, dragging the booth and other crap in from a two-day user group conference in Schaumburg.

I didn’t really want to drive into the office that morning. It would’ve been much easier to head straight home from the show and take the rest of the day off – especially since I’d worked 12+ hours the day before, staying late for an inane nerd-ridden networky thing.

I plop down in his office with the Mac on my lap like always, fully expecting to hear about some new idea or direction or project that I’ll have to spend part of my weekend making happen for Monday.

It didn’t go that way. And I can’t share what he said because of the severance agreement.

But I was unexpectedly out of a job. Let go. Axed. Fired. RIF’d. Pink-slipped.

For the first time in my life.

It was unbelievably fucked up. It made no sense.

Knocked me on my ass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saturday, September 8, 1:05 p.m.

I drive to the office again, this time to clean out my desk.

I park illegally out front of the Opera House daring the gods to ticket or tow me. Surely I’m worthy of a little mercy at this point.

Insult to injury: Someone has STOLEN the un-opened fifth of Jack Daniels hidden behind some software on my shelf. It was a Christmas gift from one of the sales reps – destined to be tapped on a yet to be determined Special Occasion. Unbelievable.

I'm in and out in less than 15 minutes with just a pause to contemplate peeing on someone’s desk.

I forego going. No point pissing off (or on) the gods in this fragile karmic condition.

Back out front – no tickets, no tows – and I’m gone-daddy-gone from that infernal office forever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday, September 12, 6:32 p.m.

“So how was your day?” Jim asks, fresh home from work.

“I’m unemployed,” I say from the couch. “And drowning my sorrows in The Devil Wears Prada and peanut butter.”

“Well,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’ve got a JOB for you. Doesn’t pay much…”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Friday, September 14, 11 a.m.

A good first interview gives my withering self-esteem a smallish boost but the blisters keep me sequestered for the rest of the weekend.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Monday, September 17, 7:37 p.m.

Me: Still in my pajamas, no shower, attached to the couch.

“How was today?” Jim asks, but he already knows based on my appearance.

“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing. Even the people I thought for sure would call, didn’t.”

“Do I need to keep you away from sharp objects?” he asks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tuesday, September 18, 12:35 p.m.

A good second interview. A three-on-one situation (shut it, you) and I’m cool under pressure.

“Thanks for coming in again,” says Jeff, a partner with the firm. “We’ll call you soon to talk about next steps.”

We do the thank-you dance but after two and a half hours on the hot seat I can’t think of much but the fact that I’ve gotta PEE. RIGHT. NOW.

Stopping off at the old office for a well-placed pee stop pops into my head. But karma keeps me proper and on the potty.

“Could you point me to the restrooms please?” I ask, walking out.

“You need a key; let me get it for you.”

I walk back to return the key and that same partner is waiting for me in the lobby.

“Walk with me, Heather,” he says.

Heh?

I follow him back down the hallway to the hot seat in the conference room. Same three guys. They're smiling.

“We want to hire you. When can you start?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Half of Friday. Five business days, plus Monday. Half of yesterday.

And I have a job. A great opportunity. Starting October 1.

Seven business days.

It’s gotta be some kind of record.

Especially with all of the sobbing and sulking and mulling and moping in between.

It’s gotta be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I meet Jim the IT Guy for lunch at Bar Louie in Printer’s Row after the interview. It's the first time I’ve seen him since the Friday I was fired.

Apparently I’m not the only one who is confused about why this happened.

“We still don’t understand it,” he says. “It makes no sense. Listen, my analogies are never good, but I know you’ll understand this: Firing you was like dumping a chick that gives phenomenal head. You just don’t do it. Ever."

“That’s IT!” I say, laughing/choking on my second celebratory Jack & Coke. “That explains why I was fired! I didn't SUCK!”

Definitely something to keep in mind for the next job. Or not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Killers – Read My Mind
I am reading: Harry Potter 6
And I am: Employed!

10%

"What is he thinking?" asks Jim, as a nostalgic-looking O.J. is taken away in handcuffs last night.

What IS he thinking, hmm?

O.J. is promoting his book. Obviously.

But Hedy, the Goldman family gets the proceeds - they published the book.

They get 90%.

10% will go to O.J.'s creditors.

Say what you will about Simpson, but this is downright twisty-brilliant.

He's making headlines. Again.

For criminal behavior. Again.

And his murder how-to book?

It's #2 on Amazon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Two and a Half Men
I am reading: Harry Potter 6
And I am: Staying away from sharp objects

You'd think

You'd think all this job drama would translate to blog fodder.

Of course it hasn't.

There are talkers. There are doers. And there are thinkers.

I am a thinker/doer when it comes to processing Major Life Events.

So I cut the grass this weekend. Avoided social situations. Helped Jim trim trees out front. Hauled brush to the ginormous burn pile out back. Read a lot. And figured out a much easier way to clean the filthy, dust-ridden cushions on the sun porch furniture.

I still don't know exactly what to make of this situation, but goddamn, the house looks GREAT.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Also: Had my first interview on Friday.

"Way to go, Hedy! An interview! Wow, that's GREAT!"

Okay, shaddap.

When I finally find a job working for people who actually appreciate what I do and are willing to pay for it, then we can all do the happy dance.

For now there will be no dancing, happy or otherwise.

Mostly because of the blisters. Angry, quarter-sized blisters. One on each foot. You would think it's stigmata if you didn't know me as Hedy, faithless heathen.

The interview went well. They always do.

But I nearly crippled myself walking from Union Station to the Chicago Board of Trade building in exceptionally cute new "I'm jobless" shoes.

Worse, I had to jettison the new shoes and buy newer new shoes to make the hike back to the train.

So, for those of you keeping track:

Jobs: 0
Interviews: 1
New shoes: 2

Now get back to work. I'm going to take a nap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gromit breathing
I am reading: Harry Potter 6
And I am: Quiet

Bad day

If you make sure you're connected
The writing's on the wall
But if your mind's neglected
Stumble you might fall

A semi-rainy April morning in 1993. Stereo MC’s are telling me I need to get myself connected. And I’m driving to work - anxious to get there for a big client event we’re hosting.

Approaching the intersection of North Avenue and Gary, a car turns in front of me with seconds to spare. The light turns yellow. The car behind the one that turned turns, too.

POW! Slams right into me.

I can’t breathe. Unbelievable, sharp pain in my chest.

Ambulance. Surgery. Five days in the hospital.

Bad day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Walking at a fast clip on the treadmill. It’s two months after ACL surgery to fix the silly snowboarding mishap and I am feeling fine fine fine.

Foot slips. I go down on the bad knee. POP!

Within minutes my ruined knee is as big and round as a baby’s head.

Broken kneecap. Surgery.

Bad day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November, last year. We three ex co-workers at our monthly stay-in-touch night at the local pub.

A mobile phone rings and is answered.

“Hey. Oh? No.”

The cancer he nearly died beating is back – brain, lung, skin.

Very bad day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two weeks ago, my aunt in Reno finds my uncle in their driveway coughing up blood.

Now she’s dialing his office just to hear his voicemail because all that’s left of him is in an urn waiting to be buried in Michigan.

Bad, bad days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I was fired last Friday.

To say that it was shocking, unbelievably fucked up and downright wrong is an understatement.

But it wasn’t a bad day. Not by a long shot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Black Snake Moan
I am reading: HP5
And I am: Trying for a little perspective

Back

to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow, kiddies.

Sorry for the unexplained absence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Stereo MC's - Connected
I am reading: HP 5
And I am: Unemployed

Hedy Potter

Blast-Ended Skrewts. Bubotubers. Floo powder. Grindylows.

I’m in the thick of Harry Potter. Book five, to be exact.

And there’s just no other word for it: Magical.

It’s a classic story of good versus evil. Like an updated Wizard of Oz with good witches and bad witches and elves instead of munchkins.

What’s more, Harry’s stories are surprisingly moral. He’s just everything you want in a hero – brave, kind, and generous. He cares about his friends. He’s passionate about fighting evil.

But even if if if the stories were crap crap crap, the books are still worth reading simply for all those cool words like remembrall and quaffle and niffler. And even cooler names like Mundungus and Dumbledore and Severus Snape (who we love to hate).
~~~~~~~~~~
So, ya got any magical powers?

Here are mine in no particular order:

Eye Tripping: It happens all the time – a stranger is walking toward me. We make eye contact. They trip. Not the fall down/skinned knees kind of trip. More like a walking hiccup.

Magic Hands: There’s a seminar tomorrow morning and I need 18 brochures. I find the right tray in the veritable wall of collateral and grab exactly 18. Same with pens. I always pick exactly the right amount. This is an extremely valuable talent for a Marketing Goddess like me. Bonus: This magical power also applies to finding the exact page I need in a book or magazine.

Disappearing Dog: Gromit is pestering me. Again. Jim is conveniently elsewhere in the house. All I have to say is “Gromit! Where is he?” and that silly little bugger runs off to find Jim like his tail’s on fire. Technically, this is not magic. It helps just a smidge, having a semi-retarded dog.
~~~~~~~~~~
“I need a cauldron,” says me, watching a show about naked Pagans.

“Why don’t you try cooking something in a pot in the kitchen first?” replies Jim.
~~~~~~~~~~
Harry Potter has a scar shaped like a lightning bolt in the center of his forehead.

In the center of my forehead there’s a big wrinkle that, if I squinch up my face just right, looks kinda like a lightning bolt.

I can’t wait to hear what Jim says about purchasing a broom.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Some football game
I am reading: HP 5
And I am: Not a muggle

Re: Retard

I've heard using 'mentally retarded' or 'retard' is offensive.

I've also heard - just in the past six months - that retard is making a huge comeback in the medical/educational professions. Mental retardation is, in fact, an official medical diagnosis.

Retard, the noun, is not.

Here at HedyBlog we strive to straddle that fine line between completely offensive and mildly distasteful, so it really doesn't matter so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last Saturday, we went for an inaugural overnight visit to our friends' new cottage in Lake Geneva. The goal: Get Gromit the Dog acclimated to their house so he won't freak out and shit on the kitchen table when we leave him alone there to go out and enjoy the lake. FYI: 'Enjoy the lake' is Wisconsin vernacular for taking a tour of all the bars around the lake and drinking your ass off for an entire afternoon/evening.

You'll be relieved to know that Gromit did well. He was a little hyper - he always is in a new place - but overall, he was the barky, needy, clingy nut-job that he always is.

Overheard as we were leaving Sunday morning:

"Sorry about the retard," says Jim.

"Eh, Gromit was okay," says Chris.

"No, I meant Heather."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This whole thing gets me thinking about some of my sillier moments.

For example: Before I was married, I lived alone in a walk-up apartment atop a lovely yellow home in a quiet Chicago suburb. Of all the places I've lived, it was my favorite. A huge maple tree out back made my little screened in porch seem like a tree house - the perfect spot for reading and napping and thinking.

My landlord and his wife lived downstairs and they used the driveway, so I always parked out front in the street.

One day, I pulled up to my house and a car identical to mine was parked in my spot.

"Oh - I'm home!" popped into my head.

Yep.

We all have classically silly moments.

Your brain takes an unscheduled break and you suddenly you find yourself saying Oh! I'm home or something equally ridiculous.

The upside: Maybe if I act retarded they won't spank me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Exhibit hall noises
I am reading: Harry Potter 5 - Fabulous!
And I am: Prone to temporary retardation

The big chill out

“Remember those laboratory rats who went crazy when they were deprived of their privacy?”

“They’re living with you, too?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's a conversation from one of my all-time favorite movies: The Big Chill.

Confession time.

I've been completely burnt out from all the activity this summer. We've had a lot of visits and visitors, small trips and major vacations.

And it was lovely. We are so blessed.

But by Sunday afternoon, I was officially DONE.

So I popped some popcorn, popped in The Big Chill and chilled out on the couch all afternoon.

Yes, it was beautiful outside. Yes it was the last weekend of the summer.

No, I didn't care. I needed couch and comfort and quiet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was so caught up in needing a little peaceful alone time that the irony didn't catch up with me until this morning on the train ride into the city.

When I saw The Big Chill for the first time in an English class in high school, it changed my perspective on what love is. And what friendship is all about.

It was a powerful message - love and appreciate your people while they're here rather than waiting until it's too late.

So I'm done being crabby and done being done.

I'm focusing on the blessings of a busy summer.

And it's beautiful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Matchbox 20 - Push
I am reading: Harry Potter - Book 5 (finally!)
And I am: Quiet

Next

My next post will be Tuesday morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Silence
I am reading: Harry Potter - Book 4
And I am: Done talking for a while

Human maintenance

"Your uterus is inflamed."

That was my chiropractor this morning, jabbing tiny needles into my ears.

"Your ears are a road map to your whole body," he continues. "And yours are saying inflamed uterus."

It was a morning for human maintenance: A visit to my regular doc for the annual girlie check-up. And then to the chiropractor for some much-needed bone crunchery.

My regular doctor had, shall we say, first-hand knowledge of the whole uterus situation but didn't mention inflammation. She recommended blood tests for irregularities that she wouldn't have known about if I hadn't told her.

But my chiropractor - who rightfully has never seen me in anything less than head-to-toe hospital scrubs - somehow knows about the uterus en fuego situation.

Amazing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had a mini-proud moment with the regular doctor.

"Your HPV test came back negative so you're on the three year plan for Paps," she says.

"Is HPV common?" I ask, proud of my HPV-free status, but wanting more.

"Yes," she says. "Very."

There's nothing quite like a squeaky clean coochie to make you feel extra-special-good about yourself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Accupuncture will help," says my chiropractor. "It'll straighten out this hormone issue."

I like my regular doctor. She's smart and practical.

But I love love love my chiropractor. When no one else can fix me, he can.

I lost count on the needles. Three in each foot. One in each ankle. Four in my stomach. I don't know how many in each hand. Plus the ears.

After about 15 minutes on the table, you begin to feel...flattened out. That's the best way to describe it. Flat and smoothed out and mellow. Extremely mellow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Go ahead, say it, she's your real doctor."

That was my chiropractor again.

"I never said that," I say, defending myself. "She's my regular doctor. You're my real doctor."

My regular doctor recommended one needle - drawing blood.

My real doctor recommended dozens of needles and somehow I know he's on the right track.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The washer winding up in the spin cycle
I am reading: Happy Trotter - Book 4
And I am: Relaxed

Such as, maps

“I bet she sucks dick like a champ,” said Jim over dinner at Melvin B’s Truck Stop last night. “So she’ll be okay.”

We were watching the ubiquitous clip of Caitlin Upton, a Miss Teen USA contestant who badly botched her answer during the “All This And Brains Too!” portion of the competition.

The question?

A fifth of Americans can’t locate the U.S. on a world map. Why do you think this is?

She muttered something about 'U.S. Americans' not having enough maps and then went off into a muddled mess of South Africa and 'The Iraq' before shaking her tits, flashing a smile and shouting TA-DA! to the packed auditorium.

Well, maybe not that last part, but you get the picture.

First of all, why do we expect these chicks to speak, let alone answer Very Thinky Questions? They’re up there because they’re cute, not because they’re smart.

So let ‘em jiggle and sing a little and then pick the one that looks most likely to pose in Playboy after her 'career' hits a low point 10 years from now and be done with it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the way, one fifth of Americans can't find the U.S. on a map because we don't need to, we're HERE!

TA-DA!!!

I'm callin' Playboy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Suchas, maps, suchas
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 4
And I am: Map happy

Three freaky f*ck monkeys bouncin' on the bed

There's a new guy on HedyBlog's Freaky Fuck Monkey Tote Board: Larry Craig, Republican Senator from Idaho.

Are we surprised?

According to Yahoo! News:

Idaho Sen. Larry Craig, who has voted against gay marriage and opposes extending special protections to gay and lesbian crime victims, finds his political future in doubt after pleading guilty to misdemeanor charges stemming from complaints of lewd conduct in a men's room.

I'd never begrudge a man for getting his junk pumped in a men's bathroom, but apparently Mr. Craig does - but only when he's not there to participate in the fun.

So here's the tally so far:

Republicans – 3 (Tobias & Vitter & Craig, oh MY!)
Democrats - 0
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Fray - All At Once
I am reading: Happy Rotter - Book 4
And I am: Not a monkey

Cost-plus

Back to school, kiddies.

And it’s time for a little homework. Read this article from Rolling Stone magazine:

The Great Iraq Swindle

“But it’s TOO LONG, Hedy! And I’m BUSY!”

U.S. soldiers in Iraq would love to trade places with the likes of you, sitting safely at your computer sipping a hot mug of something without sand in your shorts.

Cowboy up and read the fucking story. Now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Done? Good.

But before you go slapping a shiny little star on your forehead, it’s quiz time.

Question #1: What’s a cost-plus government contract?

It’s a government contract that guarantees a profit of three percent of the total cost of the deal.

Which means there’s no incentive for government contractors in Iraq to do a job well – they are paid and more importantly, they profit – regardless of what they deliver.

And the more they spend on a project, the more they’re paid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Question #2: What’s missing from this story?

C’mon. You know.

3732.

That’s the number of American military casualties in Iraq.

Cost-plus. Yep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Quiet office noises
I am reading: This article again
And I am: There just isn’t a word to describe this kind of anger + sadness

Cunning stunts

"Up next, a stunning development in the Nicole Richie story!"

That was brainiac anchor Warner Saunders on NBC 5 here in Chicago last night.

We've got Major Local Weather to report but let's all pause from the death and destruction to hear this stunning news.

What, has she gone into hiding and ordered a pizza?

I've decided I'm not watching local news anymore. It used to be depressing, which I could handle.

But now it's just stupid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Psychobillly Freakout – The Reverend Horton Heat
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 4
And I am: Stunning

Slobs

Here’s the mess I had to step over to get to my regular seat on the train this morning.

Newspapers. And an empty yogurt cup (and lid). In the middle of the floor.

From this sad little camera phone pic, you can’t see there’s even more mess up top on the luggage shelf: three empty Starbucks cups (and lids) surrounded by coffee stained napkins.

Slobs. People are such fucking slobs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s the thing: There are large garbage cans at every door on this train. So the Train Slob has no excuse for not cleaning up after himself.

And it’s taking every ounce of my self-control (ahem) to clean up the mess that someone else made.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No spoon. Inexplicably, there’s no spoon in the yogurt cup.

I can see him: shaking thick yogurt down his gullet like the fucking troll that he is, wiping a bit of white slobber on his sleeve before setting the empty cup on the floor between the mud-spattered legs of his pants.

Of course he’s a he. Surely a woman wouldn’t do something like this.

And his hair’s greasy. His fingernails? Filthy. He’s overweight and his wrinkled t-shirt - which he picked up off the bedroom floor with the rationalization that wearing it three days in a row saves water - is stained. With coffee and yogurt. He hasn’t shaved in a week.

Is it fair for me to make these assumptions about someone who would leave such a mess behind on the train?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One of my train buddies says he’s keeping someone employed by leaving trash on the train.

I dunno.

One thing’s certain: He’s keeping someone disgusted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Way Life is Supposed To Be – Bob Schneider
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 4
And I am: Yep, disgusted

Five for the price of one

You know how I feel about illegal immigrants. The majority of them are hard-working, family-oriented folks who just want a better life.

Unfortunately, Elvira Arellano is not one of them.

She's a pathetic media whore with zero regard for her son's well-being.

Anyone who'd use a child to prove a political point … oh, fuck it, you know what I mean.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every time I try to type Karl Rover. . .See?

Rover. Every time.

Freaky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Watch:
Entourage
Lil’ Bush
Californication
Flight of the Conchords

Do not watch:
The Astronaut Farmer
America’s Got Talent
Anything with High School Musical in the title
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One in four Americans did not read a book last year.

So c’mon. How many for you?

And why not more?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I've been watching America's Got Talent.

I know.

I got sucked into it late in the series when the contestants, in fact, did have some modicum of talent.

However. A paunchy white dude with his hand up a turtle's ass singing Crying was just christened America's Top Talent in the finale and it feels so dirty I'm heading to the shower for a good long scrub.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Five for the price of one? C’mon, Hed.

It’s free. Whattaya want?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Elvis Costello - She
I am reading: Harry Potter - Book 3
And I am: Caught up

Damp yet dry

Unlike all of northern Illinois - which has been pounded with rain for the past two days - my mental well is dry today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mad World - Sara Hickman
I am reading: Harry Potter - Book 3
And I am: Damp yet dry

Why

Why does my hair finally cooperate on the day it’s getting cut?

Why does the iron make the wrinkles that are hardest to smooth out?

Why does my computer finally do what’s expected after I’ve contacted the IT guy?

Why is everyone so goddamn slow when I’m in a hurry?

And why do all the maniacs come out when I’m taking my time?

Why does your boss always walk up behind you as you’re opening something twisted/pornographic sent by that one deviant friend?

Why, when he has the whole backyard, does your wet dog stand right next to you to shake off?

Why are those most interested in controlling the behavior of others the last people you’d want in charge of anything?

Why does your spouse change the channel at the exact moment when what you most wanted to see/hear comes on?

Why, when I drop something, does it always land on that One Spot on top of my foot that hurts like a motherfucker?

Why do the people who talk the most always seem to have the least to say?

Why do the things that taste the best make you feel the worst?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Indigo Girls – Rites of Passage
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 3
And I am: Asky

When flowers mattered

So we're strolling through a gift shop at Honolulu International Airport waiting for the long flight home when I see a ginormous pile of Godiva chocolate boxes.

It reminds me of something I haven't thought about in years: The Godiva Chocolate Incident.

It was very strange. Freshman year in college, out of the blue, I received a large box of Godiva chocolates from some dude I barely knew in high school.

Turns out Bill was 'wooing' me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Vot is dis voo?"

That is Bubbie from the classic movie Crossing Delancey. Watch it. It began my love affair with everything and everyone Jewish.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anyway.

If you've known me more than 10 minutes, you know that kinda shit doesn't work.

Flowers & chocolate? C'mon. You're gonna have to be smarter than that. You're gonna have to work harder than that. You're gonna have to think harder than that.

But feeling guilty about the chocolates, which of course were shared with my roommates, I went on a date with Bill. Once.

And as suspected by the golden box of goodies, he was fairly vacuous.

I'm sure after the cash he dropped on the fancy schmancy chocolates, he was expecting something. That box was worth a good blow job at least.

But he didn't even get a kiss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The point is, the godawful Godiva Incident got me thinking of The One Time that getting something like that actually meant something.

When I was a kid, Da would bring Mom and me flowers. Flowers from a road side stand. Flowers wrapped in wet newspaper and a rubber band holding it all together. He took his motorcycle to and from work quite a bit, so he'd tuck the flowers down the front of his jacket.

I've often thought it had to be such a lovely, romantic sight: Da zipping along, flowers poking out. I can still feel the wet texture of the paper as we carefully unwrapped them. I close my eyes and I can smell them - a mix of marigolds and daisies and baby's breath.

That is the only time flowers mattered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sarah Hickman - Mad World
I am reading: Harry Potter Book 2
And I am: Busy

Recipe: How to Feel Like a Kid Again

Sit sideways in a big comfy armchair. Flop your legs over the side. Read a book for hours.

Eat peanut butter from a spoon.

Spray your favorite girl in the back of the head with a garden hose. Laugh like hell.

Eat Cheerios outta the box.

Bury your face in the thick fur around your dog's neck and just ... breathe.

Watch the Wizard of Oz. Hide your eyes when the flying monkeys come out.

Pick a dandelion and give it to someone you love.

Spread out on your back in the grass under a tree.

Play Scrabble with your friends.

Sniff a Zippo lighter.

Say the first thing that pops into your head and don't regret it.

Bounce a ball against a wall. Repeat until someone yells at you.

Let a tiny little olive-green bug crawl around on your hand. And talk to him.

Be naked and barefoot as much as possible.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Just Jack - Snowflakes
I am reading: Harry Potter Book 2
And I am: A big kid

A sign

Here's a sign you've been on vacation wayyyy tooooooo looooonnng: You leave the house for the grocery store and forget to wear shoes.

I refuse to bore anyone with a "what I did on my summer vacation" column (unlike Neil Steinberg, who always seems to be so above the places he deigns to visit).

I will say this: It was lovely, but there's no place like home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sia - Breathe Me
I am reading: Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets (Book 2)
And I am: Not quite here yet

Something good

“So I figured out where we’re going to dinner for our anniversary,” says Jim, standing behind the grill last Saturday.

I am distracted.

Gromit is barking at a ball bobbing in the pool. It’s what he does. He’s perfectly happy to go in and get it, but first he must bark at it for a few minutes. I’m assuming to put the ball on notice that it is about to be rescued. Or something.

“Oh yeah?” I say, playing catch-up with the conversation after Grom finally makes the plunge. “Where?”

The where-do-we-go-for-our-anniversary rodeo typically begins in early July, in anticipation (and dinner reservations) of the blessed event in early August.

We went to Gibson’s in Chicago for our first anniversary and it’s been a lovely tradition ever since. The steaks are good, but the people watching is outstanding (Outstanding!) and we always see someone semi-famous.

Semi-famous?

Yes. Think Jesse Jackson and Dennis Hastert. Semi-famous.

But after nine years of marriage, Jim wants to break the tradition and change things up a bit.

Six weeks ago he was talking Italian. Two weeks ago it was seafood.

Both times I gave him the standard wrinkled-up-nose-but-it’s-a-tradition response, effectively tabling any additional anniversary dinner debate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m thinking seafood AND Italian,” he says, looking up from his famous chicken wings popping above the charcoal.

Jesus. Can’t we just go to Gibson’s and keep it simple? I don’t want to try a new place. I don’t want seafood. Besides, my parents are coming for a visit that week, our anniversary is on a Sunday and it’s only nine years. Let’s go to dinner at Gibson’s the following week after my parents are gone and we’ll celebrate then, no biggie. It’s only nine years after all.

Of course I think all of this but don’t say it.

You don’t get to celebrate nine years of wedded bliss without learning the #1 Rule of Marriage: Keep Your Mouth Shut.

“Oh yeah?” I say again, waiting to hear about some new amazing Italian fish place in the city.

“I made two reservations.”

Heh?

“We’re going to two places in one night?” I ask, thoroughly confused.

Sure, I’ve become a fat-ass since the back injury, but damn. Two dinners?

“We’re going to Mama’s Fish House on Sunday for our anniversary,” he says with grin. “And that Italian place at the Four Seasons Maui for the sunset on Tuesday.”

It takes more than a minute to sink in.

He’s taking me to my favorite place on the planet for our anniversary. My parents are coming to visit so they can watch Gromit.

I’m going to Maui.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, to summarize:

• I have a wonderful husband
  
• I am NOT wasting one minute of Maui time with the Mac
• You guys are on your own until at least Thursday of next week.

Aloha!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: That song called Something Good by Maria and whatshisname from The Sound of Music
I am reading: Nothing until after the trip
And I am: Blessed

Sniff & Lick It

“Jim!” says the Nephew. “Get ready! This song gets faster coming up.”

“Um, Andrew?” says Jim, without looking away from the TV. “It’s Free Bird. I was listening to this before your mother was born.”

That was last night – the three of us, up ‘til nearly midnight playing Guitar Hero.

I am not a musical person. I appreciate music. And I can dance like a motherfucker.

But when it comes to instruments – even the crappy plastic Guitar Hero guitar – you might as well give it to Gromit to play. It’ll sound about the same, except I probably won’t sniff and lick it so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you played yet?

It’s a blast. You’re listening to classic rock songs. You’re “playing” classic rock songs. And if you get good, you can even begin to incorporate some of the more classic rock star moves.

How’d you do, Hedy?

Again, I am not musically inclined.

Jim and Andrew suffered through my rendition of Heart Shaped Box six times before I finally made it through without the greasy-haired rocker on the screen hanging her head in shame to the sound of an angry boo-filled stadium.

But that was only after I stopped trying to “play” the song and started trying to “play” the game.

Remember Centipede? It’s my all-time favorite video game.

Back when games didn’t have sixteen bazillion buttons for you to slap/jump/kick/rip the alien’s head off and cheats to download from the Internet.

Centipede. A marvelously simple game. You shoot with one button. You move with the other.

Guitar Hero is like Centipede put to music.

These colorful disc-looking things representing music notes fly at you. You shoot them.

And if you manage to shoot all of them, Dead! by My Chemical Romance sounds like it ought to, and not like three cats fighting over a Fender Stratocaster made of cat-nip.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Watching Andrew zip through Killing In The Name and Billion Dollar Baby and Psychobilly Freakout, we now know the real answer when we ask him what he’s been up to and he says, in typical 15-year-old fashion “Nothing.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sniff and Lick It. That’ll be the name of my band. If I ever have one.

Band names that make you laugh? What would the name of your band be? What was your favorite video game growing up?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Hed’s Guitar Hero Mix
I am reading: Neil Steinberg in the Sun-Times
And I am: Rockin’ out

Outstanding!

We do these welcome lunches here at work. New employees join the firm and we - reps from HR, IT, Recruiting & Marketing - take them to lunch the first day to get 'em acclimated.

It's nice. But it's not OUTSTANDING!

Let me explain. Yesterday, we went to the Grand Lux Cafe at Michigan and Ohio -- it's got that contrived elegance of an upscale-ish chain, but the food is good.

"I'll have a Diet Coke," I say to the actor/waiter, who is bouncing at the end of our table.

"OUTSTANDING!" he replies.

Outstanding? Diet Coke? Is outstanding?

No. No. No.

Outstanding is a naked oily massage administered by that dude who plays Sawyer from Lost.

Outstanding is NOT Diet Coke.

What's your definition of outstanding?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Smashing Pumpkins - 1979
I am reading: Between books still
And I am: Outstanding!

Summer reading

It kicked-off with Three Cups of Tea – non-fiction about Greg Mortenson, a man who oughtta be a shoe-in for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Then it was A Thousand Splendid Suns, fiction by Khaled Hosseini. I half-expected to be disappointed by this one only because his first book (The Kite Runner) was knock-your-socks-off fabulous. But ATSS was equally fabulous, just different.

If you’re going to read any of these books, start with Kite Runner, then read Three Cups of Tea followed by A Thousand Splendid Suns. These stories will make you see the Middle East – especially Afghanistan and Pakistan – as they are, not as the guns-in-the-air-screaming-Death-to-America media portray them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday morning I finished reading Crashing Through by Robert Kurson.

I swear, Kurson is such an amazingly talented storyteller that he could write a book titled “Watching Paint Dry” and it would keep you up ‘til 2 a.m. wondering what happens next.

I learned about him via a former co-worker who let me read a publisher’s copy of Kurson's first book, Shadow Divers. It’s about a German sub discovered off the coast of New Jersey in the early 90’s and the courageous and compassionate divers who make it their mission to properly identify it, and all the doomed souls on board.

If you’re going to read Kurson, start with Shadow Divers.

Crashing Through is an entirely different sort of adventure story, but equally engaging.

It’s the true story of Mike May, a man who was blinded at three years old. He goes on adventures that those among us with 20/20 vision wouldn’t dare to do. He holds the speed record for blind downhill skiing. He’s an inventor and an entrepreneur. And a husband and father.

In his early 40’s, he meets a doctor who tells him there’s a new procedure that might help him see again.

I won’t tell you what happens, but here’s a quote from May that pretty much captures his experience: “Some of the best things seemed to happen when you didn’t know for sure where you’d end up.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This book does an incredible job of explaining the miracle of how we see – not just with our eyes, but with our minds – in ways that make things like stairs and faces much easier to navigate and understand.

And it got me thinking (as all the best books do) about two things:

1) How we perceive others by how they look rather than who they are.
2) What I’d miss if I couldn’t see.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Because May is blind, he doesn’t make assumptions about people based on appearance.

This might be twisted, but I can’t help but think what a blessing that would be.

To be able to focus on the really important things about people, rather than the superficial. To make no assumptions about that person based on how they look – only on the things they say and do.

Whew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Crashing Through helped me have an even greater appreciation for the bazillion shades of green in one maple tree. And the sagey-light leaves of the willow at the far left of the tree line beyond our backyard.

I’d miss all the subtle things – like candlelight and moonlight. The way that kind of light flickers and shadows and makes everyone look like they love you This Much.

I’d miss the reflections of people in the glass of revolving doors. And the clean lines of the portico at the Opera House.

I’d miss seeing the way the tip of Gromit’s tail wags across the floor when he’s sitting down and smiling.

I’d miss my Mom’s green eyes.

What would you miss?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: In between books for today
I am listening to: Morning office noises
And I am: Seeing things more clearly

Today's column, derailed by chocolate rain

It begins innocently enough.

I send a link to Jay Mariotti's column in today's Sun-Times.

A minor discussion on sports-related evil and idiocy ensues.

Then I send another link, The Onion's take on the same topic.

Then - bink! - a link is sent in return.

Warning: If you'd like your brain and your day completely derailed, click on this link.

If you want to remain sane and productive, DO NOT CLICK ON CHOCOLATE RAIN.

CHOCOLATE RAIN

I've watched it five times so far. I've done no work. I'm pensive and obsessed.

And Gromit just got up and went in the other room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I'M LISTENING TO?
I am reading: Crashing Through by Robert Kurson
And I am: CHOCOLATE RAIN

Abercrombie zombies

“I need a favor, Hed,” says Susie, my good friend and college roommate from Michigan. “Would you go into Abercrombie and Fitch with me?”

It’s Monday and we’re shop-shop-shopping on the final full day of what’s become one of my all-time favorite traditions: Susie’s Annual Summer Visit.

“Have you been in there before?” I ask with a hint of trepidation.

“Yes, that’s why I need you to go with me,” she says.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Susie’s kids, God bless ‘em, remain blissfully unaware of the High Pressure Fashion Juggernaut that could soon have them begging to buy worn and torn crap clothing that costs a small fortune.

Suze doesn’t necessarily want to encourage this passion for crap fashion, but knows she can get the worn and torn stuff for cheap in July, when apparently everything goes on sale.

She knows these things. That’s why she’s a smart shopper.

We’re halfway across the parking lot and the sun is shining and I’m having Friday afternoon college happy hour flashbacks due to the thump thump thump of the club music and the veritable wall of men’s cologne pushing its way towards us.

We half expect to be carded on the way in. We’re silly that way.

Any trace of feeling barely legal vanishes as soon as we step into the Land of the Abercrombie Zombies.

POOF! We are instantly old and unfashionable.

An impossibly small, ragamuffin of a girl approaches and mumbles something.

“HEH?” shouts Susie, over the music that is shaking the shaggy shirts from the hangers.

“ARE YOU FINDING EVERYTHING OKAY?” small person shouts back.

“DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING ON SALE?” yells Susie.

“FOLLOW ME.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
We’ve been in the store less than two minutes and I’m overcome with a violent, nose-runny/head-throbby allergic reaction to this foreign environment.

I resist the urge to wipe my nose on one of the tissue-thin t-shirts stacked on the table next to me even though it seems oh so appropriate.

My misery is exacerbated by the piteous, what-are-you-doing-here looks from this team of tiny identical teenagers.

Suddenly I see a beer-bellied middle-agester trailing after a small girl who is obviously his daughter.

We exchange "I feel your pain" glances before his little zombie wanna-be drags him over to a rack of sweatpants so small they're for Barbies or Bratz or whatever unrealistically imaged doll they're marketing to young girls these days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ragamuffin? Yes, ragamuffin. It's what my Mom called my brother and me when we were dirty/messy after building forts and climbing trees and riding bikes all day.

It just popped into my head in the store and kinda freaked me out.

“WAITASECOND,” thinks me. “What if this place REALLY turned me into an old person?"

I move closer to the exit and and breathe deeply, fighting the urge to run out the door screaming "RAGAMUFFIN! DAVENPORT! POCKETBOOK!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
All the while we're there, I'm wondering how the hell they get all this stuff to look so old and threadbare.

Here’s my theory.

The thinky and generous brains at Abercrombie and Fitch ship their fresh, new duds over to Africa to be worn by poor, orphaned children for a few years. Once the garments are sufficiently worn out, A&F replaces them with a fresh batch of clothes while the worn ones are shipped back to the United States to be purchased by silly Americans willing to pay top dollar for stuff that orphans won’t wear anymore.

Maybe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, my favorite sweatshirt is frayed around the collar. The cuffs are torn and sometimes when I put it on, my wrist goes through the hole rather than the sleeve.

I’ve had it for 15 years.

And the whole point to having something worn and torn is to have lived in it and loved it for a very long time, not to only appear to have a lotta great memories when all you have is more money than brains.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Hootie & The Blowfish – Only Wanna Be With You
I am reading: Crashing Through by Robert Kurson
And I am: Old

This is friendship

She knows that potato chips and cupcakes and wine make a perfectly acceptable dinner when you’re on vacation.

She’s been making you belly-ache laugh for nearly 20 years.

She never judges you. Never. In fact, most of the time, she says exactly what you’re thinking and it’s one more thing you laugh about.

When Aerosmith's Rag Doll comes on the radio, she sings Yes I'm poopin' instead of Yes I'm movin' with you during the chorus.

She takes her marriage and her kids and her job seriously and it shows.

She assures you that 40 isn’t too old to start a family and that you’d make excellent parents because ‘Just look how you fuss over that dog.’

She’s the one who can make 1 a.m. feel like only 10 p.m. when you’re drunk and dancing in your backyard.

She says ‘You don’t have to live like this’ over post-shopping Long Island iced teas a year ago, inspiring you to call your doctor and ask for a breast reduction.

And she tears up right along with you a year later in the fitting room at Ann Taylor when you’re wearing a halter-top for the first time in your life. And it looks good.

Then she belly laughs with you because you both just got emotional over an outfit.

This is friendship.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: U2 – City of Blinding Lights
I am not reading: The new Harry Potter
And I am: So blessed

People like us

Someone new falls into step with me as I hop off the 4:44 express in Aurora on Wednesday.

“Are you the lady I saw reading ‘Three Cups of Tea’ on the train a few weeks ago?” says a friendly-faced, blondish fellow. “I owe you a thank you.”

And that’s when it happens: The sweet rush of being swept up in the universe as it expands, enfolding you into something new yet instantly familiar.

“Yep,” says me, smiling. “How’d you like it?”

He explains that The Kite Runner by Khaled Hossieni got him interested in stories about the Middle East. Since then, he’d read quite a few books like it but had been craving more. When he saw me reading Three Cups – with the young girls in white hijabs on the cover – he found what he’d been looking for and bought it right away.

Until he mentioned Kite Runner I hadn’t really thought of the two books together and the small miracles they’ve wrought by humanizing and personalizing what goes on ‘over there’.

“Three Cups opened up a completely different perspective for me,” I say. “Was it the same for you?”

“Yes, but because I didn’t grow up here in the United States I’ve always had a slightly different perspective on what happens in the Middle East,” he explains. “I tend to get my news from different sources.”

Turns out he was born in Scotland. Turns out he grew up two miles from where Jim and I were married back in 1998. Turns out he works in the information technology business, too.

We’re walking and talking all the way to the parking lot and time goes by likethis. We exchange names and business cards and promises to re-connect over more books like Three Cups.

I tell him I just started Hosseini’s much-anticipated new book. He tells me he just finished it and it’s great.

“Over there, they’re just people like us, you know,” he says. “Greg Mortenson gets that.”

“Yep. Just working and living and loving their families,” I say.

Yep. People like us.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Roll To Me by Del Amitri
I am reading: A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
And I am: Joyful

Medium Coke

“I would get a tattoo,” says my good friend Kyra. “Only if I could change it to match outfits or seasons like I do with jewelry.”

We’d been drinking fruity frothy drinks served by Jim the Pool Boy and talking about things we’ve done or never would do while intoxicated.

That’s when we figured out how we’re all gonna get rich and retire early and have fruity froth drinks served by a pool boy every day instead of just special occasions like visits from childhood friends.

Semi-permanent tattoos.

Not temporary, like the kind you get at county fairs. And not permanent, like the ones you get when you’re very drunk.

Semi-permanent. They last three to six months, tops.

If you like it, you go back to your favorite tattoo artist and he re-inks you.

If you don’t like it, it fades and then you get a new one to match your outfit or the season or your mood. Or not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This concept of in-between has always intrigued me.

It started while commuting to Schaumburg every day behind a particularly bad type of driver: People whose foot can only be on the gas pedal or the brake.

If they’re not speeding up, they’re slowing down.

No in between for these folks. No coasting.

Folks who don’t even consider that third option.

For us folks who understand the third option, those rare occasions when your foot can hover between the gas and the brake feel … so good.

Sometimes it’s best to do nothing for a few minutes.

To not choose this or that. Here or there. On or off.

It could be a Zen thing. Or not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the days when it’s not too hot, we leave the door open between the house and the screened porch.

And that’s usually where we find Gromit. He wanders out there by himself and camps in the cushions of the big ol’ comfy wicker couch.

It’s my favorite place, too.

Because it’s not quite inside. But it’s not quite outside, either.

It’s the porch. And it’s perfect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dimmer switches.

Love ‘em. One of the all-time greatest inventions.

Seriously.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another excellent invention: Self-serve fountain drinks.

You go to Panda Express or Jimmy John’s or (ick) Subway and they let you pour your own soda.

So I make Medium Coke.

It’s half regular Coke and half Diet.

Medium Coke. For those of us who believe it doesn’t have to be all or nothing when it comes to everything.

Got any in-between ideas to share? Or not?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dave Matthews – The Space Between
I am reading: A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
And I am: Coasting

Man Camp

"I watch two shows: Dr. Phil . . . and NASCAR."

That was Monday afternoon at home with the hurty back thing.

I don’t know about you, but hearing that odd combo certainly caught my attention.

So I cracked a fresh Diet Pepsi, adjusted the ice pack on my ass, and twirled up the volume to learn all about Dr. Phil and his crazy minions at Man Camp.

Have you heard of this?

Dr. Phil’s Man Camp is a darling little two-story home on a quiet street somewhere in the U.S.

It's a place where guests on his show go to grow and learn and heal.

All while entertaining millions of loyal viewers!

And God bless him, that bald, drawling host just LOVES telling everyone: "To move on, you have to move in."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course Man Camp is not at all what I imagined.

To me, Man Camp is Jim’s annual trip to Las Vegas with his fraternity brothers.

They gamble. They smoke cigars. They eat steak. They fart.

They spend money on hot naked chicks who would love love love to have deep, meaningful relationships with them for five minutes or at least until the money runs out.

And when my little Man Camper returns he's happy and exhausted and just a little more appreciative of what he’s got at home.

Now THAT’S Man Camp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the summer of 1984, I spent six weeks as a Counselor in Training at Camp Daggett on Walloon Lake in northern Michigan.

Archery. Canoeing. Hiking. Camping. Swimming. Sailing.

Camp is weaving lanyards. It’s singing about Noah and his arky arky before lunch in the mess hall. It’s eating s’mores while wearing matching shirts.

Dr. Phil's Man Camp isn’t like this. Nope.

Man Camp is all cussing and crying and screaming and shit.

Plus, no matching shirts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The current inhabitants of Man Camp are all in the midst of troubled marriages and have come to Dr. Phil to be healed.

On national television.

Dr. Phil’s first project: The wives of these sad, sorry men get to mess up Man Camp.

And boy o boy, they really mess it up.

They throw cereal all over the floor and then walk on it. They pull all the dishes out of the cupboards and pour mustard and ketchup all over everything, including the counter tops. You don't even wanna know what they do to the toilets.

Dr. Phil’s bright idea is that these men have got to LEARN how to treat their WIVES better. They’re gonna FINALLY understand what these WOMEN have to DEAL with EVERY day.

The thing is – and I’m sure Dr. Phil knows it – if these guys haven’t learned by now how to be nice to their wives and pick up their poo-poo undies occasionally, spending a week in some stranger’s messy house AIN’T gonna HELP.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One brilliantly angry dude asks this great question before stomping out of the house:

"How is cleaning up this f*cked up house gonna help my marriage?" Can someone please tell me how this will help me get back together with my wife?"

I sat poised on my ice pack waiting for Dr. Phil to explain.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. Because he knew it wasn’t going to help.

I'm gonna send him an e-mail to suggest lanyards. Strippers. And matching shirts.

I'm not sure if it'll work, but it'll make for some great entertainment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Evanescence - Call Me When You're Sober
I am reading: Oracle E-Business practice overview draft
And I am: Upright

Flipping the mattress

“It looks like you need a new butt,” says Jim.

“Thatisn’tverynice,” I say, mildly muffled 'cause I'm face down in the mattress.

“Well, this one has a crack in it.”

It would’ve been hilarious if it didn’t suck so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feeling ambitious on Saturday, I decide – in addition to changing all the bedding – this time I’ll flip the mattress, too.

Ironically, I thought that flipping it over would be good for my back.

Turns out it wasn’t. Not at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flipping the mattress? Is that a euphemism for some new suburban sex thing I’m gonna see on HBO Real Sex next month?

No. I wish.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So Jim is rubbing Tiger Balm into my lower back and cracking wise about my crack while I’m face down on the culprit.

And that’s pretty much where I’ve been since then.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Devil Wears Prada
I am reading: What I did on my summer vacation by Neil Steinberg – BLEH!
And I am: Stupid & sore

The Irish Cleansing System

Yesterday morning in the shower I made a mental note: Replace scrawny old wafer of soap with robust fresh bar of soap.

The thing about making mental notes in the shower is that you have to think about them before you’re in the shower again.

Admittedly it wasn’t a mental note so much as a fleeting thought that washed down the drain with what remained of the scrawny wafer soap thingy.

So in the shower this morning, thoroughly soaked and sans soap, I search through the bottles on Jim’s side of the shower for something with which to scrub.

“A-HA!” I think. “This looks promising.”

A lovely green bottle. Irish Spring. Aloe.

And then lower, the incomprehensible:

8-hour scent system.

Heh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not only is it a system, but it is an 8-hour scent system.

It’s a small bottle.

Curious, I flip the top and look inside, expecting to see a team of tiny little red-haired leprechauns with tiny little scrub-brushes standing at the ready to make sure all my really smelly parts get clean.

For 8 hours only, though.

It’s a union shop.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following, compliments of the Encarta® World English Dictionary © 1999 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. Developed for Microsoft by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc:

sys·tem n
1. a combination of related elements organized into a complex whole
2. a scheme of ideas or principles, for example, for classification or for forms of government or religion
3. a method or set of procedures for achieving something
4. a physical network of roads, railways, and other routes for travel, transport, or communication
5. a set of organs or structures in the body that have a common function
6. the human or animal body as a unit
7. an assembly of mechanical or electronic components that function together as a unit
8. an assembly of computer hardware, software, and peripherals functioning together
9. the use or result of careful planning and organization of elements
10. a group of celestial bodies or other gravitationally linked objects
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nowhere. No. Where.

Nowhere does smart Encarta mention “a green, manly-yes-but-I-like-it-too liquid with which to scrub yer ass.”

I suppose if I dumped the entire bottle over my head and then stuffed it up my ass it could fit the first description.

Wait. Complex whole. Not hole.

Eh, forget it. I’m going back to Dial.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Everlast – What It’s Like
I am reading: The Onion
And I am: Squeakin’ clean

I’m a wicked whore

"People who claim they're evil are usually no worse than the rest of us. It's the people who claim they're good, or any better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of."

That line is pretty much the best you’ll find in Gregory Maguire’s otherwise drab and disappointing book ‘Wicked’.

It came to mind earlier this week upon learning that David Vitter, a Republican Senator from Louisiana, publicly admitted to ‘a very serious sin’. This revelation came within 24 hours of the news that the D.C. madam had (finally!) released her client list.

Vitter is known for promoting ‘family-values platforms such as marriage protection and abstinence-only programs’ according to news site The Raw Story.

Why is it always the people most interested in controlling the sex lives of others who turn out to be freaky fuck monkeys?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not that I view visiting prostitutes as deviant.

Sad and seedy, yes. Deviant? No.

It’s a business. And it should’ve been legalized a long time ago.

But of course, someone like Vitter would’ve voted against it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now that Deborah Jean Palfrey has released her client list, I’m like Jerry Lewis all fresh and frisky on Telethon Friday with a Freaky Fuck Monkey tote board built in the back of brain.

So far it looks like this:

Republicans – 2 (Tobias & Vitter so far)
Democrats - 0

Before this current scandal is over I’ll be the tie-loose, jacket-off, pit-stain, sweaty-head, Scotch-swillin’, ready to tear down the fucking tote board and retire to Boca Jerry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just for giggles, Google ‘Republican sex scandals’.

Then Google ‘Democratic sex scandals’.

Even acknowledging that the Internet is less than reliable, it’s fascinating.

An alarming number of the Republican sex scandals involve pedophilia. Serious, serious crimes against children.

The Democratic sex scandals involve relatively benign sexual harassment charges, prostitutes and of course, the vo-di-o-dome in the White House.

Fascinating.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s another quote I like:

"Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren't."

Margaret Thatcher said that. I love it because it captures the irony of people who are compelled to make proclamations about themselves.

Do you know anyone like this?

Someone who likes telling you how honest they are. How much integrity they have. How much money they give to charity.

Freaky fuck monkeys, the lot of ‘em.

Trust me. I’m a wicked whore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Tudors Final Episode
I am reading: Real Simple magazine
And I am: Yep. Wicked. Whore.

Small perfect moments

Last night

Hey There Delilah by The Plain White T’s on the headphones.
Raindrops on the train window.
Wet streets. Headlights. Green green green trees.
And the picture outside constantly changing against the backdrop of a stormy, sweepy sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Summer 2003

It’s hot. It’s night.

We – family, friends, neighbors – worked all day moving us into the New House. We’re exhausted but happy.

An unbelievably bright light sparks low and northeast on a dark horizon. It shoots across the entire sky arcing high then flaming out way south.

It lasts forever – long long long for a falling star.

A slow smiling wink from God.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Years ago

We’d been walking a long time. In the woods – my favorite thing ever.

A bank of pine trees along the trail. A bed of sun-warm pine needles.

We lay down under those pine trees talking about everything and nothing. We could’ve stayed forever. Now I wish we did.
~~~~~~~~~~~
To me, it’s never the Big Planned Moments that are most memorable.

It’s the small perfect unplanned moments.

Got one?
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Plain White T’s
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Perfectly content

Painting the turd

Occasionally it is apparent when I've 'phoned it in' as far as HedyBlog is concerned.

Take yesterday's entry. It was pretty much a rehash of earlier content with a few extra thoughts added in last minute on the train.

Usually when that happens it is because I'm really busy painting the turd.

Dilbert is a genius. He took what I do and turned it into a simple, easy to understand and even easier to visualize phrase.

I'm in marketing. I spray paint turds for a living.

Beautiful, isn't it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You mean you help sell crap?

Not quite.

I'm extremely fortunate to work for one of those rare high tech firms that isn't actually peddling poop.

But a lot of what these techy business types give me to describe what they do needs to be transformed from its crap-like state into something that is meaningful/compelling for our clients and prospects.

That's where I come in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For example, in two weeks we're hosting a luncheon event about XML Publisher. Do you know what XML Publisher is? Because I sure don't.

Well, at least I didn't know until I had to write the invitation for the event.

The techy business type who is actually doing the presentation provided me with four bullet points describing his content:

• Create an XML from scratch
• Modify an existing XMLP object
• Show how to comparably modify Crystal versus XMLP
• Examples of XMLP using the 4 different datasources PS_Query, Rowset PeopleCode, XML File and XMLDoc Object

Yep. Would you come to an event to hear about this?

Of course not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God bless the Interweb.

20 minutes on research (the Oracle site was pretty helpful) and the four seemingly worthless bullet points became this:

XML Publisher: Easier Than You Think!

XML Publisher is a robust, template-based reporting solution that allows you to transform application data into easy to create and share documents
using familiar desktop tools like Microsoft Word/Excel and Adobe Acrobat.

But how do you get started? Is there a lot of coding involved? Will XML Publisher replace your current reports? Is it better?

Please join us for an interactive and informative luncheon to learn how XML Publisher is changing the way people create and use reports in a PeopleSoft environment.

Attend this complimentary luncheon and you will:

• Learn how to create an XML report from scratch, including:
  • Financial reports
  • Purchase orders, sales orders and contracts
    
  • Pay stubs
  • Government & tax forms
• Learn how to modify an existing XMLP object
• Show how to comparably modify Crystal versus XMLP
• See examples of XMLP using four different data sources: PS_Query, Rowset PeopleCode, XML File and XMLDoc Object
• Learn how to write to an Adobe Acrobat compatible file (for government forms)
• Hear XML tips and tricks, and more.

Ta-da!

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But Hedy, I still don't want to come to that event.

Right. Neither do I.

But trust me, there are techy business types who will gobble up this stuff like flies on a turd.

A lovely, lucid, spray-painted turd.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Hedy's NewMix
I am reading: Writing Home by Alan Bennett
And I am: Painting another turd

Troubled over the bridge

We didn’t get much in the way of commentary regarding that 'Fuck White People' graffito last week.

Is it because we’re all white here and saying what we really think is dangerous? What do we really think?

Here’s what some of you said in Fourth of July conversations about it last week:

“It pisses me off – why do they have to wreck nice things?”
“Some obviously disturbed teenager.”
“It’s scary.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let’s turn it around.

What if it some poor, misguided white kid had written Fuck [insert racial epithet of your choice here]?

Aside from the fact that the media would be involved – 'Racial slur discovered on bike trail in Batavia, film at 11' – how would we react?

Because you know the folks most offended by the racial epithet of your choice wouldn’t be so quiet about it.

So why are we so quiet when it comes to white racism? Should we be? Does white racism even exist?

Or are we quiet because we know that on some level the FWP graffiti artist is probably right to feel that way?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am troubled.

Mostly because the idea that some idiot had wrecked the bridge never occurred to me.

There was a time when it would have. When the fact that someone would destroy the pristine clean of a walk in the woods would’ve had me writing letters and organizing a clean up team.

But upon seeing the “Fuck White People” graffito, my brain quickly skipped over outrage and went straight for figuring out the motivation for doing something like that.

Is it possible to feel like you’ve gained and lost something all at once?

Because that’s where I’m at with the bridge.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Strokes – You Only Live Once
I am reading: Writing Home by Alan Bennett
And I am: Troubled

A good vacation, defined

You don't know what day it is.
You have no idea what time it is.
You're clueless about what's going on in the world.

And better still, you don't care.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Eels - Mr. E's Beautiful Blues
I am reading: Revolutionary Road - a classic!
And I am: Sunny

So let it be written

"I am working with a guy in Israel," says Jim this morning. "His name is Moses."

In my best Ann Baxter-as-Nefretiri voice: "Ohhhhh, MOSES!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FYI: I'm on vacation this week with friends visiting and visiting friends.

Posts will be sporadic throughout the week with bursts of margarita-induced sunshine.

Have a Safe & Happy Fourth of July, dear friends.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Plain White T's - All We Needed
I am reading: Revolutionary Road
And I am: GREAT!

FWP

With Jim in Vegas for a long weekend, Gromit and I went for walkies.

Lots and lotsa walkies.

I know what you’re thinking.

Not another goddamn dog story, Hedy! We get it. Gromit is the smartest, cutest dog on the planet. We also get that you have what borders on an inappropriate relationship him. You need to stop.

Okay, but this story is related to walkies. Hang in there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So Gromit (the smartest, cutest dog on the planet) and I are walking over one of the many bridges on the walkie trail, when I see this:

Interesting. Fuck White People.

First thought: YES! Fuck us! Because we’re white and we need it!

Then, it was: Hey, wait a minute…maybe this particular graffiti artist doesn’t necessarily like white people and wants us to get fucked in an entirely different, not-so-pleasant way.

But wait. That color is a rather cheery shade of red -- it doesn't exactly scream "I'm an angry, hateful graffiti artist."

Then I thought: Maybe this person is a white supremacist.

He or she wants to promote the fucking of white people so that we can increase our numbers and take over the planet. Or something.

Regardless, a bridge in the middle of the woods is an odd place to make your statement, don’t you agree?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Ted Nugent - Stranglehold
I am reading: Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates
And I am: White people