This has been going around Facebook, and it's worth repeating here. This performer is my new heroine.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Email purging as time capsule
Found this while cleaning out old emails. Don't know whether I'd posted this here, but I'd sent it to a guy with whom I'd had two uneventful dates back in 2007. It's the kind of thing where, when you read it three years later, you wonder, "Did he realize with deep regret what a funny, whimsical person he so foolishly rejected, or did this come across as the mad scratchings of a total maniac, validating his choice completely and making him eternally grateful that he dodged that bullet?"
**********
I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily, because there are still two months left to the year and a dark-horse candidate could come out of nowhere and blow it all, but right now you are scheduled to receive the “I was 100% of Joy’s Dating Life in 2007” award!!!!!!
Prizes will include:
The expired condoms in my bedside table, dipped in bronze and mounted (Obvious pun avoided).
The scary emails from fiftysomething men from New Jersey and Elgin who insisted we would hit it off, Baby.
The flirtatious emails from not one but TWO men in whom I was actually interested before they decided to start sentences with the words “my wife...”
A soundtrack, with polka mix, of all the times a gay person here has said, “Oh..you’re...straight?”
A copy of the plane ticket to my upcoming London trip on Virgin Atlantic, because by now I can claim reinstatement.
..and much, much more!!!
“I was 100% of Joy’s Dating Life” sponsored by Angostura Bitters http://www.angostura.com/home.htm, Cold Comfort Farm, on DVD everywhere, and the Society of Perpetually Single Women With Cats. “I was 100% of Joy’s Dating Life” is protected under U.S. and international copyright.
Publish Post
**********
I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily, because there are still two months left to the year and a dark-horse candidate could come out of nowhere and blow it all, but right now you are scheduled to receive the “I was 100% of Joy’s Dating Life in 2007” award!!!!!!
Prizes will include:
The expired condoms in my bedside table, dipped in bronze and mounted (Obvious pun avoided).
The scary emails from fiftysomething men from New Jersey and Elgin who insisted we would hit it off, Baby.
The flirtatious emails from not one but TWO men in whom I was actually interested before they decided to start sentences with the words “my wife...”
A soundtrack, with polka mix, of all the times a gay person here has said, “Oh..you’re...straight?”
A copy of the plane ticket to my upcoming London trip on Virgin Atlantic, because by now I can claim reinstatement.
..and much, much more!!!
“I was 100% of Joy’s Dating Life” sponsored by Angostura Bitters http://www.angostura.com/home.htm, Cold Comfort Farm, on DVD everywhere, and the Society of Perpetually Single Women With Cats. “I was 100% of Joy’s Dating Life” is protected under U.S. and international copyright.
Publish Post
Party Talk
My neighbor and her husband are returning to New Jersey, so they had a going-away party at their apartment. Some of us form the condo came as well as other of their friends, a few couples they had known for awhile.
One of the women was a vegetarian, the first one I'd ever met outside of a vegetarian gathering. We bonded instantly, and shared battle stories of living as vegetarians in Chicago. Then she mentioned that she had a gluten allergy, so I brought her to my apartment to get some gluten-free granola samples. Back at the party, her husband came over and somehow -- I'm not sure how; it was loud and rowdy and friendly and they were drinking -- the subject of vasectomies came up, as they do (I didn't bring it up, in case you're wondering. There was a lot of Jameson's being drunk by others). Her husband insisted he would never get one.
"I have my kids and I don't need any more, and I'm happy to keep things as they are."
"You don't want more kids," I said.
"Right."
"So who's making sure that doesn't happen?"
He looked puzzled, then pointed to his wife. "Well, she does. She has that thing in her."
"So you're happy for her to take care of this for the next 20 years, with 'that thing'" I said. I then proceeded to do my imitation of a terrified man obsessively guarding his testicles. I was pretty limber.
"Dude, I'd totally get it done," said my friend's husband.
"Dude, you'd let them cut your stuff?!?"
"It's like nothing, Dude. It's a doctor visit."
"Dude, but It will be all gone!"
"Nothing is gone," I laughed. "Just deactivated."
After he had confirmed that it was much more invasive for his wife to get her tubes tied than for him to have a vasectomy, and after I answered his questions about my tubal ligation (which included a primer on what exactly happened during a menstrual cycle -- seriously, he was genuinely fascinated and asked all kinds of questions), we proceeded to questions about male anatomy and what happened with a vasectomy.
What grown people don't know about their own bodies amazes me. He was funny, though, and earnest, and he was becoming fascinated by the subject. So while he stood there, engrossed, Light Beer in hand, I explained the difference between sperm and semen, where each came from; I described a train that still ran but no longer had passengers. And of course the party starter, the prostate.
"So...I'll still have all my...stuff?"
"All your stuff."
"Where do the sperm go?"
"Exactly where they go when they die constantly in your testicles. They are absorbed."
"Dude, you don't use them all!" his friend said.
But..ok..when I ejaculate -- will I still have ...you know...
"You will still have your money shot."
"Whoa, cool! And will it still be... you know... juicy?"
"It will still be delicious," I assured him.
He was dead serious. His wife behind him was doubled over.
"Wow, Dude! I never knew all this!" he said to my friend's husband. His expression was like Helen Keller at the water pump.
He turned to his wife.
"Think of all the fun," she said.
"I'm so getting this done!" he said, and kissed her. Then he and his pal went to get more tequila.
His wife and I were grinning.
"You're welcome," I said.
Then I spoke with Jose who was there with his wife, a very sweet woman. Jose worked for a company that was growing, and we talked about employment, I mentioned I was probably not going to be able to leave Chicago as soon as I'd hoped, and was considering that I needed a new job. He said they were always looking for customer advocates, they were growing, and the pay was decent. He took out his smart phone to get my number.
"So you're gay, right?"
"Pardon?"
"You're gay?"
"Um. No."
"Really? Never even experimented?" Perplexed.
"No. Always been wired for guys." Wondering where this was going.
"Oh, I guess I thought you were."
"Did you just ask her if she was gay?" My neighbor asked, appalled. She turned to me. "He's like that."
"Oh, I'm not bothered, " I said.
"Wy would you assume she's gay?!?!" My neighbor pressed him.
"I don't know. Maybe the hair," he said.
"And," I suggested, tying to diffuse the awkwardness, "because the only possible reason a girl like me would have for being here without a guy or three hanging off me is that she's a lesbian."
"Exactly. You're hot, so..."
I'd been picking up a subtle flirtation from him, but this was more blatant. I don't appreciate married men who flirt. Especially married men who flirt at parties attended by their wives.
It was late and time to go. I went to say goodbye to my friend.
"So I introduced one woman to new granola and convinced her husband --and possibly yours--to get a vasectomy, and might have a line on a new job. My work here is done. I'll miss you. I'll be the only East Coast head case here." I grabbed her arm. "But you're going over the wall, and I'm happy for you. I'll see you on the outside. I'll come to Jersey to visit!"
Oh, and I made cookies, from scratch.
One of the women was a vegetarian, the first one I'd ever met outside of a vegetarian gathering. We bonded instantly, and shared battle stories of living as vegetarians in Chicago. Then she mentioned that she had a gluten allergy, so I brought her to my apartment to get some gluten-free granola samples. Back at the party, her husband came over and somehow -- I'm not sure how; it was loud and rowdy and friendly and they were drinking -- the subject of vasectomies came up, as they do (I didn't bring it up, in case you're wondering. There was a lot of Jameson's being drunk by others). Her husband insisted he would never get one.
"I have my kids and I don't need any more, and I'm happy to keep things as they are."
"You don't want more kids," I said.
"Right."
"So who's making sure that doesn't happen?"
He looked puzzled, then pointed to his wife. "Well, she does. She has that thing in her."
"So you're happy for her to take care of this for the next 20 years, with 'that thing'" I said. I then proceeded to do my imitation of a terrified man obsessively guarding his testicles. I was pretty limber.
"Dude, I'd totally get it done," said my friend's husband.
"Dude, you'd let them cut your stuff?!?"
"It's like nothing, Dude. It's a doctor visit."
"Dude, but It will be all gone!"
"Nothing is gone," I laughed. "Just deactivated."
After he had confirmed that it was much more invasive for his wife to get her tubes tied than for him to have a vasectomy, and after I answered his questions about my tubal ligation (which included a primer on what exactly happened during a menstrual cycle -- seriously, he was genuinely fascinated and asked all kinds of questions), we proceeded to questions about male anatomy and what happened with a vasectomy.
What grown people don't know about their own bodies amazes me. He was funny, though, and earnest, and he was becoming fascinated by the subject. So while he stood there, engrossed, Light Beer in hand, I explained the difference between sperm and semen, where each came from; I described a train that still ran but no longer had passengers. And of course the party starter, the prostate.
"So...I'll still have all my...stuff?"
"All your stuff."
"Where do the sperm go?"
"Exactly where they go when they die constantly in your testicles. They are absorbed."
"Dude, you don't use them all!" his friend said.
But..ok..when I ejaculate -- will I still have ...you know...
"You will still have your money shot."
"Whoa, cool! And will it still be... you know... juicy?"
"It will still be delicious," I assured him.
He was dead serious. His wife behind him was doubled over.
"Wow, Dude! I never knew all this!" he said to my friend's husband. His expression was like Helen Keller at the water pump.
He turned to his wife.
"Think of all the fun," she said.
"I'm so getting this done!" he said, and kissed her. Then he and his pal went to get more tequila.
His wife and I were grinning.
"You're welcome," I said.
Then I spoke with Jose who was there with his wife, a very sweet woman. Jose worked for a company that was growing, and we talked about employment, I mentioned I was probably not going to be able to leave Chicago as soon as I'd hoped, and was considering that I needed a new job. He said they were always looking for customer advocates, they were growing, and the pay was decent. He took out his smart phone to get my number.
"So you're gay, right?"
"Pardon?"
"You're gay?"
"Um. No."
"Really? Never even experimented?" Perplexed.
"No. Always been wired for guys." Wondering where this was going.
"Oh, I guess I thought you were."
"Did you just ask her if she was gay?" My neighbor asked, appalled. She turned to me. "He's like that."
"Oh, I'm not bothered, " I said.
"Wy would you assume she's gay?!?!" My neighbor pressed him.
"I don't know. Maybe the hair," he said.
"And," I suggested, tying to diffuse the awkwardness, "because the only possible reason a girl like me would have for being here without a guy or three hanging off me is that she's a lesbian."
"Exactly. You're hot, so..."
I'd been picking up a subtle flirtation from him, but this was more blatant. I don't appreciate married men who flirt. Especially married men who flirt at parties attended by their wives.
It was late and time to go. I went to say goodbye to my friend.
"So I introduced one woman to new granola and convinced her husband --and possibly yours--to get a vasectomy, and might have a line on a new job. My work here is done. I'll miss you. I'll be the only East Coast head case here." I grabbed her arm. "But you're going over the wall, and I'm happy for you. I'll see you on the outside. I'll come to Jersey to visit!"
Oh, and I made cookies, from scratch.
Monday, October 4, 2010
To Amie, a sweet, sweet girl.
 |
| Amie, giving Leroy a smoochy grooming session. |
By the middle of August Amie had been eating just fine but was losing weight at an alarming rate. Blood tests showed nothing conclusive, and she was put on antibiotics just in case. At one follow-up appointment, I felt a ping-pong-sized lump under her chin. This was brand new, and I was startled when my fingers found it.
When my vet came in, she felt it and nodded. She looked grim.
"Abscess."
"Dental?"
"Yes."
"The kind we'd talked about? The kind we can't cure but can only maybe manage?"
"Yes."
She lanced the abscess to drain it. Rabbit pus is the texture of caulk for various reasons, so it takes some work to clean out a rabbit abscess. Amie was very good about it, wrapped in her Bunny Burrito towel. Her weight was down to under three pounds. She'd lost a full third of her body weight.
More abscesses appeared, and I tried to address them. I flushed out her poor neck every night, marveling at the cavernous pockets that had appeared under her jaw. She ate like a pig but felt bony and frail. She wasn't healing despite changing to another antibiotic. We were pretty certain she was geriatric, and surmised that there may have been cancer at play as well to account for the weight loss.
After another evening putting her through abscess torture, I decided it was time. I'd given her a chance, but she wasn't getting better, and her quality of life was not great. She still loved to eat, was chipper and sweet, and hopped to the front of her hutch to lick my nose or hands when I knelt down to say hi. She was so adorable, which made her condition so much more sad. I'd snuggle her or pat her back, and wince at how skeletal she felt under my fingers. The vet warned she was in danger of cardiac arrest from being so thin.
So in the beginning of September I took her in and had her put to sleep. I got to hold her and the nose cone for the gas that was used to knock her out so that the euthanasia solution could be administered directly to her heart. I rubbed her head and kissed her ears, and once she was out I held her little paw while the vet administered the solution. The vet was as teary as I.
I'd brought Leroy so that he could see her after. It sounds morbid, but rabbits bond and I've learned that it's kinder to let them know when the other is gone so that they don't look for them. I brought Amie to Leroy in the exam room. He sniffed her, then froze, staring at me. His look was terrible.
"I think he knows," said the vet.
"Oh, he knows," I said. "Thing is, he's wondering what I had to do with it." I talked to him and patted him, but his eyes never left my face.
So now it's just one of each species in my house: rabbit, cat, human. I believe that pets should have one of their kind to keep them company, and have always had at least two of whatever was under my roof, but money issues prevent me from doing this right now. I give them both a lot of attention, but I am an inadequate substitute, and I know George misses Harry and Leroy misses his girl. I've always been surrounded by a crowd of animals, and as their numbers diminish I feel like I'm watching the ending of a story. It's a good story, full of lots of happy moments, but the ending is heavy and bittersweet.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Granola Girl
Today was my first gig demo-ing an all-natural gluten-free granola made by a woman in Michigan, Jessica, who's gotten her product into a number of Illinois Whole Foods. Basically, I stand at a table and hand out free samples in a transparent attempt to get people to buy the product. I do this to make extra money, and in a way that does not involve sitting at a desk or in any way using Microsoft Office.
So I arrived today with the materials that Jessica had sent me. She is incredibly thorough and organized, having emailed me clear instructions and photos on how to set up the table, and sent me a large tub containing all the samples and paraphernalia I'd need. We'd had a one-hour phone training where we went over ingredients, etiquette, everything. I was ready.
When i arrived I was shown where to set up by a Whole Foods staff member. My table was to be between the chilled juice case to my back and the dairy case on the other side of the aisle. Jessica, ever thorough, had advised me to wear a sweater, and I was glad I'd followed her advice. I put my bandanna (regulations - hair covered when serving food), donned my Jessica's apron, latex gloves, and set up. I laid out the packages and spooned samples into small paper cups like the cups they put pills into at the hospital.
A word here about granola. I have never been a huge fan. I grew up with Nature Valley bars, which were basically oats and sugar. Like cardboard dipped in syrup. If that granola is comparable to a Ford, Jessica's granola is a rocket ship. Oats, honey, maple syrup, coconut, flax seed, cinnamon, almonds, Michigan dried cherries, chocolate chips...it's the most delicious granola I've ever had, and the hardest thing has been to have a huge tub of it in my house and not eat it all.
As people passed (and there was a lot of traffic, what with it being the 11-3 slot at Whole Foods on a Saturday), I'd invite people to try a snack, grab a pick-me-up, anything that didn't sound like, "Please, try my product." I was friendly but not overbearing, witty ("Only in Whole Foods would you be offered granola shots") and proved conversational on a number of subjects. I discussed why an oat-based product wasn't by nature gluten-free (oats grown near gluten-containing grains can become contaminated, and equipment used to process gluten-containing grains are often also used on oats, introducing gluten to a naturally gluten-free grain.) I answered questions about nuts and dairy. I suggested ways to serve it, and assured kids that they could buy it with their allowance if their parents would not.
I watched people idly take a sample, start to walk away, and then pop some granola into their mouth. I saw them stop, then turn with a look of amazement on their faces.
"This is GOOD!" they'd say.
"I know!"
And people are hilarious. There are those who avoid eye contact, uncomfortable; those who sheepishly try one, and then ask permission to try another flavor, and who act like it's Christmas when I tell them they can try as much as they like.
Then there are the Mooches. Now, when I was unemployed, I'd arrange for my shopping to take place at about this time in order to avail myself of all the free samples on display at the local Whole Foods. I called it "Whole Foods Tapas" and could usually put together a good lunch out of free apple slices, cheese cubes, pineapple on toothpicks, snack crackers, kettle chips, cake chunks, and acai juice. But I always took a sample, not ten, and I was shopping at the time.
I was impressed by how shamelessly some people would ask the price of the granola, and upon being told (it's a little pricey because of the certified gluten-free oats and the top-shelf ingredients), instead of taking a bag to buy, would just take several cups of samples, sometimes returning for more when those had been consumed. Our protocol is to always be friendly, and never deny someone. Still, the chubby 17-ish girl who kept swooping by and grabbing a sample started to get tiresome after the fourth pass, pretending to be on her cell phone in an effort to avoid having to look at me. I'd made up my mind that the next time I saw her I'd put on a big smile and say loudly, "Boy you really like this huh? You're not full YET?" But she didn't come back.
I chatted with the store staff, who came by for samples, word getting out that the granola was crazy good. Louie told me about the almond tree outside the house in Puerto Rico that his sister now lived in and was fixing up.
After three hours, my hands were very cold, and the generic reggae that had been pumped in an endless loop into the store had become a form of mental torture.
"Louie," I called to him as he passed by with a labeler. "how much would it cost to bribe you into getting some metal onto that system?"
"One day it was all jazz," Louie said. "All like, 'tweet' and 'boop.' I had a huge headache at the end of the day."
"All I know is I could really use some 'Highway to Hell' right now," I shivered.
At some point, the music changed, heralded by the first bars of Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" thumping through the speakers.
"THANK GOD!" I exclaimed involuntarily, startling the people looking at organic cage-free eggs, butter, and butter substitutes.
My samples persuaded people to buy 17 bags of granola. I'm paid hourly, not on commission, so the pride I took was purely competitive. Next Sunday, I shall return.
So I arrived today with the materials that Jessica had sent me. She is incredibly thorough and organized, having emailed me clear instructions and photos on how to set up the table, and sent me a large tub containing all the samples and paraphernalia I'd need. We'd had a one-hour phone training where we went over ingredients, etiquette, everything. I was ready.
When i arrived I was shown where to set up by a Whole Foods staff member. My table was to be between the chilled juice case to my back and the dairy case on the other side of the aisle. Jessica, ever thorough, had advised me to wear a sweater, and I was glad I'd followed her advice. I put my bandanna (regulations - hair covered when serving food), donned my Jessica's apron, latex gloves, and set up. I laid out the packages and spooned samples into small paper cups like the cups they put pills into at the hospital.
A word here about granola. I have never been a huge fan. I grew up with Nature Valley bars, which were basically oats and sugar. Like cardboard dipped in syrup. If that granola is comparable to a Ford, Jessica's granola is a rocket ship. Oats, honey, maple syrup, coconut, flax seed, cinnamon, almonds, Michigan dried cherries, chocolate chips...it's the most delicious granola I've ever had, and the hardest thing has been to have a huge tub of it in my house and not eat it all.
As people passed (and there was a lot of traffic, what with it being the 11-3 slot at Whole Foods on a Saturday), I'd invite people to try a snack, grab a pick-me-up, anything that didn't sound like, "Please, try my product." I was friendly but not overbearing, witty ("Only in Whole Foods would you be offered granola shots") and proved conversational on a number of subjects. I discussed why an oat-based product wasn't by nature gluten-free (oats grown near gluten-containing grains can become contaminated, and equipment used to process gluten-containing grains are often also used on oats, introducing gluten to a naturally gluten-free grain.) I answered questions about nuts and dairy. I suggested ways to serve it, and assured kids that they could buy it with their allowance if their parents would not.
I watched people idly take a sample, start to walk away, and then pop some granola into their mouth. I saw them stop, then turn with a look of amazement on their faces.
"This is GOOD!" they'd say.
"I know!"
And people are hilarious. There are those who avoid eye contact, uncomfortable; those who sheepishly try one, and then ask permission to try another flavor, and who act like it's Christmas when I tell them they can try as much as they like.
Then there are the Mooches. Now, when I was unemployed, I'd arrange for my shopping to take place at about this time in order to avail myself of all the free samples on display at the local Whole Foods. I called it "Whole Foods Tapas" and could usually put together a good lunch out of free apple slices, cheese cubes, pineapple on toothpicks, snack crackers, kettle chips, cake chunks, and acai juice. But I always took a sample, not ten, and I was shopping at the time.
I was impressed by how shamelessly some people would ask the price of the granola, and upon being told (it's a little pricey because of the certified gluten-free oats and the top-shelf ingredients), instead of taking a bag to buy, would just take several cups of samples, sometimes returning for more when those had been consumed. Our protocol is to always be friendly, and never deny someone. Still, the chubby 17-ish girl who kept swooping by and grabbing a sample started to get tiresome after the fourth pass, pretending to be on her cell phone in an effort to avoid having to look at me. I'd made up my mind that the next time I saw her I'd put on a big smile and say loudly, "Boy you really like this huh? You're not full YET?" But she didn't come back.
I chatted with the store staff, who came by for samples, word getting out that the granola was crazy good. Louie told me about the almond tree outside the house in Puerto Rico that his sister now lived in and was fixing up.
After three hours, my hands were very cold, and the generic reggae that had been pumped in an endless loop into the store had become a form of mental torture.
"Louie," I called to him as he passed by with a labeler. "how much would it cost to bribe you into getting some metal onto that system?"
"One day it was all jazz," Louie said. "All like, 'tweet' and 'boop.' I had a huge headache at the end of the day."
"All I know is I could really use some 'Highway to Hell' right now," I shivered.
At some point, the music changed, heralded by the first bars of Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" thumping through the speakers.
"THANK GOD!" I exclaimed involuntarily, startling the people looking at organic cage-free eggs, butter, and butter substitutes.
My samples persuaded people to buy 17 bags of granola. I'm paid hourly, not on commission, so the pride I took was purely competitive. Next Sunday, I shall return.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
And on the eighth day God created a black hole. And He named it O'Hare. And it was most definitely not good.
Met my old Boston friend Dawn for dinner tonight. We used to work together oh, 17 years ago, back when I was young and recently divorced and nobody had internet. Except for our company and the Los Alamos National Laboratory, which was one of our company's clients (we were helping them through their identity crisis now that there was no more Cold War).
Dawn works in marketing for a software manufacturer, so she travels a lot doing trade shows. She's in town doing one this week, so we got together. Now, the one thing about Chicago is that if you need a convention center, you either have McCormick Place in Chicago (and the attendant union madness), or you go to Rosemont, which is the area around O'Hare International Airport, a small city comprised of convention centers, large music venues, and lots of hotels. She was in Rosemont. It's a bit of a hike, as are a lot of things in this sprawling metropolitan area, but I really wanted to see her. I made the trip in under an hour, which is pretty good, considering; traffic is usually pretty bad.
There's not a lot out that way, and I don't know the area well. Dawn needed to get some containers in which to ship back some materials, so with help from the super-nice front-desk clerk we got directions to a local Target. As luck would have it, the Target was in a shopping area where there were restaurants. Dawn burst out laughing at the Steak and Shake sign.
"Yes, that pretty much sums up the gastronomic desires of this part of the country," I said.
We settled for Chili's, where there were actually two things on the menu I could eat, including -- shocker! -- a black bean burger.
What's this? I asked, picking up a tabletop device that looked like a large GPS.
"It looks like you can order from here," Dawn said.
Our waiter, Frank, a nice young man (did I actually use that phrase? Cripes, Im getting old) came over, took our order, and demonstrated the device.
"You can order your meal, entree and desert, pay right here, and a receipt will print out," he said. Or, there are games you can play, or you can see movie previews...
Dawn and I looked at each other, and I could tell we were thinking the same thing. We laughed and pointed at each other.
"Or we could talk to each other," we said.
"You have a TV in each corner of this place," I laughed, "and I need this on my table?"
Dawn picked it up and put it on the divider above us. "I think this can sit here."
"Besides, Frank," I said, "what about your job?"
"Well, I won't have one soon, if this catches on," he joked.
Absolutely perverse.
So after a lovely meal and catching up and having a great time (I have to say, not many people here make me laugh the way my friends back East do. There is a cleverness, a quickness that I miss so much), I dropped her off and faced the challenge of getting home.
See, the area around O'Hare is all service roads and concrete, and I get lost so easily. And it was night. Add to this that when I backtracked the way I'd come, I was STILL heading toward O'Hare and not towards Chicago. I knew if I just drove through I'd eventually see signs (I learned this the hard way on another trip; no matter how many times I drive to O'Hare, I find myself in the most improbable dead ends, or on exit roads leading to Rockford or Indiana).
I drove. And drove. And suddenly found myself in front of about six lanes with gates and lights and signs telling me I was entering a huge city-unto-itself parking area.
No. No, no, no.
I couldn't turn around, so I went in, took a ticket, drove to the exit, explained the situation, was let through, and finally saw signs for Chicago.
So here I am, past midnight, tired but happy and wishing more and more that I could get back East. I know that when the time is right it will happen. Life is always an adventure.
Dawn works in marketing for a software manufacturer, so she travels a lot doing trade shows. She's in town doing one this week, so we got together. Now, the one thing about Chicago is that if you need a convention center, you either have McCormick Place in Chicago (and the attendant union madness), or you go to Rosemont, which is the area around O'Hare International Airport, a small city comprised of convention centers, large music venues, and lots of hotels. She was in Rosemont. It's a bit of a hike, as are a lot of things in this sprawling metropolitan area, but I really wanted to see her. I made the trip in under an hour, which is pretty good, considering; traffic is usually pretty bad.
There's not a lot out that way, and I don't know the area well. Dawn needed to get some containers in which to ship back some materials, so with help from the super-nice front-desk clerk we got directions to a local Target. As luck would have it, the Target was in a shopping area where there were restaurants. Dawn burst out laughing at the Steak and Shake sign.
"Yes, that pretty much sums up the gastronomic desires of this part of the country," I said.
We settled for Chili's, where there were actually two things on the menu I could eat, including -- shocker! -- a black bean burger.
What's this? I asked, picking up a tabletop device that looked like a large GPS.
"It looks like you can order from here," Dawn said.
Our waiter, Frank, a nice young man (did I actually use that phrase? Cripes, Im getting old) came over, took our order, and demonstrated the device.
"You can order your meal, entree and desert, pay right here, and a receipt will print out," he said. Or, there are games you can play, or you can see movie previews...
Dawn and I looked at each other, and I could tell we were thinking the same thing. We laughed and pointed at each other.
"Or we could talk to each other," we said.
"You have a TV in each corner of this place," I laughed, "and I need this on my table?"
Dawn picked it up and put it on the divider above us. "I think this can sit here."
"Besides, Frank," I said, "what about your job?"
"Well, I won't have one soon, if this catches on," he joked.
Absolutely perverse.
So after a lovely meal and catching up and having a great time (I have to say, not many people here make me laugh the way my friends back East do. There is a cleverness, a quickness that I miss so much), I dropped her off and faced the challenge of getting home.
See, the area around O'Hare is all service roads and concrete, and I get lost so easily. And it was night. Add to this that when I backtracked the way I'd come, I was STILL heading toward O'Hare and not towards Chicago. I knew if I just drove through I'd eventually see signs (I learned this the hard way on another trip; no matter how many times I drive to O'Hare, I find myself in the most improbable dead ends, or on exit roads leading to Rockford or Indiana).
I drove. And drove. And suddenly found myself in front of about six lanes with gates and lights and signs telling me I was entering a huge city-unto-itself parking area.
No. No, no, no.
I couldn't turn around, so I went in, took a ticket, drove to the exit, explained the situation, was let through, and finally saw signs for Chicago.
So here I am, past midnight, tired but happy and wishing more and more that I could get back East. I know that when the time is right it will happen. Life is always an adventure.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
"Sucks to your Ass-mar!"
This excerpt from Lord of the Flies ran through my head when I had my annual physical last Friday. During it, I mentioned my lingering chest cold. My doctor asked some questions, then declared she didn't think I had a cold; she thought I had asthma.
I'd had mild asthma in my 30s and used an inhaler mostly to ease the tightness that came after seeing a band or dancing in a club. Then Boston passed a smoking ban, and the inhaler went away.
This time the culprit is most likely the terrible allergy season we've had this summer in Chicago. Temperatures routinely in the 90s, high humidity, bad air quality -- and me out on my bike. So today I got an inhaler, took a few hits, and was pleased to find it was easier to draw breath, and I felt more energy just walking down the street after I'd taken some puffs at the Walgreens. One of the more annoying effects of this --well asthma, it seems -- is the extreme fatigue. I fell asleep at the hair stylist's yesterday while under the heat lamps; I fell asleep at the pharmacy waiting for my prescription, and the CTA has become my movable bedroom. Crazy, crazy fatigue. Tonight is the first night with the inhaler. I really want to bike in tomorrow, so fingers crossed!
I'd had mild asthma in my 30s and used an inhaler mostly to ease the tightness that came after seeing a band or dancing in a club. Then Boston passed a smoking ban, and the inhaler went away.
This time the culprit is most likely the terrible allergy season we've had this summer in Chicago. Temperatures routinely in the 90s, high humidity, bad air quality -- and me out on my bike. So today I got an inhaler, took a few hits, and was pleased to find it was easier to draw breath, and I felt more energy just walking down the street after I'd taken some puffs at the Walgreens. One of the more annoying effects of this --well asthma, it seems -- is the extreme fatigue. I fell asleep at the hair stylist's yesterday while under the heat lamps; I fell asleep at the pharmacy waiting for my prescription, and the CTA has become my movable bedroom. Crazy, crazy fatigue. Tonight is the first night with the inhaler. I really want to bike in tomorrow, so fingers crossed!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)