See what happens when I take a day off

Lynchings in Congo as penis theft panic hits capital

Some lucky stiff at Reuters had a blast writing that headline.

I'm trying to figure out the mechanics of a penis snatching. Is it similar to my Uncle Frank's famous "I've got your nose" trick?

Because it's not as if a penis is a purse or something you could grab and run off with too easily.

Although, if we can believe all of the National Geographic specials on Africa I've ever seen, they do keep their wieners, shall we say, readily available and ripe for thievery or whathaveyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Penis. Theft. Panic.

C'mon. We know what's really happening, don't we ladies?

"Can you describe the penis, sir?"

"It was big. Huge. And it always worked. Always."

"Right."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Craig Ferguson
I am reading: Eh, not much right now
And I am: Saying penis theft panic three times fast

Outliving Erma

Confession: I check the obituaries in my hometown newspaper almost every day.

It's not from some morbid freakiness on my part -- I gave up screwing around in cemeteries in high school -- but because I love the poignant little stories in every single obit.

A person's entire life is published in black and white for strangers to review: What they did before they died, who they loved and who loved them, what people thought of them, and who they outlived and who outlived them.

Fascinating. Great stories, every single one of them.

With truly fabulous names.

Like Helen Yankitis, God rest her soul. I once knew a guy with Yankitis. I think he went blind. Or something.

Anyhoo.

There's Ernest and Norman and Walter. God I love a good Walter, don't you?

And there are Helens and Harrietts and Ethels.

All blessed souls in their 70s, 80s or 90s, kicking the bucket every single day.

Ernest, for example, was completely devoted to his family and friends and was a lifetime member of the Elks club. And as for Norma, her family says she'll be dearly missed.

The thing is, they kinda have to say that stuff once you're dead, don't they?

"Um, Mr. Flanigan, I'm not sure that 'He was a dirty cocksucker who shoulda been stump-hung long before he kicked the bucket' strikes the proper solemn tone for your father's obituary. Shall we try something a little more heartfelt?"

"How about this: 'Good riddance you fucking coot and we'll jig on your grave.' Better?"

"Much. Thanks."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: My Chemical Romance - Dead!
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scots, who is also dead
And I am: Starting a Yankitis Awareness Campaign, I think I can pull it off, seriously

Calling Pennsylvania

Say what you will about Obama.

But when it comes to the whole campaign fund raising + volunteer thing, he's just slick. Slick in a good way, not the Willy way.

His wife Michelle sent out an e-mail Saturday morning asking volunteers to help make calls into Pennsylvania in advance of the primary.

No, I don't believe it was actually his wife who sent out the e-mail, but it worked and that's the only thing that matters.

Within five minutes of receiving her message, voila, I was actually making calls. Once you're registered (I already was), Obama's web site provides you with a list of names/numbers to call, a detailed script, and tips.

Unfortunately the only thing that got me through my list of 25 registered voters was the idea of actually reaching Pos or Molly on the phone. Here's the tally:

7 wrong numbers (4 within the first 10 minutes)
12 voice mail messages
2 busy signals
1 “She’s tired of getting phone calls.”
1 “No, not right now.”

And only two live people. Two.

Of 25 calls, I actually spoke with two people.

What's more depressing, they were both women and hardcore Hillary supporters.

You're not supposed to waste any time once you've identified a hardcore Hillary-head, according to the script. You're supposed to say "Thank you, have a great day, and good luck pulling your head out of your ass."

I made up that last part.

Confession: I did deviate slightly from the script with the two Hillary supporters, only because I'd never actually spoken with someone who plans on voting for her.

"I'm voting for Hillary," says Julia.

"May I ask why?" says Hedy in her friendly/curious tone.

"Sure," she says. "It's because of her experience and I just don't know enough about Obama. Can I ask why you're voting for him?"

"Sure," I say and give her all the reasons I've given you a hundred times before. Not politics as usual, works for the people, doesn't take money from PACs or big oil, and knows how to shake his ass.

Then there was Brenda.

"May I ask why you're voting for Hillary?"

"Because I prefer her."

Brilliant.

"Okay, then. Thank you and have a great day."

And good luck pulling your . . .oh, never mind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: 4 Minutes - Madonna/J. Timberlake
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scots by Margaret George
And I am: Busy

Amen

"I'm offended. They gave me a spoon with my waffle cone."

That was The Nephew from the back seat on our way home after dinner and Oberweis.

"How do you expect to get the ice cream out?" asks Jim.

"With my tongue, like God intended," says The Nephew.

"I thought you didn't believe in God?" says Hedy.

"I believe in ice cream," says The Nephew.

"Amen."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Rock 'n Roll Jesus - Kid Rock
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scots by Margaret George
And I am: Unbelievably happy

But a bitch ain't one

Read this story from the Washington Post, then tell me Obama isn't fucking brilliant.

It makes him even cooler than we thought and wipes out the bullshit elitist label in one move.

And Hillary doesn't dare criticize his appreciation for rap music because, well, you know why.

Brilliant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you feelin like a pimp nigga, go and brush your shoulders off

Ladies is pimps too, go and brush your shoulders off

Niggaz is crazy baby, don't forget that boy told you

Get, that, dirt off your shoulder
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prediction: Within the next 48 hours Hillary will make reference to some inane pop song and parade out her iPod for public inspection.

Clinton Staffer #1: "But what are we gonna do? It's all fucking Barbara Streisand and that skinny bitch from Canada, whatshername? Celine Dion."

Clinton Staffer #2: "Get on iTunes. Now. Give her some Madonna - she's a whore, but she's from Michigan and they love us there - and Mariah Carey. Sprinkle in some of that soulful feminist crap from Sarah McLachlan and Dido, but for God's sake nothing too angry. No Alanis Morissette."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course this rap revelation does absolutely nothing to help Obama with the Crabby Old White Guy demographic. But they were never big fans anyway.

You just know Rush Limbaugh or someone like him will ask the question: "Do you people really WANT someone who listens to RAP MUSIC in the WHITE HOUSE?"

I guarantee they're looking up the lyrics now.

And it would be dubbed BallerGate, if those silly out of touch bastards actually knew what a baller was.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The best part of all this?

If Obama really is a Jay-Z fan, then he's definitely got 99 Problems on his iPod.

If you're having girl problems I feel bad for you son

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one

Brilliant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dirt Off Your Shoulder - Jay-Z
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scots by Margaret George
And I am: Chill

So now

"So now that you're unemployed maybe you could walk Max? Clean up his poop?" says You Know Who.

"Of course." I say.

"But you never clean up the poop at home," says Jim.

"I'm not getting paid for it."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: O.A.R. - Madison Square Garden
I am reading: That bitch from Scotland whatshername
And I am: Laughing

He gets my jokes

We three are on the back porch before dinner yesterday, soaking up the early Spring sun.

I'm finishing up a glass of water and trying to read about Mary Queen of Scots. Jim is smoking a cigar and yapping about yard projects.

Out of the Blue, Gromit begins barking because a) the neighbor's dog is barking, b) the neighbor's child is outside, c) the neighbor is outside, or d) all of the above, plus the fact that he happens to be OUTSIDE and that's just what he does.

In an effort to shut him up, I say "Grommie, you want some water?" and offer him my empty cup.

Yes.

Gromit will deign to sip from his bowl if he has to, but he prefers fresh water from a cup.

"OUT OF YOUR CUP, HEDY?"

Shaddap. If you ever met Gromit, you'd let him sip out of your cup, too. Seriously. He is one charming-ass dog.

Anyhoo.

As expected, the cup gets his attention and he walks over, well, expectantly. He sticks his snout in the cup and - surprise - no water.

It is at this point I swear he looks up at me with that classic "Ah, ya got me" look and LAUGHS RIGHT OUT LOUD. He opened his mouth and exhaled, just like a laugh, and his tail started wagging like mad.

So there ya go. I may be unemployed but at least I can make the dog laugh.

That's something, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Frogs out in the pond, birds out in the trees
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scotland by Margaret George
And I am: Really happy

Better days

Mom says she can hear it in my voice.

Things are better already.

I am officially unemployed again. But this time, it's just...FABULOUS.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Goo Goo Dolls - Better Days
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scotland and the Hoo Ha by Margaret George
And I am: Smiling

John Adams

I’ve been shit, I mean shut down for the past two days due to another odd virus.

Of course it could just be my body’s way of saying “WHY ARE YOU STILL WORKING IN THIS, THE SEVENTH RING OF HELL?”

But who knows.

The upside: I started watching HBO’s John Adams mini-series. Mostly because I didn’t have much else to do but lie/lay/whatever on the couch and moan occasionally, but also to get Jim to SHUT THE HELL UP about how much space the series is taking up on the DVR thingy.

“Do you know they’re 75 minutes each? 75 minutes.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to delete one of your precious License to Grill episodes now, would we? God forbid we do without ‘Godfather Italian Feast’ here.”

Anyhoo.

I didn’t expect to like the John Adams story so much – European history is more my thing – but it is truly outstanding.

And who knew Adams successfully defended the redcoats involved in the Boston Massacre? Fascinating.

Of the first two episodes, the best scene involves Adams, Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin editing Jefferson’s first draft of the Declaration of Independence.

This is a document that changed the world.

And these guys are sitting in what constitutes a colonial conference room, quibbling over what is ‘sacred and undeniable’ versus ‘self-evident.’

Can you imagine putting something like that together today?

Jefferson: “A draft (DOI_draft.doc) is attached. Track changes is on. Send your revisions ASAP.”

Franklin: “What do you think about Helvetica for the title? I’m liking purple. It really pops. And let’s definitely make the logo bigger.”

Adams: “I thought for sure you’d want Franklin Gothic.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: O.A.R. – Hey Girl
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles by Margaret George
And I am: Fine

Paging Mike Hunt

“Um, Heather? There's a Craven Morehead on the phone for you...do you want to take the call?"

That’s a co-worker via intercom Friday afternoon.

Of course I laugh.

There’s a customer whose last name is Morehead. So, logically, Craven got added to the list with Heywood Jablome and Ben Dover and Dick Gozinya and Phil McCracken.

"Are you gonna take this call or what?" he says insistently.

I assume there’s a real caller waiting.

"Seriously, who is Craven Morehead, really?" I say.

"Apparently YOU ARE!"

CLICK.

Still can’t believe I fell for that one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: More Than This – Roxy Music
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Still laughing

There's no explaining this one

I woke up this morning with the Irish Rovers' Unicorn song in my head.

What's worse, I really don't know the words.

So I was singing "The humpty back tigers and the Smithereens, some cats and bats and ratatats, but hmm hmm hmm hmm, hmm hmm hmm hmm THE UNICORN."

At the risk of implanting this song into your gourd, here's my "Purge The Unicorn" song list from iTunes:

Bloody Mary Morning - Willie Nelson
I Think Ill Just Stay Here and Drink - Merle Haggard
Uneasy Rider - Charlie Daniels Band
A Few More Rednecks - Charlie Daniels Band
Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys - Ed Bruce
East Bound and Down - Jerry Reed
Y'All Come Back Saloon - Oakridge Boys
King of the Road - Roger Miller
It Was Almost Like a Song - Ronnie Milsap
Sixteen Tons - Tennessee Ernie Ford
Good Hearted Woman - Waylon & Willie
Ghost Riders in the Sky - Johnny Cash & Willie Nelson
Beer for My Horses - Willie Nelson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Trying...to...purge...THE UNICORN
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Happy

Jungle love

"Federal employees charged millions of dollars for Internet dating, tailor-made suits, lingerie, lavish dinners and other questionable expenses to their government credit cards over a 15-month period, congressional auditors say."

That's really all you need to read from this AP story published today.

Okay, I lied.

You really should read the whole thing, especially this part:

"The review of card spending at more than a dozen departments from 2005 to 2006 found that nearly 41 percent of roughly $14 billion in credit-card purchases, whether legitimate or questionable, did not follow procedure — either because they were not properly authorized or they had not been signed for by an independent third party as called for in federal rules to deter fraud. For purchases over $2,500, nearly half — or 48 percent — were unauthorized or improperly received."

And this:

"Out of a sample of purchases totaling $2.7 million, the government could not account for hundreds of laptop computers, iPods and digital cameras worth more than $1.8 million. In one case, the U.S. Army could not say what happened to computer items making up 16 server configurations, each of which cost nearly $100,000."

But wait, here's the best part:

"At the State Department, one credit-card holder bought $360 worth of women's lingerie at Seduccion Boutique for use during jungle training by trainees of a drug enforcement program in Ecuador."

To summarize: Some government cock-hole used your tax dollars to meet a monkey via an Internet dating service, bought that hairy bitch some new squirrel covers and then fed her a fancy schmancy steak.

God, I love this country.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jungle Love - The Time
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Submitting my resume to the State Department

Gromit, Genius Dog

“C’mon, Gromit,” She says. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

But I, Gromit -- Genius Dog -- shall not be interrupted mid-sniff. And most certainly not whilst partaking in the wondrous waftings of a fresh pile of opossum poop.

However. I do detect abnormal urgency in She’s voice, so I cast a quick glance behind on the trail.

Ah.

Ah-ha.

I suspected as much.

A Shepherd. The German variety, I believe.

And She knows that I tend to be somewhat – shall we say – exuberant among these fair creatures due to fond memories of an ill-fated, beyond-the-fence love affair with a gorgeous, energetic Fraulein named Ufta which ended tragically when She and He abruptly decided to MOVE me from MY YARD where I’d been peeing quite HAPPILY since I was a mere pup. But I digress.

She knows my proclivities so She is rushing Sunday Walkies in an attempt to avoid said Shepherd.

I, Genius Dog, shall have none of this.

In order to be certain She understands my opinion on the serious matter of Shepherd avoidance, I look directly into her batty brown eyes.

And slowly. Quite deliberately.

Sit.

“Gromit Dog! Move!” She yells, yanking my Leash.

When She uses my surname, I know She means business.

But of course this only elicits my patented Withering Stare of Defiance, followed by the Disinterested Yawn and (patent pending) Brief Wiener Inspection.

The He walking the Shepherd laughs, so I join in the merriment. Soon we are all laughing at She, pulling frantically on my Leash.

She gives in. Defeated yet again by Gromit, Genius Dog.

I contain my mirth and leap rapturously for the succulent Shepherd, who sadly passes with nary a glance for yours truly. Bitch.

Walkies re-commence.

“Asshole Dog,” She says, under her breath.

I don’t know about you, but I am of the opinion that only those of the lowest intellect resort to name-calling. Don’t you agree?

Slightly altering this evening’s already hectic schedule, I pencil in “give She a particularly sloppy set of kisses” immediately following my regular après-poop tongue-on-butt scrub.

Asshole. Dog. Indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: That insufferable hound two yards over
I am reading: Hello? Nothing. I'm a DOG
And I am: Gromit, Genius Dog

From an e-mail I sent to a co-worker today

With all the names/places experg...expirg...DELETED to protect the innocent:

I’ve been contacting [the president of ] a large trader's group in [major western city] since I started here – sending e-mails & voice mails at least once a month, usually more often – trying to get them to let us sponsor and present at one of their events. We're offering to pay for the room/food/bev in exchange for doing an hour-long presentation on our product.

Never once got a response.

On Friday, a competitor that I met at the New York show told me he was heading to [major western city] to do a presentation for the same group I've been trying to contact, so I said “HEY – ask [the president] why he's not responding to me, would ya please?”

Here’s the IM from today:

Heather: what did he say?
Paul: well...picture this
Paul: sitting at a table with 15 of these [city] people
Paul: when I bring up your name
Paul: and [my company]
Paul: so they were using [my software]
Paul: and they loved the platform
Paul: but they said the owner was a real dick
Heather: that would be my boss
Paul: they left [my company] due to him
Heather: amazing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Bloody Mary Morning - Willie Nelson
I am reading: Lemonade, a short story by Maxine Clair
And I am: Not surprised, oddly enough

Only outlaws will have pillows

Did you hear? Those crazy Brits have outlawed Samurai swords, of all things.

I'm guessing it's what finally killed that old coot Charlton Heston.

"Samurai swords are part of Japanese history and genuine artifacts can change hands for large sums of money. But in recent years there has been a trade in reproductions which can be bought over the Internet for as little as £35 and they have been used in several attacks."

Several attacks? Jeez, no wonder they banned 'em.

Actually, according to this web site, there have been upwards of 80 sword attacks in England over the past four years. That's roughly 20 per year.

"Care for a spot of tea, Charles?"

"How can you think about tea at a time like this, Camilla? I'm simply overwrought by this Samurai sword crisis. It's got my smalls all scrunched."

"Let me help you with that."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
According to this fascinating little tool brought to you by the CDC, there were 2,097 cut/pierce homicides per 100,000 in the United States in 2005 (the most recent stats available.)

Homicide suffocation deaths per 100,000 for the same year: 633.

Yes, I understand there are more of us silly Americans and therefore more of us silly homicidal Americans.

But Charlton Heston is DEAD, people.

And when pillows are outlawed, only the outlaws will have pillows. Seriously. Moses has left the building so there's no one left to protect us from the bleeding-heart Brits and Michael 'I'm a fat retard' Moore types.

So I say use your guns to protect your pillows and swords, and don't give up without a fight.

Now I'm off to get a new bumper sticker.

It'll be 'You will take my pillow when you pry it from my cold dead hand' or 'Charlton Heston is My (dead) President.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Chris Matthews show
I am reading: Everything
And I am: Re-loading

The anti-Christ of chocolate

I'm just gonna throw this out there: White chocolate is the anti-Christ of chocolates.

Think about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: A Few More Rednecks - The Charlie Daniels Band
I am reading: Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay
And I am: Born again

User error

As my friend Pos said, it's been a rough week technology-wise.

Last night was the capper.

After nothing but Cheetos and Cheerios for dinner all week - Jim's been in California - I decide it's time to pull out all the stops and make a frozen pizza.

Standing in front of the oven for what is probably the first time since Thanksgiving, I hit the BAKE button. I punch 4 - 5 - 0 on the numbered panel like a pro.

I push START.

"PUSH START" flashes from the tiny screen on the oven.

"I am pushing start," I say to the oven.

I push START again.

"PUSH START" flashes the screen somewhat indignantly.

"I AM PUSHING START!" I scream at the oven.

That's when I realize I'm pushing the START button for the lower oven, not the top oven. In which the frozen pizza is waiting to bake.

Last time I try to cook. Ever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Modest Mouse - Missed the Boat
I am reading: Homework
And I am: Domestically impaired

More irony

I signed up for a creative writing class at the University of Chicago. It started Monday night. But since then I haven't been able to write much.

Back soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I Write Sins Not Tragedies - Panic at the Disco
I am reading: Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer
And I am: Empty-Hed'd

I’ll bite on Wright

“Okay, I gotta ask,” says Mom this morning. “How come you haven’t written about Obama and that Wright minister?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been trying to stay clear of writing on anything religious lately.”

Neil Steinberg wrote a short piece on it yesterday in the Sun-Times and acquitted Obama quite nicely as we’ve come to expect. You can read it here.

My man Steinberg is always good for leveling the playing field by drawing comparisons to similar situations throughout history. It works most of the time.

However, as Mom is quick to point out, Obama is a member of Wright’s church and has been for 20 years. We also know that, at least since Harvard and possibly much earlier, Obama has wanted to run for president.

So if this preacher spent every single Sunday spewing the kind of hateful crap YouTube has made him famous for, I’m guessing Obama would’ve left a long time ago – simply to avoid any kind of major political fallout.

The fact is, these are sound bites. Offered up by the media. And we know that no one in the media ever, ever has an agenda, right?
~~~~~~~~~
This is what’s most ironic and interesting about Wright: This golden-robe wearin' dude is a hardcore, rolling-around-the-aisles, speaking-in-tongues Evangelical Christian.

Where are all the right wing-nuts who proclaimed Obama is secretly a radical Muslim set to destroy our fragile Christian nation if elected?

If anything, this silly non-scandal was orchestrated by the Obamites themselves to crush any last vestige of the Muslim rumors.

Can I get an amen here? Hallelujah!
~~~~~~~~~
I know you’re not running for office. But indulge me.

There’s at least one person you know and love who says crazy-ass, embarrassing shit once in a while.

If you were running for office, would you abandon this friend or relative because of their views? Of course not.

“Is it true, Ms. W_______, that your husband Jim believes Jesus Christ was an alien and will eventually return to take all the half-human/half-aliens back home in the Mother Ship? And don’t you think this is a problem with you running for Queen of the Neighborhood?”

“Yes, it’s true. My husband believes he is descended from aliens. What does that have to do with Gort! Klaatu barada niktu!”

Listen. Obama’s doing everything he can – more than any candidate in history quite frankly – to make sure we know where he stands on the issues.

So he’s got at least one freaky acquaintance.

So what? This makes him like the rest of us. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Ghost Riders in the Sky – Johnny Cash
I am reading: Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer
And I am: Gort!

I heart today

Of course with Da retired now, my morning calls home will be forever changed.

I decide it’s critical to set the proper tone straight away so he understands the true nature of these important conversations:

“It’s your first day of retirement, Da. Try to do something special today, even if it’s just Mom.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
On one of the train rides home last week, I glanced behind the flip-down seats up top and saw this:









I, too, am a big fan of the crunchy-yummy goodness that is uniquely egg roll.

And while I can’t imagine proclaiming this deep and most definitely unrequited love to the world via train graffito, I understand the courage and passion behind it.

Of course the cynic in me says this is yet another way that commercialization is creeping into every aspect of our lives.

Although if that were the case, it probably would’ve said: “I heart Panda Express” or “I heart Manchu Wok” or some other fast food Asian fare.

Still, it’s got me thinking about a really good egg roll. And that's never a bad thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~
By now you’ve heard of Hillary’s Bosnian debacle.

She was caught regaling her misguided minions with stories of how her husband’s administration often sent her to parts of the world deemed too dangerous for the president.

Sure, she lied (repeatedly) about landing ‘under fire’ in Tuzla.

But on this particular topic, I actually believe her.

Seriously.

I’m the most powerful man on the planet. I’m married to a complete battle-axe.

I’m sending her ass to every war zone in the world in hopes she might not make it home.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Skyway – The Replacements
I am reading: Into the Wild by John Krakauer
And I am: Doing something special today

Da works

He never complained about work.

Forty years in the same place – Mom and Eric will confirm this – and we never heard him complain about it.

It’s remarkable enough that he went to the same place every day for 40 years. Fifty hours a week. On his feet. Lifting, building, moving.

But he never complained.

Da works. It’s what he does. It is what he’s always done. And it is simply inconceivable that he won’t be working anymore.

We’ve known today would come.

Today is his last day at the place he’s gone to every day for as long as I’ve been alive.

Forty years. Never complaining. Just working. It’s what he does.

We’ve struggled with what to say to him about retirement because it’s hard to imagine this new life he’s going to have.

That kind of freedom is hard to fathom. If the rest of us are struggling with the idea of him retiring, I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s feeling and thinking right now.

Of course your first instinct is to try and be helpful. I was going to make a list of the things I’d do if I’m Da.

But this isn’t about me or what I’d do.

It’s about him.

And it’s about goddamn time he gets a break. It’s about time he’s not doing what anyone else wants or needs him to do.

So have a ball, Da. Do everything or do nothing.

For the first time in a long time, this is your time. Enjoy it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Johnny Nash – I Can See Clearly Now
I am reading: Grisham’s The Innocent Man (it’s getting better)
And I am: Working

Why I'm here, still

Mom was born on this day in 1945.

Of course she's the reason why I'm here, but more importantly, she also is the reason why I am still here.

Any good decision in my life - any good thing, period - is because of her.

Thanks, Mom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I'll Follow the Sun - The Beatles
I am reading: The Innocent Man by John Grisham (still waiting for it to get good)
And I am: Blessed

New soul

“She woke up every day like it was the first day of her life."

That was Da, describing my maternal grandmother, Alma, during one of our long dinner table family reminisce-sessions a while back.

It’s true. It’s how Grandma lived her life.

Think about it. Wouldn’t it be great?

You mean waking up in your own piss screaming at the top of your lungs ‘cause you’re hungry?

No, silly.

To be able to shed all of the damage the world does to us on a daily basis and live as if you’ve never been hurt or disappointed or scared. To start each day with a sense of joyful wonder – and to share that incredible energy with every person you meet.

That’s what she did. She’s been gone more than 20 years, but her legacy lives in everyone she knew and loved.

She’s an inspiration. Today and every day.

And somehow I know she’s never really too far away.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: New Soul – Yael Naim
I am reading: The Innocent Man by John Grisham
And I am: New

Murder by numbers

Five years. 4,000 Americans.

Assume two parents and at least one sibling each, plus a couple of grandparents. That’s at least 20,000 surviving family members oh so proud of their son, daughter, grandson, granddaughter, sister or brother but oh so fearful they’d die alone and afraid in this ugly mess half way around the world.

Assume at least half of these patriots left behind someone special who hasn't slept much, wondering if they’d ever get another hug, another kiss, another sweet smile, another laugh together. 2,000+ hearts broken.

Assume at least a quarter of them had a child or maybe two. 1,500 kids who’ll never, ever know their brave mommy or daddy.

Assume all of them left behind at least one childhood friend or maybe a beer-drinking buddy. Another 4,000.

Unimaginable, exponential grief.

For greed and ego and stupidity.

This isn’t a war. It’s the worst kind of travesty.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mad World – Sara Hickman
I am reading: The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins
And I am: Stranded

Kenya!

I'm home, but my brain is still on the beach.

So here's something to keep you kiddies occupied until its triumphant return:

Kenya!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kenya!
I am reading: Atonement by Ian Mcewan
And I am: Flaking off

Mas felicidad!

Upon arrival it is hot and humid. The locals are extremely friendly.

And most importantly, text messaging works.

It is at this moment I decide to inject a little of the local flavor into every message home for the duration of our stay.

ME: We made it por favor buenos muchos!

JIM: Cool your phone works? Is it hot there?

ME: Mochos caliente! But ugly so far.

JIM: Que?

ME: El ride-o from el aeroport-o esta Rosie O’Donnell.

JIM: Your taxi driver is a fat lesbian?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s amazing how much better the tequila tastes here.

Saul, our bartender, says any time we want more shots we should shout “Mas felicidad!” which I’m pretty sure is Spanish for “I’m a drunken American whore!”

Like the Internet service here in Cancun, my posts will be unreliable and irritating for the next few days.

Hola esta bonita burrito Don Gato ai carrumba! Dos Equis! Corona! Si!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Soccer on the tv in the hotel lobby
I am reading: Not a goddamn thing
And I am: Crispy

Uh-oh moment

“What the HELL is this crazy broad doing?”

That was the dude walking behind me on the way from the parking lot to the 7:42 train this morning.

Every few steps I’d stop, bend over, and stare intently at my shoes.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” I tell Mom.

“What?”

“I’m wearing two different colored shoes.”

“No.”

“Yes. One black. One brown.”

“Well,” she says between laughs. “It’s a good excuse to go out at lunch and buy some new ones.”
~~~~~~~~~~
You’ve had one of those days.

It’s a stain on your shirt. Or a missing button.

Or maybe two different colored socks.

The whole day you’ve got this vaguely uncomfortable feeling, because it’s all SHOES! LOOK AT MY SHOES! I AM AN IDIOT! WITH SHOES!

SHOES! SHOES! SHOES!
~~~~~~~~~~
Fun fact: Did you know that ‘shouting at your shoes’ is a British euphemism for barfing?

I briefly entertain the thought of throwing up on my shoes so no one will notice they’re different.

VOMIT! VOMIT SHOES! SHOE VOMIT!
~~~~~~~~~~
Shoes, Hedy? What happened? Is this job from hell thing affecting you that much?

That would be a fabulous excuse, but no.

It was dark. I grabbed two of the same shoe from the closet and put them on.

Here’s the deal: I’m not a shopper. On the great continuum of fashion consciousness, I’ve been in a persistent vegetative state since 1979.

So if I find a pair of shoes that are remotely comfortable and look good, I usually buy them in different colors.

The worst part? This isn't the first time the wrong shoe thing has happened.

Although last time it was way worse.

One navy blue pump. One brown. Plus I was wearing a skirt.

Now THAT was a day for SHOES!
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Paolo Nutini – New Shoes
I am reading: The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins
And I am: SHOES!

Putting the ass in assignation

Spitzer.

How long before his last name becomes a fun little euphemism for idiots who pay wayyyy tooooo much for anonymous ass?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
According to the Chicago Tribune, his wiener is a crime scene.

Yes. His wiener. Is a crime scene.

Tiny yellow bits of tape. Trampled manscaping. Chubby little frowny-faced cops scrambling around his ballsack shouting ‘nothing to see here, folks’.

And your intrepid reporter, newshound Hedy, straddling the scene.

“Back to you, Peter.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Assignation.

I guess that’s what you call it when you pay $5500 dollars for a piece of ass.

What do you call a $5 handjob from a one-armed junkie prostitute in a bathroom stall at a bar across from the train station in Aurora?

In the case of at least one loyal HedyBlog reader: A possible family reunion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the way, this is the smart guy who beat me to the ass/assignation thing.

It popped into my head on Monday after seeing that strange, wonderful word in the Washington Post or the New York Times or somewhere.

If I’d published when I thought of it…anyway, here’s to you, Chat Wrecker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Editorial note: In this section, I was going to pick on Spitzer's wife for staying with him. The brilliant, diabolical plan involved drawing an unkind comparison between Silda Spitzer and Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton.

But it wouldn't be right because I honestly don't know what I'd do in that situation.

Wait. Yes I do.

"FIFTY-FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME? Next time, get a $5 handjob from the one-armed junkie prostitute and I'LL GO SHOPPING."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What is with these high-flying Democrats who risk everything for meaningless moments of muff?

If you’re a politician and you find the need to stray, at least get a little freaky with it like that tap-dancin’-in-the-crapper Republican from Idaho or that other dude from Florida with his penchant for hot young male congressional pages.

And I don’t care how much it costs, there’s no puss on the planet worth the pain and humiliation of losing your family, your career and your reputation.

Of course I’ve never paid $5500 for an hour-long assignation, so what the hell do I know?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Shirley Bassey - Where Do I Begin (Away Team Mix)
I am reading: The God Delusion
And I am: So ready for sunshine and sandy toes

God is in the details

The young blond man sitting up top on the 5:49 train is coughing.

Coughing, coughing.

Serious up-a-lung coughing.

An older gentleman two seats away reaches into his backpack and pulls out a pack of Ricola cough drops. He smiles and leans over, passing the bright yellow bag to the gagger.

This small moment – missed by most – is when I catch a glimpse of what you might call God.

So let’s take all of the rhetoric and concern about what really happens when we die and put it up against this small, infinitely important moment.

Because to me, what we do while we’re here matters most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: My Chemical Romance – Dead!
I am reading: The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins
And I am: Detail-oriented

The definition of irony

Your Mom is pissed at you for writing about your beliefs about God, one of which is that beliefs about God have divided friends and family since the beginning of time.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Winter 2008 workout mix
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Tired

God vs. the Internet

When I ask the Internet a question, it provides an answer immediately. I stopped asking God questions a long time ago because he never, ever answers.

The Internet makes it easier than ever to connect with friends and family. Beliefs about God have divided friends and family since the beginning of time.

Better still, the Internet connects people who don’t even know each other from all over the world. Sadly, the world remains divided over religion and God doesn’t seem to be doing much to help that.

If I am ever lonely, I can talk to my friends via Instant Messenger or Skype – day or night. When I’m lonely, that’s when God feels the most far away.

When I want something, the Internet helps me find it and get it. When I pray to God for something, there are absolutely no guarantees it will ever arrive, let alone on time and with free Super Saver shipping.

All you need is a browser to access the Internet. If you want to get to heaven and see God, there are a bazillion different rules you have to follow and still there are no guarantees.

Nobody ever killed anybody because the Internet told them to do it. More people have died for God than any other cause on the planet.

When something bad happens, the Internet lets the world know what can and should be done about it. When something bad happens, God is silent.

Thanks to WiFi, I have Internet access everywhere, all the time. To feel closer to God, the accepted practice is to go to a church or synagogue or mosque.

I know the Internet exists because I’ve seen it. Of course the Internet does go out occasionally, but that’s because of those godless fuckers at the cable company. But at least it’s here and works most of the time.

The jury’s still out on God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Corrs – Borrowed Heaven
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Fine

Any given Sunday

“Should we put a picture in the paper for our 10 year anniversary?” I ask, glancing over the Keepsakes section of the Sunday Beacon News this morning.

“I don’t know,” says Jim. “But we really need to figure out where we wanna go for that.”

“I think we should go . . . oh, I dunno. . .where do you wanna go?"

“I think we should go to the Vatican," he says. "Because it’s a fucking miracle we’ve made it this long.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Matchbox Twenty – How Far We’ve Come
I am reading: Post Secret
And I am: Giggly

It's the economy, stupid

It's the economy, stupid.

It is without question the best, brightest statement that came out of the Clinton family's first presidential bid. It got him elected. Twice.

James Carville sure is creepy, ain't he? Like an aging Gremlin. But you gotta admit the guy is brilliant.

So here we are again. In the economic crapper with a Clinton on the campaign trail.

She should win in a walk. Seriously. If she wasn't such an unlikeable shrew, she could do it.

And I really, really hate to say this, but if it meant our economy would get back on track, I'd be okay with another Clinton in the White House.

Now I'm gonna go take a shower because I feel dirty having said that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The voices in my head
I am reading: Nothing important
And I am: Nuts, I know

The watching of the weight

My whole office – except for the skinny people, damn them straight to hell – is on a popular weight-watching program.

Meetings once a week. Over-priced, portion-controlled snacks. Clapping.

I went for the first time yesterday.

Perhaps it was the weigh-in. Or the group therapy atmosphere.

But I felt like sobbing uncontrollably from the moment I stepped in the room.

Then it began.

“Tell me one thing you did over the past week that would make Fat Watchers proud of you,” says a mousy little group leader.

I involuntarily burst out laughing. The chicks sitting closest stare angrily as if I’ve taken the last doughnut on the tray.

What I want to say: “Hi, my name is Heather. I only ate half a bag of crunchy Cheetos for dinner last night.”

What I say: Nothing, whilst making every attempt to wipe the silly-ass, Cheeto-eating grin from my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This program is similar to AA, so a co-worker Who Shall Remain Nameless happens to be the only man at the meeting among 30 or so women. Back at the office, I remind him of this fact.

“Don’t you love the odds?” I say. “Like fish in a barrel.”

“No WAY,” he says, shaking his head vehemently.

"Are you kidding? It’s a target-rich environment: You're the only guy in a room full of women with low self-esteem and self control issues. It just doesn’t get any better than that."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are two eating options.

With the first, you eat whatever the hell you want but you calculate the point value before putting anything in your mouth. On the other plan you eat anything you want from a certain Approved Menu consisting of mostly strange vegetables starting with the letter ‘k’.

I am not a math person but the idea of eating what I want on the points program is appealing.

So I tune out mouse-woman, and crack open the starter kit to look up the points for pizza, steak, sushi, whiskey and potato chips.

Let’s just say that what I found does not bode well for the points system.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I don’t think this is going to work,” I tell Jim at dinner. “Can’t I just go back on Vicodin?”

I remind him how, a few years ago, in spite of being laid up for several months with a torn ACL quickly followed by a broken knee, I lost a ton of weight because of the fabulous drugs my doctors gave me.

“Why don’t you just try crystal meth if you want to use drugs to lose weight?” he says helpfully. “Wait. Heroin’s better. Meth would ruin your teeth.”

“That’s the plan then. Heroin. But only for a month. Two, tops.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We’re not 10 minutes into the meeting when it happens. The Monopolizer takes over.

On the extremely rare occasions I’ve found myself in small group meeting situations (ill-fated book clubs, plus a brief stint with a Jungian dream interpretation group – now THAT was trippy), there is always one person who monopolizes the group.

The Monopolizer.

She’s got a bazillion questions that only apply to her unique situation. She interrupts the presentation. She tells long, pointless stories about her favorite topic: Herself.

And any value you hoped to derive from attending is lost because half the meeting is taken up by her yapping while you spend the other half devising creatively abusive ways of eliminating her from the group.

“GROUP? MEETING? HELLO? SHADDAP AND LET SOMEONE ELSE SPEAK, YOU SILLY SELF-ABSORBED WHORE.”

Just like that.

Turns out our fierce little fat-fighting group has not one, but two Monopolizers. Fabulous.

I’ve got an hour for lunch. I’m supposed to be listening to some skinny bitch inspire me to stop eating crap food, instead it's two attention-starved twats duking it out for Queen of the Meeting.

The stress of all this makes me want to run straight down to the Pot Belly sammich place in the lobby for 50 whopping, wonderful points of toasted ham and cheese on crusty bread followed by an entire bag of their famous mini oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Can I try one of those 1-point snacks you have?” I ask a co-worker, having foregone the Potbelly fantasy.

“Banana or lemon?” she asks.

I go with banana and she hands over a tiny, plastic-wrapped piece of cake that I could easily pop into my mouth whole.

It’s gone in seconds and I’m already contemplating ways to lure her out of her office so I can sneak in and grab five more of these little banana fluff cakes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, the program makes sense.

But I don’t need to pay them $12 a week to learn that Cheetos are not a major food group while listening to lonely women yap.

I could just break my knee again. It would be considerably less painful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Queen – Fat Bottomed Girls
I am reading: Series 3 study materials
And I am: Disgusted with myself

Outstanding

Your morning walk from the train station is uneventful.

You push your way through the revolving doors. You swipe the ID. The light turns green and you hit the turnstile.

The Masters of the Universe gather in this, the most venerable of buildings.

Of course today is no different so you’re the only woman in an elevator jammed with men. The traders bound out at four like always. A few more exit at six.

You’re all that’s left in the lift save a white-haired gentleman leaning on a shiny wooden cane.

“FINALLY!” he says with a grin. “I never thought I’d get you alone.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you say, playing along.

The next stop is yours. The doors open. You turn to smile before stepping off.

“I hope it was good for you,” he says.

“Outstanding, thanks.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Louis Armstrong – A Kiss to Build a Dream On
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Delighted

The learning turd

“Hed. Just tell me his name.”

That’s my brother Eric calling from Michigan. Mom told him about my Turd of a boss.

“And where do you work again?”

If you have (or are) a sister or daughter, you understand the No One Fucks with My Girl phenomenon. And it’s obvious my only brother is only half serious so it’s cool and scary and funny all at once.

“The thing is,” I say, avoiding his questions. “There’s a lesson in this. I just have to figure out what it is.”

“Right,” says Eric. “Do that. In the mean time, what’s this guy’s name again?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Picture this, Hedy,” says Mom yesterday morning. “Your father and your brother coming to Chicago, to your office.”

“Turd, I’d like you to meet my family,” I say, making the fantasy my own.

“Yes. Da on one side, puts his arm around the little Turd. Eric on the other side, pats him on the head…” she continues.

“And then they proceed to beat the living shit out of him.”

We laugh, knowing in some crazy parallel universe that is exactly what would happen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“There’s a lesson in this,” I tell Mom later. “You know I have anger issues. I snap occasionally. Maybe the lesson here is that by dealing with someone who has off-the-charts anger issues I can see a small part of myself in him and get better.”

“Maybe,” Mom says, careful to avoid saying anything that might, well, make me angry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You weren’t here when he got beat up, were you?” asks the office manager.

“No,” I say. “Someone beat him up? Here, in the office?”

“Yes,” she says. “The guy was a floor trader and an ex Navy Seal. Arms like this. It was awful. But he had it coming.”

I let out a nervous laugh thinking about the familial fantasy from earlier in the day.

“But the really sad part is, he’s been here 20 years and you couldn’t find one person in this entire building who would say a kind word about him.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The guy obviously has issues. Serious anti-social issues.

On my bad days, I take it personally. Whine to friends and family. Eat Fudge Stripes. Lotsa Fudge Stripes.

On my good days I let his insanity roll off like so much acid rain.

But through all of it, I’ve been a bit of a turd myself.

Describing him here. Judging him. Laughing at him.

Rather than trying to understand him, I’ve vilified him. Rather than being compassionate, I’ve been cruel.

Which makes me no better than him.

So I think that’s the lesson. Yep. I think that’s it.

What if it isn’t, Hed?

Then I’m really looking forward to the next time my family comes to visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: New Soul – Yael Naim
I am reading: Neil in the Sun-Times
And I am: Getting there

The turdliness continues

“Did you talk to Ryan?” asks the Turd yesterday afternoon, passing my office on his way out the door. “His 30 days are up.”

Ryan is the admin guy we hired last month after the Great Turd Explosion of 2008. We agreed that after 30 days we’d decide if he was working out.

“I thought you and I were going to talk about it,” I say.

He shakes his head in frustration.

“No, you were supposed to speak with him first.”

I figure there’s really nothing to lose here and I’m not about to be bested in the management department by the likes of this insufferable douchebag, who I wouldn’t trust running a pay-per-squat shithouse at the county fair.

“Since he started we’ve been speaking on a weekly basis, often daily, and based on his progress and feedback, I’d say he was a very good hire.”

Now at this point, if you are a rational, sane person, you’d probably say something like “I’m glad to hear he’s working out.”

Nope.

The Turd frowns, and yells:

“Well he BETTER BE, or HE’S OUT!”

Then he stormed off.

It was a good thing, too, because I burst out laughing.

Who says shit like that?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mendelssohn's Spring Song
I am reading: This article from the New York Times
And I am: Giggly

Flower house

"Welcome to the Garfield Park Conservatory," says the smiling woman sitting at the desk in the lobby. "Could I have your zip code please?"

And that's all she wants.

You're about to enter a miracle. A tropic isle in the center of cold, gray Chicago.

And there's NO ADMISSION.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You open the door and Humidity hugs you like an old friend. Your glasses fog up. You breathe deeply. Again and again.

"You okay back there?" says your husband, turning to smile at you.

"Just soaking it up," you say.

Your mother-in-law leans over to sniff a gardenia. You do the same. So does the older couple walking behind you.

It smells like happiness.

But Jim is right: "Just the smell of warm wet dirt would be enough."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's been the Flower House to Jim's Mom ever since she was a little girl, walking there with her father on weekends.

Going on a cold winter day became a tradition for us over 10 years ago.

Of course this year's trip was especially necessary what with one of the longest, coldest, snowiest and blowiest Chicago winters in recent memory.

But five seconds after stepping into the Palm House - all the ugliness is forgotten - as your lungs wake up to fresh, moist air and your sad, dry skin soaks up the humidity like that sad, dried up sponge that's been sitting on the corner of your utility sink since you moved into the house four years ago.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's a small bit of sadness at leaving the heat of the Palm House for the cooler, dryer Show House, but the flowers, ahhh the flowers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"OHHHH, this is the BEST room!"

That was a smiling six-year-old boy, yelling what the rest of us were thinking as we stepped into the Fern Room.

He's right. It is the best. But it's all good here at the Garfield Park Conservatory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: NBC news
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Refreshed

Obama '08

We're running errands Saturday afternoon.

"See that?" I say, pointing to an Obama '08 bumper sticker on the BMW next to us. "I wanna get one."

"Oh yeah?" says Jim. "Where exactly do you think you're gonna put it?"

"In your butt."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gromit sighing next to me
I am reading: Steinberg in the Sun-Times
And I am: Obama-riffic

The miracle of science

According to BusinessWeek, researchers at the University of Washington "are developing a contact lens that projects images in front of the wearer's eyes."

The smart lenses are designed to notify you of incoming calls or e-mails.

The best part? Apparently these amazing new lenses are currently being tested on rabbits.

Who knew bunnies had cell phones, let alone e-mail?

Truly a miracle of science.

And as they say at my favorite news site Fark, "still no cure for cancer."
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Tasmin Little - The Naked Violin
I am reading: BusinessWeek
And I am: Bunnylicious

It's a good day when

You discover you have yet another thing in common with someone you already really like.
Someone you haven't heard from in months sends you an e-mail outta the blue.
Your hair cooperates.
The lights are green.
No one yells.
You laugh and cry in the same conversation.
Your smiling dog licks your face.
The sun is out for the first time in weeks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Good Day Sunshine - The Beatles
I am reading: Wired magazine
And I am: Grateful

In the vernacular of the peasantry

She’s sitting down below. But her voice is cutting a powerful, destructive swath through the entire train car. She’s a Category 3 Yapper.

And her mouth is goin’ like a Whip-poor-will’s ass.

A Whip-poor-will’s ass, Hedy?

Yep.

This is a lovely, colorful colloquila…colloquilia…coloquilias…eh, fuck it, expression that us Michiganders use for when someone is talking way too much.

I’ve always wondered if Whip-poor-wills tend to poop a lot. Or maybe they’re just really really fast. No clue.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bonus points if you know from whence came the title of today’s blog.

Jesus. It took me 15 minutes to figure out how to write that sentence and I still ain't sure it's right.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shit-ass is another Michigan phrase. Shit-ass is what Da called us kids when we were being punks. Punks. Another oft-used Michigan word. Occasionally combined with ass. For punk-ass. Not to be confused with shit-ass.

So, to review. Hedy still doesn’t know how to spell colloquilia…whatever. We have lots of quaint ass-related phrases from whence I came.

And that'll be enough yapping for today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Deeper Than the Holler by Randy Travis
I am reading: Jigging in the afterlife
And I am: Getting a dictionary

The fars are all about fear

“It’ll be me, my daughter and her friend who writes for _____ magazine,” says a co-worker. “Will you join us for dinner Saturday night?”

Seriously? Dinner with a professional journalist? In New York?

“Of COURSE!” I say. “FABULOUS.”

I haven’t read his particular publication all that much, so I take 10 minutes before booth duty to Google the writer and learn more about him.

I’m from the Midwest. While we do our best to avoid generalizations, we tend to believe that people living on the far right (New York) and far left (Los Angeles) coasts are more liberal.

So I was shocked to discover that I’d traveled all the way to New York to dine with one of the most hard-core conservative journalists on the planet.

And me, an Obama girl. Yikes.
~~~~~~~~~~~
We’re through appetizers and the first of two ridiculously delicious bottles of wine when it starts.

“And tell me, what the hell has Obama DONE?” says the journalist.

“And his middle name is HUSSEIN!” says the daughter.

“And he has no international experience!” says the journalist.

“And his middle name is HUSSEIN!” says the daughter again just in case we didn’t hear it.

This goes on for about 15 minutes until my co-worker glances over and says “Looks like you’re outnumbered, Heather.”

Shocked silence. Then feigned embarrassment followed by pseudo-sincere apologies.

“OH, we didn’t KNOW…we’re so SORRY…my mom actually likes Obama.”

It was rather odd, honestly. Because I wasn’t offended.

I actually ENJOY hearing opinions different from my own – I’m comfortable enough supporting my views and love love love it when people are informed and confident enough to do the same.

I explained how Obama appeals to people like me because he talks about what we can do, rather than what we can’t do. He talks about personal responsibility and education and working together to make a difference rather than fear, negativity and politics as usual. I said Obama - more than any candidate in my lifetime - stands to unite our country. I said Obama’s popularity is an indictment of the Bush administration’s reckless disregard for the electorate and that the Republican party and McCain will suffer for it for years to come. I told them my only concern was that Obama seems to be peaking early.

It's obvious I've scored a few points when out of the clear blue the daughter mentions the fact that the journalist was a Rhodes Scholar.

Woop-dee-freakin’-doo.

It was the educational equivalent of whipping out your wiener.

As if something like that would impress someone like me, a college dropout from suburban Detroit who finally finished her undergrad at the ripe ol’ age of 36.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“So who do you like to read?” I ask, curious how this brainiac high-dollar scholar spends his down time.

“Well, I like this writer from one of the Chicago papers,” says the journalist. “Mark Steyn. And I like Ann Coulter.”

Yikes.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I don’t care if you’re on the extreme right or left, the language seems to be the same: It’s all us vs. them, hate vs. love and fear vs. hope.

These are people who are all about freedom of speech until you disagree with them.

These are people who believe it’s harmless entertainment when Ann Coulter says it’s a good idea to invade Muslim countries, kill their leaders and convert all of them to Christianity.

These are people who will tell you that the government has the solution to all of your problems.

People who seriously ought to know better but enjoy the power that comes with playing on the fears and prejudices of the ignorant.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Aren’t you being elitist yourself by calling certain people ignorant, Hedy?

Not really. Now more than ever, knowledge is free. It takes nothing but time.

Here’s how I define ignorance: People who willfully avoid educating themselves to improve their lives. People who willfully avoid educating themselves about other cultures; people who are content condemning others rather than trying to understand them.

And that, my friends, is the trouble with the fars.

Far right. Far left. They’re all about fear.

The far right wants to control the ignorant by playing on their fears that the world is nothing but One Big Threat and the government will protect People Like Us and Our Way of Life from Them and Their Dangerous and Different Ideas.

The far left wants to control the ignorant by playing to their fears that they’re not good enough or capable enough to do anything without government assistance, intervention, and supervision.

It’s elitist on both sides. But it's the worst when it is sitting across the dinner table from you, wearing its education like a star and pretending to be enlightened.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Another incomprehensible episode of Lost
I am reading: Anything but a certain journalist
And I am: A little tired of all of it

Saying no to CFLs

This could spark controversy, but I am taking a stand against the new eco-friendly compact fluorescent light (CFL) bulbs.

For shame, Hedy. Don't you care about the environment?

Hell yes, I care about the environment.

But I care more about MY environment.

Have you heard? These new-fangled fluorescents last up to 15 times longer than regular bulbs.

Terrible. TERRIBLE news for domestically challenged chicks like me, who clean light fixtures only when forced into it by burnt bulbs.

You know what I’m talking about. Admit it.

You flip the switch and hear that unmistakable metallic POP! You piss and moan about it for at least two weeks, coming up with creative ways to cope. You play Sock Surprise every morning, hoping that the two dark strangers you yank from the drawer are at least in the same region of the rainbow. The flashlight becomes your best friend; you spend so much time together that you name him Pablo and thank him every day for keeping you from peeing in the dark.

Wait. Maybe not that last part. Who names a flashlight Pablo?

Anyhoo.

Finally, after you’ve clipped your toe nails, cleaned the dryer lint thingy, and organized the dog toys by color, texture and spit saturation, there’s just no more avoiding the light bulb change. The lowliest of chores.

So you bust out the stepladder. You contemplate the wattage, doing your very best Jedi mind trick (thesearethebulbsI'mlookingfor), willing the burnt bulb above to be whatever random replacement you scrounged from the cupboard. 25? 60? 150? You curse that sonovabitch Thomas Edison and his whore of a mother just because it feels so good.

You loosen the screws holding the fixture in place, careful not to spill.

Careful not to spill, Hed?

Yes. Careful not to spill the bug carcasses on your head.

And THAT’S WHY we’ll NEVER screw a CFL bulb into a socket in our house.

SCREW CFLs, I say. Screw 'em. And their whore mothers, too.

Just think of the bug carcass carnage after 15,000 hours of light. A crunchy crust of corpses would block the light long before the bulb ever blew.

So I am saying a hearty NO THANK YOU to CFLs. And if you really care about my environment, you will…oh, never mind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: NBC Sunday Night News
I am reading: With Pablo
And I am: Dirty silly

To your right

You'll notice a few fresh links to your right. Please check them out.

They're all so good I don't know where to begin but it seems right to start with my stellar friend Susan from Susan's Sidewalk Snippets. She was the first in my ever-expanding train posse -- a veteran commuter -- and is always smart, funny and insightful. Her concept is simple and brilliant: Walking the streets of Chicago every day, we can't help but hear snippets of conversations. Susan uses these snippets as a starting point and PRESTO! A fun and funny blog you should be reading every day.

Life in Amreeka is a brand new blog from the newest addition to my train crew -- he's a Pakistani expat -- with a unique perspective on life here in the U.S. And you know how passionate I am about understanding the people and culture from that part of the world. We can expect great things from the blogger at Amreeka -- not the least of which is a humorous look at how we silly Americans treat 'foreigners' in this post 9/11 world.

Speaking of expatriates (and last but certainly not least), my lifelong friend Nelson has a blog called Enjoy Life. Enjoy life. We don't do that nearly enough, do we? All of us could take a little lesson from Nelson, who has lived all over the world -- most recently Tokyo and now Bangkok -- but still has a huge appreciation for this place we call home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Other links you should be visiting on a semi-regular basis: Basic Instructions, Fark, The Happiness Project, Take a Report, and Deus Ex Malcontent.

Finally, big thanks to my original band o'bloggers: Dave, Pos, Molly, and Crusty.

Thanks to all of you for making my life on- and off-line so enjoyable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Cobrastyle - Teddybears featuring Mad Cobra
I am reading: You know, the new blogs
And I am: Relaxed

WorkSpeak

“It’s gonna be a day tomorrow,” says trader #1 in the elevator yesterday morning.

“Why?” says trader #2. “Is it a number?”

Four months ago I would’ve had no clue what those two guys were talking about.

And amidst all the unbelievable bullshit I’ve dealt with in this new job, learning a new language has definitely been the bright spot.

Every business has WorkSpeak – a special language used by employees comprised of buzzwords, jargon, and cryptic phrases built from years of doing the same thing over and over and over again.

I love it.

People figuring out better and easier ways to communicate with each other to get things done.

Cool.
~~~~~~~~~
“6 and 12 down, 6 cheese please!” yells the Crew Chief from up front between the warming bin and the registers.

“6 and 12, 6 cheese!” the Grill person replies.

6 Big Macs. 12 hamburgers. Make 6 of them with cheese.

That was the first language I learned at the first job I ever worked.

At McDonald’s.

Six Big Macs actually meant 12 patties so you had to do a tinybit of thinking to add up the total frozen solid burgers to smack down on the grill.

“Four quarters, two cheese!”

That was four Quarter Pounders, two with cheese.

Quarter Pounders (obviously) used different patties from the burgers so they had to be called out separately.

With those fancy schmancy computer screens relaying orders to the kitchen now, I'm guessing the language of McDonald's is dead. Sad.
~~~~~~~~~
Trader #1: It’s gonna be a day tomorrow.
Translation: It will be an extremely busy day on the floor of the Chicago Board of Trade tomorrow.

Trader #2: Why, is it a number?
Translation: Will there be an economic announcement that could affect the markets like unemployment or interest rates or housing starts or retail stats?
~~~~~~~~~
The information technology business is without question the worst when it comes to WorkSpeak.

Every year or two the geeks get together and develop a whole new language so they can charge clients more per hour explaining it to them.

First it was client/server. Then it was middleware. Then it was e-Business or E-Business or eBusiness, depending on if you worked for IBM or Microsoft or Oracle. Then it was business intelligence – an oxymoron if ever one existed – and data warehousing, which sounds vaguely cool but is poke-your-eyes-out-with-a-pencil boring. Then it was portals and dashboards and who knows what the fuck they’ve invented in the four months since I left that infernal industry.

You wanna know the first really nice thing my future husband ever did for me? Back in 1990, he created a cheat sheet of acronyms to make it easier for me to update resumes for the IT consulting firm where we met.

He helped me understand the language of our industry. And if that ain't romantic, I don't know what the hell is.
~~~~~~~~~
So. Tell us about the language where you work. Tell us about the first day you heard it. Tell us how it’s changed over the years.

And put it on a rail.
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gromit snoring
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Sleepy

Bubblegum whiplash

“Oh, BAZOOKA!”

That’s me, grabbing at the Baggie of bubblegum co-worker Josh brought to the booth.

BAM!

Justlikethat I am six years old.

I peel back the paper flap like an expert, careful to avoid tearing the comic tucked inside.

I take that first, fresh expectant sniff.

I pop the small powdery pink piece into my face and chew chew chew chew chew chew chew, working up to that Magical Miraculous Bubble.

Meanwhile, I fold open the comic, anticipating the final bit of silly nostalgia that caps the Bazooka Experience.

Wait. Heh?

I squint, holding the scrap closer to my nose. What the hell? Nothing.

I can’t READ the FUCKING comic.

The type font is so small I can only guess what’s happening based on the tiny, poorly drawn characters.

BAM!

I am 60 years old and blind as a sad bat.

PTOOEY.

I spit the blob into the wastebasket.

Bubble Yum was better anyway. Bigger bubbles.

And no perennially disappointing comic.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Brand New Key - Deana Carter
I am reading: Deus Ex Malcontent
And I am: Old

Next time we're handing out soap, goddammit

"Did you hear him?" says co-worker Josh standing in our booth. "He doesn't even trade."

"Yeah, and did you smell him? Apparently he doesn't shower either."
~~~~~~~~~~~
That's the absolute worst thing about trade shows: Germs.

I'm not necessarily the Queen of Clean.

Okay wait. I am. Sorta.

Not house cleaning clean. Hand cleaning clean.

We're talking incessant, maniacal hand washing 697 times a day combined with anxiety attacks if I'm ever too far from my favorite disinfectant hand wipes.

So a trade show where I'm shaking hands with hundreds of filthy strangers who have either a) just peed all over their hands in the bathroom, b) picked their nose, c) pulled something gross outta their ear, or d) ALL OF THE ABOVE just scares the LIVING CRAP OUTTA ME.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The Purell hand wipes have alcohol in them so if it's winter time and your hands are cracked and bleeding due to - I don't know - a rather serious Lady MacBeth complex, they're gonna sting like a motherfucker.

Wet Ones are generally good but they have that funky baby wipe smell to them, like they're just waiting for a big smelly yellow splotch of kid shit to truly fulfill their life's purpose.

What about liquid hand sanitizer? No, no, no. It just feels...wrong. Vaguely sticky and not entirely clean. If I'm putting gook on my hands and then rubbing them together, well, now all I'm left with are some semi-clean germs on my paws and that's no good, is it? It's all about the wipe for me.

That's why I've found the Kleenex brand Splash 'n Go wipes are best. They smell nice and don't have alcohol so no burning/drying, leaving you with good clean hands.

So where were we? Ah, right. Trade shows.

Filled with nothing but filthy little dirty-fingered freaks. Stay away if at all possible.

And don't forget to wash your hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Songbird - Fleetwood Mac
I am reading: This article by Chez Pazienza - read it
And I am: Dry and rather cracked

New York via Ashid

"This is my last night here and my first time in New York and I want to see something, can you help?"

"Yes ma'am," says Ashid the cab driver. "Where do you want to start?"

It was Monday night and I was restless.

If you've ever worked a trade show, you know it's a whole lotta yap yap yap yap yap yap yap and then you crash in your hotel room. Three nights in a row it's been dinners with vendors and clients and competitors and all I want to do is something that doesn't involve Everyone for a little while.

So I catch a ride with Ashid to see bits of the city.

He is kind enough to wait while I walk to the edge of Battery Park for a distant glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. He says it isn't a good idea walking through the park this late because I am alone -- fascinating since I've never once felt afraid like that in Chicago.

The statue is just a glowing green ghost across the bay, although it's interesting how her base makes her seem so much taller than she really is. I wonder if the French planned it that way - a subtle symbol of how we silly Americans think we're so much bigger and more important than we really are to the rest of the world.

Ashid came to the United States from Bangalore 15 years ago.

"I move here first, then my wife five years later," he explains. "She waits. She waits five years. For me."

I ask him what was most surprising about the United States when he first moved here and he says the order of things.

"The streets are straight," he said. "Someone planned this."

Ashid waits near the site of the World Trade Center while I wander around a bit, finding my way over to one lonely guy sketching it through industrial fence. He explains where everything was and all I can think is this is without question the biggest, saddest gravesite I've ever visited.

"Where were you on 9/11?" I ask Ashid, back in the cab.

"I was visiting family in India," he says. "It was like a movie, watching this happen to my city from there."

We wiz by Wall Street and Chinatown then TriBeCa and SoHo and the Villages.

At this point I'm feeling nothing but an odd mix of excitement and sadness at the fact that I'm this old and just now visiting a place that I've been to a hundred times in my favorite movies.

Back out front of the Marriott at Times Square, I thank Ashid for showing me around.

"My whole life, I never forget this night," he says, smiling from the front after I hand him way way more than the meter needs.

Me neither, Ashid. Me neither.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to: Everywhere - Fleetwood Mac

I am reading: Nothing

And I am: Sad to be leaving here

The bad headline

"He was off his medication."

"What's a dude off medication doing with guns?"

"Just because you're on anti-depressants shouldn't keep you from buying a gun."

"Hello? It was obviously medication that kept him from killing people. How did he get the guns?"

"He had a FOID card."

"How the hell did he get a FOID card?"

"Well they gave you one, didn't they?"

"Right. Good point."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to: Over My Head - Fleetwood Mac

I am reading: Trade show leads

And I am: Armed and dangerous