Ok, I realize that I am new here in the land of Lincoln. I realize that I can't expect to understand or appreciate all of the local customs or ways of doing things. I realize that it takes time to figure out how things work in a new place, and that just because something is unfamiliar to me doesn't automatically make it Bad. I get it, ok? But good people of Illinois, I just need to ask you one small questions:What is the DEAL with these fucking "exact-change-only" toll plazas?Is this an urban Illinois phenomenon, or is it a more widespread plague on humanity? Because I have never. I mean I have NEVER. And now, as a result, I am a fugitive from the law.Yesterday, I was innocently driving myself to the first of two job interviews I had scheduled for the day. I exited from the highway and saw a sign saying "Toll Plaza Ahead." That was it: no other warnings or information, no exact monetary amount given, just "Toll Plaza Ahead." Dutifully, I grabbed my wallet. As I drew closer to the single toll booth (note to authorities: one booth does not a plaza make), however, I noticed that there was no one staffing it. Confused, I pulled in closer until I was right in front of the booth, where I finally saw a small sign that read, in miniscule print, "Cars $.80 - Exact change only."What?? I didn't have 80 cents -- I mean, who carries around a precise combination of quarters, dimes, and nickels in their car at all times? (Answer: apparently people in Illinois) I frantically searched my car for change, all the while noting the growing line of cars behind me at the booth. I found 60 cents and an arcade token from the Good Time Emporium, circa R's bachelorette party back in Boston. I threw the lot in the basket and stared at the little red/green traffic light, willing it to change from "Stop" to "Go." It didn't. The car behind me honked. So I did what any negligent shirker-of-tax-responsibilities would do: I just drove off.But wait - there's more! On the way back, there was another of these booths, again with no warning and again for an unspecified-until-the-last-moment amount of change. But this time I did myself one better. This time my head was so wrapped up in picking apart every last sorry second of the job interview I had just mangled, that I mistakenly chose the "I-Pass Only" lane. Of course, I didn't realize this until I had pulled up to the booth, saw that there, um, was no booth, and looked to my left to see other drivers throwing their $.65 into the unstaffed change basket. Again, a line of cars formed behind me. What was a criminal to do? I bolted.So now the highway pigs are after me, and I'm hiding out here in the 'burbs. Maybe it's for the best. Until I learn the rules of the road around here, I'm nothing but a danger to society. With no spare change to my name.
My apologies for the week-long absence. I've been dealing with some personal pain.You see, Thanksgiving is supposed to be a happy time: a day spent basking in the glow of family, friends, and food. It's one of my favorite holidays. How could I not love a holiday designed to celebrate two of my favorite activities: eating large quantities of things smothered in gravy, and taking naps in the middle of the day?This year's Thanksgiving started out as a winner. I cooked my first turkey, using a recipe I clipped from a friend's Gourmet magazine. It involved sauteeing turkey necks and kidneys to make gravy. I did this without wretching. My family ate the turkey and approved. The meal also included punch and a cheese ball, both of which signify a festive occasion in my family. This was all very good.Further, as promising as the meal itself was the family's reception to my new dog. Much frolicking and romping were enjoyed by all. My cousin came over with her own puppy, and the dogs enjoyed near orgasmic butt-sniffing and face-clawing. My cousin, who is a diligent dog-owner and has already taken her puppy to obedience class, taught our joyfully disobedient puppy to "sit." This was also very good.However, upon returning to my apartment after the day's festivities, I received some devastating news. This news didn't come as a surprise; we had suspected it might happen for some time now. Still, it's never easy to hear something so upsetting, so final. I don't really know any easy way to put it, so I'll just come right out and tell you:Nick and Jessica have split up.I know. It's hard to process, and I'll understand if you need to take some time -- I know I did. Take all the time you need. Just know that whatever you're feeling, whatever tears of sadness or disbelief you're blinking back, you're not alone. I'm like you: I thought it was forever. Nick said it himself (eloquently, I might add) in the opening theme song to their show, Newlyweds: "I will love you 'till forever/ until death do us part we'll be together / so take my hand and hold on tight / and we'll get there / this I swear." How could something so right go so wrong? I mean, if two rich and famous people with maids and stylists and Rolexes whose marriage was orchestrated by a music television station and subsequently documented on film for public consumption can't make the magic last, what hope does that leave for the rest of us?Talk amongst yourselves. This wound is obviously still too fresh for me to deal with.
1. Meet the applicant at the door when she arrives for her interview. Even though you have received (and presumably read) the applicant's resume, which clearly states the exact month and year of her college graduation, greet the applicant by looking her up and down and exclaiming, "Wow. You're young!"2. Allow foamy white build-up to accumulate in the corners of your mouth, and refuse to wipe it off no matter how many times the applicant sympathy-wipes her own lips. 3. Comment that the fully professional, advanced-degree-holding, 29-year-old applicant sitting in front of you looks "all grown up" in her suit, and that "the future of the profession is safe" in her hands.Because seriously. Is that shit legal?
This Sunday, as a part of our new commitment to Putting Ourselves Out There so as to Meet People, the husband and I went to church. Not being people strongly committed to any particular religious persuasion, we had many houses of worship from which to choose. Our new suburban hometown: what it lacks in bars and Black people, it makes up for in the Holy Spirit.For our first venture into the land of the faithful, we chose the local Unitarian church, conveniently located about a three-minute walk from our apartment. The husband and I have a history with the Unitarians. The husband's history is that he was raised Unitarian: he grew up learning about world religions and sex ed in his Sunday School classes, and he once played "Lean on Me" on his euphonium as a part of the morning service. My history with the Unitarians? Is mostly that I like to make fun of them. Their earnest protest hymns, their hypervigilant communication skills, their Sunday morning refrain of "We honor, praise, and/or generally acknowledge you, oh genderless life force that may or may not exist." It's all just so... so... Unitarian.Now I know, I KNOW, it's not nice to make fun of the Unitarians. After all, being peace-loving and all-inclusive are good things. But I'm just a good little Anabaptist girl. Church, for me, has never included interpretive dance. My people love peace, too -- but we simply ask for it in quiet prayer, sing a hymn about it, and then make a donation to the Heifer Project and call it a day.Anyway, this local Unitarian church? Was actually pretty nice. Much better, in fact, than the Unitarian congregations we "tried on" in Boston, where half the congregation interjected their own terms-of-choice (Mother-spirit, Tree of Life, what have you) for the word "God" when singing hymns and reciting readings. The people seemed friendly; the music was soothing; the post-service danish was tasty; the inevitable guest name-tag was handed out but not required. Even the sermon, a short and humorous take on gratitude, was enjoyable, except for the part when my stomach growled like a hideous beast during a brief break in the narrative. Damn Unitarians and their appreciation for silence!There were, of course, a couple of moments that gave me pause and made me want to break out the tie dye and do a noodle-dance. First, there was the doxology -- you know, that little ditty that goes "Praise God from whom all blessings flow..."? Yeah, in this Unitarian church -- not so much. Yes, they sing a doxology, and yes it has the same tune, but the lyrics they sing are more along the lines of: "Let beauty and truth rain down on us; peace is awesome; amen." Also, there was a children's moment, where all the kids in the congregation were called to the front of the church to hear a story. After the story, the children were released from the service to attend Sunday school. Just as the kids went off on their merry way, the congregation suddenly broke out into spontaneous song: "Go in peace, go in peace, may the spirit of love surround you." The kids, clearly used to this kind of pageantry, didn't blink an eye -- but I blinked both, several times. I was like: is there something I'm missing? Is the Sunday School classroom located at the other end of an epic voyage, from which these children may never return?Aside from that, though, I was pleasantly surprised. I think I'll even give the church another shot. I mean, it is just down the street, and I think I can hold my own with the hippies if I try -- hey, I even own a Grateful Dead CD.And it WAS a really tasty danish.
I hate job-searching. Hate hate HATE it.I hate writing cover letters. Writing cover letters entails a thorough scouring of each and every job posting for "key words," which are then inserted into the cover letter prose at strategic points. Why, of course I am a creative multi-tasker! My friends always refer to me as a positive go-getter! Work closely with the public? There's nothing I would rather do.I hate tweaking my resume to achieve maximum appeal for each potential job. Quicker than you can say "Save As," my Stated Objective changes from a rewarding career in public library service to children, to a stimulating job in an academic reference setting. For one potential employer, I am a proficient Dialog searcher. Five minutes later, I am wooing another boss-to-be with my collection development prowess. I'm a reference guru; I'm a technical services czar. I am a job-search whore.I hate interviewing. I hate putting on my one and only suit, fully knowing that the person(s) interviewing me will probably be wearing corduroys or a sweatshirt with a Christmas tree appliqued on its front. I do not interview well. I stammer; I laugh at inappropriate times; I get nervous and clam up. I get lost on the way and arrive late and sweaty. My worst interview ever, a first interview for a Children's Librarian position for which I applied right out of graduate school, highlighted a number of the above attributes: I literally ran into the library fifteen minutes late, was told to "calm down" by the mean lady at the circulation desk, and had to casually stroll around the Popular Fiction section pretending to be interested in their selection policies until the Library Director came to meet me. The Library Director was stone-faced, with a 3-page list of standardized questions and a secretary to take notes. He did not smile, EVER, nor did he laugh at my jokes. He rested his glasses on the tip of his nose to read each question from his list, and then took them off when I answered so I could feel the full pulse of his steely glare. This went on for 90 minutes. I cried the whole way home.On Monday, I have my first job interview for this go-around of job search fun. The woman who called to set up the interview was very kind, but now I have to brush up on my standard-interview-dialogue technique. Otherwise I might make an ass of myself with il-advised honesty. What attracted me to this position? Girl, please. It's called payroll. Netflix and Star magazine don't come free. Now when can I start?
4:00 AM: Wake up to the plaintive sounds of scratching and whining. Confirm that the sounds are coming not from your husband, but from the dog. Wait until the sounds stop, and then let the dog out for a bathroom break.4:10 AM: Find yourself standing in the narrow strip of grass outside your apartment, shivering in your pajamas and a winter coat, repeating the word "Potty! Potty!" over and over again like a crazy lady. Realize that in the past, you have crossed lanes of traffic to get away from people exhibiting this kind of behavior. Realize further that you don't care, as you watch the dog deliver a magnificent poop. Fall all over yourself proclaiming "Good potty! Good potty!" A good potty, incidentally, is any potty that does not happen on your living room floor.4:20 AM: Put the dog back in her crate with a treat ("yum! tastes like bacon!") and go back to bed. Try to ignore the whelps of abandonment directed at you from across the room. Succeed.6:00 AM: The husband gets up for work and takes the dog out for a bathroom break and a walk. You continue sleeping in, the privilege of the unemployed.8:30 AM: Bathroom break #3, followed by breakfast and meds. The dog has a skin infection around her vulva (I know! jigga-what?) which requires an oral medication that allegedly tastes like bubble gum. Apparently the dog likes bubble gum, because she drinks the medicine off a spoon. Not so lucky with the medication for her ear infection, which is squirted into the ear cavity and requires putting a Herculean hold on the squirming puppy.9:00 AM: Give the dog half a treat for good behavior. Do not give a whole treat, as the vet called the dog fat yesterday. You did not take offense to this; however, you did find it somewhat alarming when the vet continued by saying "Yeah, I called you fat/ Look at me, I'm skinny/ That never stopped me from getting busy/ I'm a freak, I like the girls with the booms/ I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom."9:10 AM: Engage in playtime with the dog. This entails shouting "NO!" over and over again as the dog tries to bite inappropriate things like her crate, the radiator, the rocking chair, and the crotch of your jeans.9:30 AM: Put the dog in her crate so you can take a shower. When you realize that the dog is not crying or whining, take a LONG shower. Consider taking up residence in the shower.10:00 AM: The dog naps in her crate while you work on preparing job applications. Begin writing a cover letter. Get so far as "It is with great enthusiasm that I am responding to your ad seeking a..." when the dog wakes up and begins chewing her cage. Get up to redirect her, and end up right back in playtime.10:45 AM: You return to your cover letter. You are the picture of efficiency. You are -- apparently dyslexic, as you see that instead of typing "Thank you for the opportunity" as was your intention, you have begun writing "Thank you for the poo". The sentiment, while potentially accurate, simply will not do.11:00 AM: Take the dog out again. She exhibits two steaming instances of "good potty" behavior. She is rewarded with another treat and a return to her crate. You are rewarded with potato chips and ten minutes of blog-surfing.11:10 AM: The dog is napping again! The dog is napping again! Do a little dance of joy.11:11 AM: Your dance of joy has awakened the dog.11:12 AM: Slink back out of the dog's line of sight and sit silently until you hear snores. Embrace the snores; the snores are the music of the gods. Consider recording the snores and releasing them on vinyl to assured critical acclaim. Eventually abandon this plan in favor of writing cover letters.Noon: The dog wakes up. And the cycle starts anew. Remind yourself how exceedingly cute the dog is, and proceed outside for bathroom break #5,612. Good potty!
DEAL WITH THE CUTENESS!!
As I begin my new life as a temporary housewife and stay-at-home-pug-mom, I look to you, O Daytime TV, for the empty companionship and attention-diversion I so sorely need. In the past, you have not failed to deliver. Remember when I was in grad school and planning my wedding? You brought me inspiration and time-suckage by means of "A Wedding Story" and "Dawson's Creek" re-runs, respectively. When I was unemployed and depressed a couple of years ago? You gently knocked on my front door and left me sweet gifts of "Felicity" and "Melrose Place" on E! But now, Daytime TV? Has it been so long? Have you let yourself go? I flip through the channels, and there is not a "VH-1 Behind the Music" or a Tori Spelling Lifetime Made for TV Movie to be found. Instead, you seem to be offering the same three options all day, in rotation:- Soap Operas. Yes I used to watch "All My Children," particularly during the Maria-comes-back-from-the-dead and Erica-Kane's-daughter-is-a-lesbian phases of the show's recent history. But now it's been years, and most of the old actors have been replaced, and there's some kind of murder/double-pregnancy plot going on that I can't quite seem to grasp. (Yes, I'm admitting that a soap opera plot is too complicated for my comprehension. Be gentle - I'm fragile these days.) As for the rest of the soaps, they're all just pretty shirtless people to me. Which is not a complement.- "Starting Over." This is an hour-long reality show, aired daily, that features a group of Women With Issues who all live together in a house in California, trying to unpack their assorted emotional baggage so that they can - get it? - "start over" in life. While in the house, the women are followed around by "life coaches" who assign them self-development tasks and coo psycho-babble like "if we want to transform our lives we must first check out BS: our belief system." Normally, I would find something like this Awesome -- there's an ex-stripper who wants to learn to "drop the hustle," and once Toni Braxton's sister was on the show because she wanted to learn to deal with, well, being Toni Braxton's sister -- but my current temporary housewife self just finds it depressing and infuriating. Like, you're grown-ass women! Unbreak your own heart, To-not Braxton!- "The View." Ok, I hate hate HATE this show. The premise is supposed to be a talk show hosted by five women of different ages and backgrounds who, through discussion of current events and issues, embody the perspectives of Today's American Women. In reality, what it is is: five women flapping their gums at each other until your ears bleed. One of those women is cute little Elisabeth from the second season of "Survivor," who was adorable when surviving on rice and dead bugs in the Australian outback but is now less adorable when she is squealing out her unqualified (and uninformed) praise of President Bush, the war in Iraq, Republicans in general, and kitties. Also, there is Star Jones and Barbara Walters. And I'm not even kidding you, the show is Always. On.O Daytime TV, I'm going out for a walk now. Maybe to pick up some food to cook my husband a tasty dinner, as all good housewives strive to do. And when I return, there better not be any skanked-out GOP-loving talk show hosts to be found - or you and I may need to reevaluate our relationship. With the help of a life coach, of course.
On Monday night, the husband and I paid our first visit to The Pug Lady, a breeder who lives about thirty minutes away from our house. I am a woman obsessed with pug dogs, and have wanted one for as long as I can remember. I have about 3,000 pug calendars, greeting cards, mugs, and magnets, partly because people always get them for me as gifts, and partly because - did I mention the obsession? Part of my stipulation in agreeing to move to Chicago with the husband was: fine, you get the fancy job and all that? I get a pug.The Pug Lady and I have been conversing for about a month, ever since I found her information on the internet and called her up to babble incoherently about my love of dogs with smooshed faces. The Pug Lady sent me pictures of the puppies she had available and I picked my favorite, a tiny little fawn-colored toy of a dog that Pug Lady promised to hold for me - no strings attached - until I could meet her in person. If Puggy and I didn't hit it off on our first date, I was under no obligation to take her back to my place.I was all - girl, please. If it's got four legs and googly eyeballs, there's no way I'm turning it down.And I was right. Ok, get a picture going in your head of your ideal of infinite happiness -- your happy place, if you will. Does it have chocolate waterfalls? World peace and no Republicans? Non-stop cello music played by a semi-nude Mark Ruffalo? Got the picture in your head? Yes? Ok, now forget about it, because - people - I have achieved infinite happiness and it is SO MUCH BETTER than that! Infinite happiness is The Pug Lady's house.The Pug Lady greeted us at the door with a puppy under her arm. Our puppy, to be exact, who proceeded to cover my face with glorious puppy spit. Soon after, another puppy emerged, followed by a couple of adult pugs. The adult pugs were furiously humping each other, causing the husband and I to laugh out loud and the Pug Lady to pronounce them, "Perverts! I swear, I put all the adult dogs out in the yard together and that is all that the boys do - mount each other!" We nodded sympathetically, as we are well aware of the trials of being the parents of pets who engage in The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name.The Pug Lady took us through her House of Joy, showing us pug after pug: fat pugs, skinny pugs, fawn pugs, black pugs, snorting pugs, drooling pugs. I myself was communicating at a level not much higher than snorting and drooling, suffering from overstimulation and exposure to excessive cuteness. The husband made sure the important questions were asked. Like: when the hell can we have our pug?Turns out: we can have her on Saturday. And so it is written: this weekend, the girl shall have her puppy. And yea, she shall no longer know sleep, or free time, or peace and quiet. She shall instead make the acquaintance of poop-scooping, and chew-intervening. Which is fine, because she shall also be, conveniently, unemployed.The question is: are you all ready for this much cuteness?
I just returned from a three-day weekend visiting a friend in Austin, TX - because, really, is there a better way to say "I love you" than to leave your husband all alone in a brand new empty apartment in a city where neither of you know anyone on the day after you arrive in town? No? I didn't think so.As it turns out, Austin is a fabulous place, filled with many fabulous things. The first of these fabulous things is cheese sauce. I swear to you that I am not lying about this: pretty much everything I ate while in Austin was served to me with a side of cheese sauce. Chips and cheese sauce. Fries and cheese sauce. Cheese sauce ice cream sundaes. A little bowl of cheese sauce you could eat with a spoon. If you know me at all, you know that this is pretty much the exact picture that comes to my mind when the preacher says "heaven."Another fabulous thing I found in Austin is space. Lots and lots of space. As in, you can choose a nice restaurant to go to on Saturday night, drive there, park your car comfortably in a parking spot, and then go inside and sit down in one of the many available seats. Shockingly, this works in bars, too. Also in stores, and coffee shops, and concert venues. It's not that the places I visited over the weekend weren't popular or crowded -- they were simply big enough to accommodate the crowds they drew. Go figure.But the most fabulous thing about Austin? Is a movie theater called the Alamo Drafthouse , where you can order dinner and drinks while you enjoy the evening's entertainment. The Alamo sponsors all kinds of movie events, like a Lord of the Rings-themed "Hobbit Feast" during which all three films are shown and food is served to the audience whenever the on-screen characters have meals. They host singalongs for movies like "Moulin Rouge" and "Annie," and screen new and interesting documentaries. We visited the Alamo on Friday night, when the evening's presentation was - are you ready for this much unadulterated Awesome? - a showing of the Britney Spears masterpiece "Crossroads," featuring a troupe of comedians making wisecracks over the film ala Mystery Science Theater.Now this alone would have been more than enough fabulousness to keep me entertained for hours -- I had a beer and some cheese sauce in front of me, Britney Spears on the big screen, and three funny guys with microphones sitting at the front of the house barking jokes into their microphones with a level of obscenity to which I aspire but have yet to be able to attain. But oh no-- the universe has not yet finished showering me with riches. Just before the movie started, my friend and I noticed an Alamo staffperson using rope to block off the entire row of seats in front of us. We asked him what was up, and he grinned at us gleefully: "We just got a call that one of the stars of the movie is coming to the show with his entourage. Anson Mount? He plays Britney's love interest?" He shrugged, and then laughed and did a little hop while we clapped our hands to our chests in wonder, because we all three recognized the Sheer Awesomeness of this event. The dude that deflowered Britney in her movie debut Sitting in front of us? With an entourage? At an event designed to mercilessly mock him and all that he stands for? Yay!! Somebody get me some more cheese sauce!Friends, let me draw you a picture: Anson Mount, a vision in carefully spiked hair, showed up right on time, along with a long line of pretty people toting Blackberries. He sat right in front of my friend. He was casually disinterested, yet clearly nervous. He was called up on stage by the comedians who were roasting the movie, where he proceeded to delight me by referring to Britney Spears as "Brit" and Robert DeNiro as "Bob" without a shred of irony. Then he sat back down in his seat and took in the fine film he helped to create. My favorite moment of the evening was when, during a scene where Anson Mount's character was supposed to be playing guitar with a rock band, the comedians made fun of his strumming abilities. The joke went over well with the audience, and then there was a beat of silence before a lone voice rang out over the crowd: "I did all my own guitar work, you assholes!"For this, I would travel to Texas and back three times over. Cheese sauce or no cheese sauce.
1. When you go to pick up your 16-foot Penske truck from the Penske truck place, it will look much smaller than you expected, sitting there in the lot next to all the huge tractor-trailer-sized monsters. You will look at it and be completely sure that your belongings will never in a million years fit inside. You may even cry in the parking lot like a big freak, with all the Penske truck representatives looking on, making sympathetic yet bemused eye contact with your husband. Do not despair, though. You are as usual patently wrong, and your belongings fit in the truck with room to spare. Yet you remain a big freak who cries in parking lots.2. Caravaning, while effective, is not the most fun way to move halfway across the country. Sixteen hours is a long time to stare at the back of a big yellow moving truck. It is also a long time to listen to NPR. In the car. With your family. Note: if you do choose, however, to break up the radio monotony by plugging your ipod into the car stereo for some tunes, make sure the song selection has been properly parent-proofed first. Your mother does not find Tenacious D charming.3. It seems that the place to be, when in Willoughby, Ohio, is the restaurant attached to the Days Inn. Cause damn if there aren't a lot of people hanging out there on a Tuesday night.4. Chicago drivers all appear to have somewhere to go, and they must get there VERY VERY FAST. They will, however, politely use their turn signal before cutting you off at lightning speed.5. Guinea pig poop will make your car smell like, well, like shit.
