No Blago in Beijing

Had lunch today with the sister of a woman I'd known in Boston. She'd just moved to Chicago in May as part of a transfer request from her company's Beijing office.

We talked about Chicago in general, what we loved about it, what we found disturbing. We touched on local politics.

"I can honestly say," she said, "that this place is more corrupt than China."

TGIF

So when I called in to certify my unemployment this week I said that I had attended 5 hours of training  (for my QuickBooks class). I wanted to let them know that I was working on skills, but apparently the Illinois Department of Employment Security apparently had a nervous breakdown and decided that I may now be ineligible for benefits. So I have to call in next Thursday to 'splain myself. Honest to God. In the meantime, the deposit I'd been counting on to PAY MY MORTGAGE isn't there, so I'll be transferring over half of my savings to cover my mortgage, condo fees, and COBRA payment.

I took Amie to the vet this morning to investigate the spots in her eyes. She has cataracts. She could progress to blindness.  There is a surgical option should this happen, but I'll cross that hideously expensive bridge when I come to it. Two words: Lens Replacement.

Babysat today; bored with "Itsy-Bitsy Spider," "Frere Jacques" and "Row Row Row Your Boat," I am now teaching the kids "Don't Cry For Me Argentina." They can't sing the words, but I'm making headway with the arm gestures. 

Came home, got drunk on Fin du Monde bought for me by a neighbor, watched a cheesy Michael Jackson retrospective, and wept. 

Still drunk. 

Lifetime. TV for Moms. Or Whores.

So I tend to have Lifetime TV on at night for the reruns of Frasier and Will and Grace. It's good for background noise, but the commercials are frightening. It's clear that the target audience is women (well, duh), but if one were to judge from the ads, the Women of Lifetime fall into several categories (not necessarily exclusive): 

• Soulless Hot Backstabbing Sluts (sex is at it's best when you're competing with other women and -- Jackpot! - screwing their husbands)

• Paranoid Mothers (a parade of products that you must provide to your kids lest they develop a serious case of scurvy and rickets)

•  Women unable to attend properly to their own equipment (another parade of products, these designed to remove the very awkward Feminine Unfreshness, also known by the less euphemistic as Coochie Funk)

And of course, Women with Cancer. These have sub-categories, such as Women With Cancer whose devoted kids plan an outrageous gesture of love; Women With Cancer reconciling with their estranged kids; Women With Cancer ready to follow the dreams they never had the courage to pursue until terminal illness makes them understand what's Really Important, and that is to Follow Your Dreams.

The disturbing thing about the Women With Cancer is that they seem to be the only women who can actually focus on something they want (when they're not being martyrs) without being portrayed as selfish and dysfunctional.

The People's Bus

I had my first interview in almost four months today. I'd responded to an ad for a part-time person for a local software company. I have to confess that what prompted me to respond was not the pay (it's not outstanding), but the fact that it's a small company in Andersonville. if you live in the Boston area, it would be as if you had the opportunity to work in Davis Square rather than in the Financial District. After several years of commuting to Chicago's busy business hub, an area crammed with buses and taxis and El tracks and panhandlers, the notion of being able to get to work easily in a very pleasant neighborhood was tantalizing. Two miles from my home instead of ten.

I debated whether I should try for a part-time job, so I called SP. I tend to weigh SP's advice heavily because in many ways he is a lot like me, so his reaction is a good barometer.

I told him of my ambivalence of a part-time job; on one hand, I would not get bored as easily, the day would pass quickly, and I could pick up other work elsewhere to fill in the gap. And as SP said, "You have to start somewhere."

Indeed.

Cut to the chase: company has been around for 25 years, is the leader in bookstore-inventory software (for small bookstores to those with as many as 30 cash drawers), integrated with point-of-sale.  Very little staff turnover, all Customer Service is handled in-house. Office is on the second floor (second floor! I just walk in! No transpondered photo ID on a lanyard!)  of a wonderful old building originally built for doctor and dentist offices. Lots of walnut-stained wood and textured glass. I loved it immediately. Not to mention that it is a stone's throw from a Turkish crepe restaurant that serves Nutella-raspberry crepes. With ice cream.

The woman I met was very normal, my age-ish. The place seems stable, they have a good product that they support well, and I think I'll like the culture (I told her I like working with smart, funny, competent people, and she said I'd just described the company). 

So I'm supposed to think about it and get back to her to let her know whether I'm interested (not a job offer, just a continuation, I think).

The bus back home was crowded, and I was saved to an empty seat sat at the back by with two men on my right and another on my left, also sitting there.  They all started to compliment me on my dress.

"That is a NICE dress."

"SO summery."

"You have to hand-wash that?"

I told them nope, it was a cheap dress that I could throw in the wash. 

"How does it make you feel to have all these men complimenting your dress?"

"Like the best ten dollars I ever spent."

By now it was clear that the men to my right were gay. I don't meet many gay black men, although there was that time at Roscoe's with SP that a tall gay black man pushed a pitcher of something blue at me and said, "Have some baby. I call this PASSION."

"We're here for The Taste [of Chicago]," one of the men said. "He's not from Chicago."

"I had that corn with the Parmesan cheese," his boyfriend said. "That is good. I've never had that before."

"Well I already told them that since I AM from Chicago, he's already HAD a taste of Chicago."

"Would that be a sweet or spicy taste?" I asked.

The man to my left introduced himself and told me he was coming home from work at the Dominick's at Clybourn and Division. We had a chat about Cabrini-Green,. and then the couple asked me about a good place to eat.

"But first I got to get my munchies on. You know what I mean by that, right?"

"It's one o'clock in the afternoon!" I said.

"Honey, It's four o'clock somewhere."

So I suggested Uncommon ground on Clark (I think the meatloaf and martinis sold them), and showed them where to get off the bus. Then Dominick's man got off at his stop, and I headed directly to babysitting since I was late. 

A MUCH better commute.

The scary part is, I had to have seen it..

Last Sunday, when I went to the talent agency to follow up about Leroy, I took the El and a bus. I began to notice that people kept glancing at me. Now, yes, I was wearing a cute dress, but c'mon, let's be real. In all of my experience, consistent public attention is never, ever a good sign. (When I first arrived, it turned out to mean that my summer dress, which buttoned up the back, had come unbuttoned, showing Randolph Street and the world my underwear. A passing pedestrian told me, and another one buttoned it for me. So there's a precedent.)

I was baffled; the dress was buttoned, and was not accidentally tucked into my underwear. So I shrugged it off.

I had gone to my local convenience store, met with the agency, gone back to the store on my way home. Been all over the place.

Once home, I went to my room, taking off my earrings.

I was wearing two completely different earrings. Not remotely alike.

I emailed SP, and told him what had happened. His response:

"and it begins."

I really hope he keeps his marbles, because clearly, someone is going to have to take care of me.

Star Quality!

Today I returned to the model talent agency to review Leroy's photos. Truth be told, I was completely prepared to have them try to scam me for more money. I mean, they called to confirm that I'd be in; why so eager?

I was wrong. Tony Soprano got out the disk, we looked at it on a big screen, and the shots were gorgeous. The photographer (his name is Ken, not Cam, as it turns out; Tony mumbles a bit) shoots in high resolution, and you could see every whisker on Leroy.

"So you sign this, which states that you have paid for your shots and you give us permission to market Leroy," Tony said, pushing a paper at me. I steeled myself. "Ah-HA!" I thought, "Here it comes."

Nope. It was just what Tony'd described. I signed it. 

"And here is a release for you stating that you have full rights to these photos, in case you want reprints made and the photo place wants to see something that says you can do it."

This was too easy.

"So how do you make your money?" I asked.

"We make the photos viewable, so casting agents can review them, and we can also email them if we get a call for rabbits. Then if they use Leroy, we get a 10% commission."

That seemed really -- reasonable. And he was being a really nice, low-key guy.

"It's too bad  -- I had a job several weeks ago looking for a rabbit, and we had none. Leroy's our only one now."

I imagined phone calls saying, "The stretch hybrid limo will pick Leroy up at 6am."

I imagined being on Oprah! explaining how I went from unemployment to untold riches from being the guardian of the Bunny Luv environmentally-friendly diaper bunny.

Perhaps I should put in a call to Lloyd's of London.

Spa-Dee-Da Disco!

It all began last month, when Red Door held its quarterly Spa-Dee-Da Day at the shelter. This is a fundraising event, and it goes like this: People bring their rabbits to the shelter, where they register them and select from a  menu of spa treatments including nail trim, ear cleaning, grooming, massage and glamor shots. Each treatment has a cost; participants pay and their rabbits are brought to a side room that has been emptied. Blankets line the floor, and volunteers perform the services requested.

Each Spa-Dee-Da Day has a theme, and this one was disco. I was volunteering, but I brought the bunnies for some glamor shots. When I walked in, Donna Summer was singing "Bad Girls" from a boom box, and a table laden with snacks (for humans and rabbits) was against the wall. I signed in my bunnies and, since I'd be there all day, put them in a clean cage. This is where I'd adopted Leroy, and he had a J'accuse! look on his face. I could practically read his thoughts: "I don't chew things, I use the litterbox, I've tolerated this whack job of a mini-lop, I have been a good boy. So why am I back here?!?!?"

Their cage was in the main rabbit area, and many rabbit people associated with the shelter felt free to hold the rabbits up for adoption. At one point I came in to see a young woman snuggling Amie. I could see one wide eye staring at me from behind the woman's neck.

"Oh my GOD," her face said.

I laughed and told the woman that Amie was mine, but that she should keep holding her because it was good for her. 

The time came for the glamor shots, and I brought Amie and Leroy to the "set," which looked like a TV set for dolls.  As I approached, Toni, the President, came up to me. 

"I need you." She handed me a mirror and some powder. "I need cocaine."

"You got it," I said. I headed to the kitchen, where I put a line of powder (ground papaya tablets, actually -- good for rabbit digestion) in a line on the mirror and rolled up a dollar bill.

All in all, the rabbits did pretty well, considering there were hot lights and costumes.  Toni was assisting the photographer for most of the day, and kept telling people, "I'm the fluffer." I finally asked her whether she knew what that term really meant. 

Big grin. "Yep."

I love this place.

 Amie was more agitated than Leroy, and moved around quite a bit; at the end of the shoot she actually leaped onto my shoulder, then to the floor, drawing gasps from everyone around.

"She's fine," I assured them. "She's just part squirrel."

So here, ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Amie and Leroy. Toot-toot; beep-beep.

"Costume and makeup are here!"

"Did someone say 'curley parsley'?"

"Hey Leroy, don't bogart the bunny blow!"

"C'mon Ladies... it's time for some night fever, night fever."