the chicago dispLAcement ®

It’s time to face the sad truth that I’m not the new kid on the block anymore. There’s a whole generation of adults younger than me. I see them everywhere. They drive. They shop. They even have kids of their own. So be it. That’s the circle of life, right?

Sometimes it’s not a problem. I fully expect lifeguards, camp counselors and the manager at Forever 21 to be younger than me. Likewise, I expect doctors, judges and the president to be older than me. Whenever those roles are reversed, I get confused and mildly agitated. Like when you see someone who looks like a celebrity, but you can’t quite figure out why you recognize him. Maybe he was on an episode of Law & Order: SVU? So you just stare. Or you look, look away, look again, look away again and continue with that pattern until you finally ID him.

So I was at the doctor’s office last week. Not to fret, I’m as healthy as a horse. Just a routine checkup. However, they had to take a blood sample and my nurse was fourteen years old, sixteen tops.

I knew she couldn’t possibly be that young, yet I searched her face for traces of acne. The theme song to Doogie Howser began to play in my head. I bet she didn’t know who that was. Was this chick old enough to drink? Or even vote?

I tried to relax, but my life was on the line. I eyed her like a hawk. For the record, I don’t enjoy getting stuck with a needle under any circumstances, but this was especially frightening. Sure, she must have graduated from nursing school, but when? That morning? What if she screwed up and injected an air bubble into my vein and I died? Or she twitched and somehow broke off the end of the needle into my arm? Though I never watch these procedures, I did this time. Just in case.

As it turns out, I’m still alive. No air bubble. No broken needle. She didn’t even have to stick me more than once. It was then that I realized I might be prejudiced against these young people.

Not children. They’re a different story altogether. Have you talked to a kid lately? They’re crazy smart. Just the other day, I was going over a hypothetical situation with one of my tutees. We were discussing a story wherein a little boy, Marvin, bicycled everyday after school to the nursing home where his grandmother was recently sent to live. Surprise, surprise, she wasn’t taking well to her new environment. I asked Sam what the grandson was hoping would happen to his grandma. His response?

“He’s hoping she’ll forget.”

Okay, I might have snorted. As it was, I definitely had a stream of tears running down my face I was laughing so hard. He was absolutely right. Well, not really… The story was trying to stress that the little boy wanted his grandmother to make friends, but let’s take another look at this scenario. Wouldn’t it be a whole lot easier on everyone – Marvin, his family, the nursing home staff, even Grammy herself – if she simply lapsed into dementia and didn’t know where she was anymore?

So children are great. In fact, I hope no one under the age of ten is reading this because another sad truth is that I’m glad I’m not you. Growing up, I had John Hughes and Cabbage Patch Kids. What have these kids had over the past decade? Osama Bin Laden and the Great Recession. Talk about getting the short end of the stick.

But I do fully discriminate against anyone who grew up on Boy Meets World and Beanie Babies. Can’t really fault me for that.

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When I was little, I had difficulty discerning the library from church. Both institutions required its patrons to speak in hushed voices. Both housed books that you were told to respect; they weren’t toys or meant to function merely as a hard surface so you could doodle on the bulletin. Also, when visiting either place I knew instinctively that I was to be on my best behavior. Especially at the library.

No matter where I roamed among the endless racks of books, I could feel the bifocaled surveillance of the resident librarian. Without fail, this person was female, smelled vaguely of Chanel No. 5 and mothballs and seemed to have nothing better to do than shush any and all noises. Even rogue squeaky sneakers against a tiled floor were not exempt from the librarian’s scourge. Though sitting at what was called a help desk, she was never particularly helpful. Instead, I sensed that she took pleasure in charging me a late fee whenever I kept Ramona the Brave or Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle a day too long.

Apparently things haven’t changed much.

Last week I was at my local library and needed a space where I would be able to talk (in a hushed voice of course). Not wanting to disturb the other patrons, I headed to the help desk for some input as to where I should sit. Should have known better. I was still a good twenty feet away when I felt the icy glare from behind her horn-rimmed visage.

Me (super chipper): “Hi! I’m here to do some tutoring for a few hours. Where would be the best place to do that without disturbing anyone else?”

Her (annoyed): “At home.”

Me (nervous laugh): “Well, that’s not an option.”

Her (more annoyed): “We don’t have private rooms. If you can find an open table, I suggest you take it.”

Okay, seriously… Why are librarians so damn crabby all the time? Do they surround themselves with inanimate objects because they hate living, breathing people that much? Or perhaps having so little human contact has permanently stunted their social skills? Because I am totally confused as to why these chicks are so mean to everyone.

What could be better than working at a library? You can read anything you want, from Tolstoy’s War and Peace to Polizzi’s A Shore Thing – Snooki to you uncultured creatures who don’t keep up with The New York Times Best Seller list – and claim it as “research.” Or don’t pick up a book at all. Just surf US Weekly online and say you’re trying to help patrons navigate the world wide web. Plus, the library is quiet. Warm and cozy. And they have drinking fountains! (Have you noticed how quickly they’re disappearing from the American landscape?)

The only thing that could make the library better is if they gave away free stuff… Wait a minute! That’s right. You can check out whatever you want – books, CDs, DVDs – and you don’t have to pay for any of it! I bet librarians are exempt even from their own late fees.

Yet they always seem to be in a foul mood. So what am I missing? I realize that libraries aren’t exactly a top priority in terms of fund allocation, so it’s likely that most librarians are paid very little. Maybe some of them work only on a volunteer basis. In that case, I get it. However, their bummer attitude makes me reluctant to engage them or visit as often as I would like… So maybe that’s it. Maybe their Machiavellian plan is to discourage people from coming to the library so they can have all those wonderful books to themselves.

Genius.

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Maybe it’s our instant gratification generation or just my own shortcomings, but I cannot stand to wait. It’s like that Justin Timberlake flick I will never watch except maybe for Cillian Murphy; I can actually feel the minutes of my life ticking down whenever I’m forced wait in a dentist’s office or worse yet a traffic jam. So I try my best to avoid these situations. For one, I almost always take surface streets in LA. I’m like a shark; I have to keep moving. Sitting in traffic is a slow, painful death. Also painful? Waiting in line to get into a bar or club. A friend’s birthday is the only exception I will make and even then I will systematically analyze just how good of a friend she is and sometimes decide to leave anyway. And it goes without saying – but I’ll say it anyway – that I am loaded with enough reading material for a trip to Timbuktu when I’m only flying from LA to Chicago. Those people who just sit there and stare into space while waiting for the plane to land? What’s that about? How do you not bring anything?

But sometimes you’re forced to wait. For instance, while in line at a store. Sometimes you should have known better, like when peeps are doing the last minute holiday shopping – it’s coming up quick, folks! – and you’re the poor schmuck stuck in line with toilet paper and laundry detergent. Yet sometimes it’s not your fault. Sometimes it’s just about other people being morons.

So the other day I was in Staples. FYI: that place is overwhelming. I actually think it gives Target a run for its money in the “I walked in to buy two things and walked out with ten more ” category because who doesn’t need tropical-colored Post-its or gold Sharpies?

But I finally reined in my impulse shopping impulses and made my way to the one open checkout counter. Already making a purchase was an elderly-ish woman, probably about sixty tops, but who looked older from either too much sun during the day or too many whiskey sours at night. Either way, I immediately noticed that she was writing out a check to pay for her items. Who does that anymore? I haven’t paid via check for anything that wasn’t my rent in years. Certainly I have never used a check when shopping in an actual store.

Sidenote: I’ve been on the other side of that counter. Having worked retail in the past, here’s a golden nugget of knowledge… Salesclerks hate checks. They take forever to process and I’d say a good third of the time they bounce or are counterfeit. Why stores take them at all anymore is a mystery to me.

Anyway, not only do checks take forever to process, they take forever to write. This chick already had her pocketbook out when I came up to the counter. It took her a lifetime more to fill out the damn thing.

“What’s the date?”

“What’s the total?” This was asked twice and twice followed up with, “What’s the change again?”

“Wait, how much did that cost?” This was also asked twice as she pointed to her already bagged items, making the clerk take out the items in question and show them to her.

She also paused once to push her glasses up her nose and carefully analyze what she had just written.

OMG. I was dying. Dying. Granted, I wasn’t in a particular hurry, but just knowing that this perfect stranger was wasting precious moments of my life was enough to make me dig my nails into my hand just to get my mind off the other pain I was experiencing.

After at last handing the cashier her check, it was over. Oh, but it wasn’t! Even though her transaction was finished, she continued to stand there and rearranged everything in her purse. I actually had to give my items to the clerk through the small opening between her body and the register. She didn’t even notice.

Then finally I was out of there… I got into my car and immediately cranked the radio. As luck would have it my new favorite song was playing and suddenly everything was once again right with the world. I backed out and rolled about twenty feet to where the car ahead of me was sitting at a stop sign. I waited for them to move. They didn’t. I waited some more. They still didn’t. I then realized that the jackass in front of me was looking down at something in his lap. Not in the mood for wasting any more of my life, I pulled up beside the car. Looking over at the driver next to me, I realized that it was my buddy from Staples. From what I could tell, she was looking at the receipts in her pocketbook. In her car. While it was running. At a stop sign. With people behind her.

It’s called justifiable homicide.

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Icebreakers are the worst.

It never fails that whenever you find yourself among a group of strangers, at some point you’re forced to do the drill: name, origin, occupation.

Living in Los Angeles, this is pretty standard. Every week there’s a birthday party or networking event or random conversation in Trader Joe’s where I end up giving someone my thirty-second autobiography. The one-on-one’s not so bad, though. My new friend and I will inevitably swap “why I moved to LA” stories, praise the sunshine and complain about the traffic. It’s how we vagabonds bond LA style.

The group icebreaker is an entirely different story.

Rewind to last weekend. Once again I found myself at Pepperdine University, this time for a volunteer event. I participated last year as well, but apparently they wanted to shake things up a bit. The volunteers – fifty women in all – were told to go around the room and talk about themselves before the day’s activities were to begin.

Oh boy.

How do I put this delicately? When I was a kid, I broke my wrist. I broke it so badly that it was re-broken twice, once while I was fully conscious. I would have preferred a third re-break to this icebreaker.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not shy and I really do like people. But seriously… Fifty women talking about themselves? How is that ever a good idea? Yeah, we were there to be all charitable and stuff, but let’s get real, y’all. No matter how charitable we all may be don’t forget everyone’s favorite humanitarian project: themselves.

For the record, I’m not bashing just the womenfolk. Men love to brag, too. However, I will concede that at least men get right to the point. “I am the greatest!” I can respect that. Women on the other hand… We never shut up. Because we all consider ourselves ladies, we wouldn’t just blurt out, “I’m better than all of you!” However, we will nonchalantly tick off an endless list of activities and accomplishments that unequivocally prove that of course we’re better than you. Men go in for the kill with a single bullet to the temple whereas women prefer Chinese water torture.

The most excruciating part of this exercise in narcissism was the dream class segment. Aside from giving the requisite name, alma mater and job description, we were told to list what class we would teach if given the opportunity. Apparently women feel a pressing need to teach other women confidence; far and away it was the number one answer. Other popular responses:

Learning self-esteem. (Just another word for confidence.)

How to find your destiny.

Personal accounting.

Cooking.

Wine tasting.

I felt like we were at an Eat, Pray, Love conference. Then it was my turn… What class would I like to teach?

“Screwball comedies of the 1930s and 1940s.”

A few surprised murmurs went around the room. That’s right. I didn’t care about other people’s self-esteem. I didn’t care about their destinies either. I just wanted to talk about movies no one else has watched since FDR was in office.

I didn’t make any new friends that day. Was it something I said?

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Sunday night. Laundry night.

Anyone who has ever lived in a complex with shared washers and dryers knows that it’s all about strategery. Nothing is more frustrating than dragging that basket of dirty clothing to the laundry room only to find that every single machine has been taken… and you have exactly zero pairs of clean underwear left. What’s worse is that I happen to live in a complex with only two washers and one dryer. One working dryer. Hence, I do my laundry super late at night even though the landlord declared no washing after ten o’clock. I have a system, too. Sure, I always make sure to separate my whites from darks, but I also line up my cleaning products on the table in the order in which they’ll be used. I also group my quarters together so that I can grab exactly how many I need each time I make that trip downstairs.

I might have OCD but it works for me.

Anyway. On this particular Sunday night I finished washing my first load but had purposely grouped those items together because they needed to be air-dried. I then removed said items and put in my second load. I then checked the clock to make sure I would be back in twenty-five minutes to throw everything into the dryer.

Twenty-five minutes later… I entered the laundry room only to find that during that short interlude, somebody else had swiped the dryer. What the what? It was almost midnight. Who does that? They must have heard my washer in progress. Plus, who uses the dryer without first using the washer? Plus plus, they definitely knew that they were taking the good dryer.

I was furious.

Stomping back to my apartment, I assumed they would also be leaving their stuff in the dryer all night since it was so late. Jerks. I then jumped in the shower and tried to calm down; maybe their stuff would be gone by the time I was done. Though as I was sudsing my hair, it suddenly occurred to me that I had already loaded that dryer with quarters for my own laundry.

OMG! They had stolen my quarters!

Okay, perhaps it was a bit nearsighted of me to have loaded those quarters before actually needing the dryer, but it was late and I had done it numerous times before with no problem. So now not only was I irate that my neighbors had taken the good dryer, but also I was enraged that they had misappropriated my quarters for their laundry. In fact I was so angry that I was thisclose to jumping out of the shower, shampoo still in hair, just to run downstairs and throw their stuff out of my dryer. Instead I proceeded to rinse while determining a more rational course of action.

Here it was: I would return to the laundry room and one of two things was going to happen. Either their stuff would be gone and I would have to come to terms with the injustice of this situation, or their stuff would still be there and I could attempt to shame them into giving back those quarters. I wrote them a note:

“Hello! Four quarters were on this dryer before you used them for your own load. If you would like to reimburse me those quarters, you can drop them off at Apt. 7. Thanks!”

I didn’t really expect them to pay me back the money, but at the very least I wanted them to think about what they had done and hopefully feel bad about it. Throwing on my pjs, I then made a beeline for the laundry room. The dryer was silent. I opened it to see if their items were still in there. Empty. And that’s when it happened… You know those flashback moments when someone suddenly recalls a traumatic childhood memory or war experience? Now I get it because I had one, too. Nothing traumatic, though, just pathetic. As I stood there, staring into that black hole, it all of a sudden dawned on me… I had started that dryer.

After years of honing my laundry routine into a science, I now go through the motions without even thinking about it. So rarely do I not use the dryer for freshly washed clothing that I automatically loaded it with quarters anyway and pushed the start button; I only had forgotten that I did until that very moment. So basically I wasted a dollar on nothing. And I got angry with some thoughtless neighbor who didn’t exist. And I raised my blood pressure for a good hour. And I felt like a total idiot.

The end.

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It all went downhill when at age eight I convinced my father that I should have a television in my room. Why he agreed I’ll never know, but it probably had something to do with my insistent nagging. Big mistake, though. I was completely hooked and would watch my TV every chance I got. That meant long past my bedtime. Typically I didn’t find anything worth the depleted REM cycles, but I took satisfaction in the knowledge that somehow I was working the system. Nobody’s gonna tell me I need eight hours of sleep! However, it’s not quite as satisfying anymore to think that I’m duping my poor dad, especially when he’s two thousand miles away. In fact, now I actually want to sleep. Yet there are just those nights when my brain won’t turn off and hence I can’t doze off. When that happens, off to the living room I go to watch whatever mindless crap I can find. It’s painful at times. The commercials, though… The commercials fascinate me. I’ve noticed that the ones I love best show themselves only in the middle of the night, like some rare nocturnal species too timid to come out during the day. I in turn feel like I’m witnessing something rare and wondrous in having caught sight of these spectacular creatures. Seriously, though, they’re awful; I must really be sleep-deprived. Sigh… Here are my favorite five:

5. The Rosetta Stone commercial. I don’t understand what balloons have to do with learning a foreign language, but they’re probably assuming most people watching are too out-of-their-mind tired to care. Also, why do they think people awake in the middle of the night would be their target audience? We have that extra time on our hands, so why not learn Mandarin?

4. The Colonial Penn commercial. Does anyone remember when Ed McMahon was their spokesperson? Now it’s Alex Trebek. Serious downgrade if you ask me.

3. The 1-800-9-INVENT commercial. Yeah, that’s right. I can’t sleep because I have this great idea for… zzzzz… Sorry, what was I saying? Tuned out there for a second. (By the way, couldn’t find the commercial online, which makes me think they must be a scam. Beware, folks! They want to steal your billion-dollar idea!)

2. The Consumer Cellular commercial with the McCann twins. “Hey, ugly!” Wow, it’s amazing how easily I can hate someone in sixty seconds. Consumer Cellular, recast that spot pronto.

1. The Scooter Store commercial. This was the best commercial I could find for them, but my absolute favorite one includes trips to the Statue of Liberty and Grand Canyon, all possible courtesy of the Scooter Store. Old age is gonna rock.

Honorable Mention: World News Now. Technically it’s not a commercial, but I had to give this awesome show a shout-out. Rob Nelson is so dreamy…

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I’ve always been a goody-goody. Never got in trouble at school. Always did my homework. Cleaned my room compulsively. Never Almost never talked back. All in all, my parents hit the good kid jackpot when I was born.

But there was this one time… I was twelve. Prime age for peer pressure persuasion. (Alliteration rocks!) I hung out a lot with this one girl; she was my gateway friend. Perhaps you also had one as a kid. We had been buddies since grade school, but I could sense that the tide was changing once junior high began. Though I was not and would never be classified as popular in school, this girl was on the brink of social status stardom. Fast-forward two years and we weren’t even talking to each other anymore, but for the moment we were still pals and that meant I was not only hanging out with her but also her other social butterfly friends. It was a double-edged sword.

These kids were kind of bad. Isn’t that how it always happens? Why can’t you be popular and have a 4.0 GPA? Never seems to turn out that way. Not to say that these kids were the devil’s offspring or anything; I never once witnessed an animal sacrifice. They just liked to steal mail. Weird, right? What’s so cool about taking someone’s mail? I didn’t get it. Most mail is just bills anyway, not to mention that it’s a federal offense. Naturally, I was nervous about this plan of action. Naturally, I remained completely silent.

We didn’t get very far. It was 2pm on a Saturday afternoon; everyone and their mother were outside. I think we made it maybe a quarter of a block before some furiously red-faced, middle-aged dude came charging after us. We all made a dash for it, yet he still managed to wrangle all four of us. I nearly soiled my shorts and threw up a little in my mouth; my body was rejecting teenage rebellion. Yet after many heated threats of corporal punishment, he finally exhausted himself and let us go without calling the cops. But lesson learned. From that day forth, I vowed never to do anything bad ever again…

Though I do enjoy a little insurrection every once in a while. I mean, seriously, who didn’t want to see the Joker stick it to Batman in The Dark Knight? And yes, I also wanted Bonnie and Clyde to live happily ever after. Same goes for Darth Vader and Michael Corleone. There’s just something about living vicariously through other people’s bad behavior; I can enjoy the mayhem minus the intestinal discomfort. Yet rarely do I cross paths with a Michael Corleone. More often it’s a dude sneaking a few free grapes in the produce aisle or some chick who thinks she can park in a red zone without getting a ticket. Yawn.

But there was this one time… Last week. After a night of dinner, drinks and three desserts – you read that correctly – my friend and I were exiting the parking garage. Since everyone in America is so cheap, and parking garages are so expensive to maintain what with all that cement and fluorescent lighting, no longer do actual human beings man these places. It’s all automated, baby.

Anyway. One exit lane was already occupied, so my friend pulled up to the other. Though while fishing for her ticket, both she and I got distracted by the commotion in the other lane. I don’t know if it was the late hour, a few too many drinks or just good ole fashioned SoCal princess entitlement, but this chick was mad. From what I could gather, the machine wasn’t accepting her credit card. Princess exited her SUV. I looked over at my friend; she immediately put our car into park.

Princess then pushed the help button a dozen times and waited, her perfectly manicured hands on her hips and designer shoe impatiently tapping the ground; within moments, we could hear the garbled voice of a phantom attendant who sounded like he had been outsourced from a bunker in Libya. Irritated, Princess told him the machine was broken. The dude told her to enter her ticket. She said she already had. The dude told her to enter her credit card. She said she already had. He told her to do it again.

“The damn thing won’t take my card!”

“Try (static) again.”

“I’ve tried a million times! It’s not working! I need someone to come out here right now and help me!”

“Please (static) try again.”

“If someone doesn’t come out here right now, I’m going to run this gate down!”

That was the end of negotiations, and for the record, I was totally Team Princess. Who hasn’t wanted to mow down one of those gates at some time or another? (Especially after paying $24 for two hours. I’m lookin’ at you, Chicago!) My friend and I peeked out her back window; there was another car behind us, but he also was too engaged in the show to mind the wait. I suddenly wanted popcorn.

Princess got back in her car and slammed the door shut. My friend and I smiled at each other like it was Christmas morning; I started clapping my hands together like an idiot. We both watched excitedly as Princess revved the engine and peeled into reverse, instantly shooting back several dozen feet. She then shifted into drive… and pulled over into our lane.

No! What a letdown. I was so ready to see that gate get demolished. In fact, I was a little too ready. Apparently I have an appetite for destruction. Moreover, I haven’t been able to let the incident go; I’m searching for excuses to go back to that garage. I want that machine to be broken. I want that attendant to be disinterested and unhelpful. Honestly, I just really, really want to take down that gate… Unless there are cameras. Are there cameras? Probably, right? I think there are cameras. Hmm… Shoot. Nevermind.

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My neighborhood is da bomb; I love it. It’s clean. It’s safe. It’s super residential. I never wanted to live next to twenty-somethings who partied all night long even when I was twenty-something, and thankfully they have steered clear of my ‘hood. Instead, you’re more likely to find the residents here tending to their rose gardens, chatting it up with neighbors or walking their Labs and picking up after them. This makes me very happy. I’ve been living here for a few years now and can honestly say that I adore pretty much everything about it.

Except for the kids. They’re becoming a problem.

Apparently the purpose of owning a home is to have a place to stash your offspring, as it seems like every house on my block has at least one child. Until recently this hasn’t been a problem. I’m out and about quite often – running is my stress outlet – and every time I go for a jog at least one or two tots will smile and wave their chubby little hands at me as their moms push their strollers by. Totally cute, right? But those preteeners… They have got to go.

It all started with the lemonade stand. For the record, lemonade stands are for children under the age of ten, and I’m being generous here. The crux of a lemonade stand’s marketing strategy – the only reason why it works – is because the kids are little and adorable. That’s it. That’s the hook. Why else would you buy that watered down waste? Not to mention the questionable sanitary conditions of said lemonade; you think those chunky little fingers weren’t inside a nose moments prior to grabbing that cup of bacteria-infested refreshment for you? But when all is said and done, that cherub is just too cute to refuse, so you buy the lemonade that will be used to water some nearby grass. Though once those diminutive entrepreneurs hit ten years old, it’s time for a new gig. Why? Because they’re neither little nor adorable anymore. It’s true and I have proof: my fifth grade school portrait. It’s atrocious. Pre-braces and on the verge of yet another growth spurt, I bear a shocking resemblance to that chick from Welcome to the Dollhouse. Moreover, for whatever reason – cattle and chickens juiced up on steroids, global warming, Keeping Up with the Kardashians – kids are, ahem, maturing faster than ever. Meaning? The cuteness factor disappears even earlier nowadays.

Anyway. There are these girls in my neighborhood, all about ten to thirteen, and I swear they have a lemonade stand set up every week. I know this because I’m constantly running past them. Note the word “running.” I don’t know about you, but I don’t carry cash or credit cards with me during a run. (Did you read that, Mr. Mugger Man?) In fact, it’s the only time I can leave the house without my arsenal of “things.” No cell phone. No planner. No wallet. But these kids don’t get that because every single time I jog past, they scream, “Lemonade!” and I do mean scream, which is another reason I wouldn’t buy from them had I the cash on me. Not a fan of the hard sell. However, I tried to be polite the first time this happened. I kindly smiled and shrugged, “Sorry!” So what did they do? Those brats just continued to yell “Lemonade! Lemonade! Lemonade!” in rapid succession as I fled down the block. This has happened now four or five times.

You may be asking, “Why don’t you just jog on the other side of the street?” For one, I refuse to be intimidated by those pint-sized bullies. I’m not going to change my routine because of them. Second, it wouldn’t matter. If they saw me across the street, they would either yell louder or chase me down. Perhaps that seems a little far-fetched? They wouldn’t actually chase me down, would they?

Last week. I was just minding my own business, jogging along peacefully. That’s when I saw them… Six or seven in all. No lemonade stand this time, though. They had graduated to full-on gang activity: hanging out on the street corner and loitering. Yet being the glass half-full gal that I am, I thought this could be a good thing. I approached with cautious optimism.

However, I couldn’t immediately cross the street due to passing cars, and this would prove to be my downfall. I had to do that lame jogging in place maneuver, and these kids thought it was hilarious. They promptly decided to join me. So there I was, stuck with a half-dozen obnoxious preteeners, all jogging in place together.

It was time to get out of there. Not willing to be the subject of their ridicule any longer, I darted into traffic and somehow made it to the other side of the street in one piece. I wasn’t alone. They had all followed me. Now what? What exactly was I supposed to do? I knew that if I said anything, this would only incite them to worse behavior. At the same time, the indignant prig in me felt compelled to admonish them for their bad manners. “Does your mother know what you’re doing?!” In the end, I did nothing. I was a kid once; I still know how to play the game. They want attention, plain and simple. To ignore them is the only winning strategy, so I did my best Helen Keller (who runs) impersonation and kept my eyes on the road. I never acknowledged their presence… And it worked. Before I finished the next block, they had all quit their quest to annoy me. Or maybe I’m just twice their age and in better shape. Or maybe next time I pass their lemonade stand I might “accidentally” kick their table and spill that disgusting swill. I’d be doing the whole neighborhood a favor.

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I consider myself a fairly happy-go-lucky person. I never went through a goth phase. I don’t listen to Bauhaus, and frankly, Edgar Allan Poe’s kind of a downer. Besides, why would anyone subject themselves to all that gloom and doom just for fun? Between stock markets faltering and unemployment woes soaring, the world is depressing enough. If I have two hours to kill, it will not be spent watching Sophie’s Choice; seriously, Pretty in Pink was tough enough to get through. It still pains me that Andie chose Blane over Duckie.

However, I have from time to time pondered my own mortality. In fact, I almost died once or twice… Okay, maybe not really, but it sure did feel like it. Though more unsettling than these would-be confrontations with death was the manner in which I was about to meet my maker. On both occasions, all I could think was, “This can’t be how I go out.”

My first encounter with the Grim Reaper occurred in a Ralph’s parking lot. (For those of you in the Midwest, I was at Jewel.) While loading groceries into my car, I suddenly noticed something in the sky. Not a bird. Not a plane. Not Superman. Rather it looked like some kind of spherical alien spacecraft, and while that may sound ridiculous, I was convinced that War of the Worlds was about to get real. My heart started to race. I looked around and noticed other shoppers looking up into the sky, also rendered immobile by the spectacle in front of them… Speaking of, you know how you’re watching a movie and the characters freeze when something bad is about to happen, and then you yell at the screen because they’re idiots and you know you would never just stand there and do nothing if the world was about to end? Well, you’re wrong. Tom Cruise didn’t instinctively know to get the hell out of Dodge; the script told him to steal that minivan and burn rubber. In real life, most of us would freeze because what exactly are you supposed to do if you spy alien ships descending upon earth? If they want to exterminate us, we’re pretty much dead no matter if we have icky human germs or not.

But I digress. In that moment, I wasn’t that bothered about meeting my demise; I just didn’t want it to happen in a Ralph’s parking lot. Seriously? This was how I was going to die? Not peacefully in my sleep surrounded by hundreds of loved ones? (I plan to be super rich when I’m old and have all my friends and family members fighting over my fortune after I kick the bucket.) Or perhaps I could go out in a literal blaze of glory rescuing orphans from a burning building? No, I was going to die in the O.C. surrounded by blinged out Escalades, fake and bake trophy wives and my bags of Totino’s pizza rolls.

As it turned out, I didn’t die. Instead I got in my car and booked it outta there as fast as I could. Upon reaching the safety of my home, I then went online to get the 411. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought our civilization was coming to an end; the local news reported multiple calls to the police department all due to a satellite having been launched that afternoon…

Fast-forward to last weekend. I’m taking a shower. Normally a routine procedure, but not on this fateful afternoon. As it was a very warm day, I had the window open in the bathroom (nothing can be seen from outside, I swear!) and was in the middle of sudsing my hair when all of a sudden I heard the unmistakable sound of a plane flying overhead. Except in this case, the plane seemed to be thirty feet overhead rather than thirty-five thousand… And it was getting closer.

“A plane is about to crash into my apartment.” This was the exact thought that ran through my mind; it was terrifying. All of a sudden I felt very alone, and time seemed to slow down. In fact I had enough time to realize that I was naked with shampoo in my hair and this was how they would find me in the rubble.

I braced one hand on the tile, the other on the glass door, and readied myself for impact. “I’m going to die in the shower. I’m going to die in the shower.” Here’s the other thing I realized in this moment. The whole life flashing before your eyes thing doesn’t really happen. Treasured memories don’t run through your mind like an old Super 8 movie. Loved ones that have passed on before you don’t suddenly appear to lead you into the white light. Instead you’re just thinking about how embarrassing it’s going to be when the first responders notice that you haven’t shaved in three days. Or at least that’s what I was thinking. Even on the brink of death, my vanity knew no limits.

Then I saw them pass by: the four military jets flying in perfect formation over my apartment building. Those jackasses. Because of them, I got shampoo in my eyes and was forced to contemplate my entire existence. Was my time on earth really over? What did I have to show for it? Just how big of a turnout would I get at my funeral? Man, they got me all worked up over nothing. Like I said, I don’t really like thinking about death… But dude, that dress Andie made for prom? I haven’t stopped thinking about that monstrosity since 1986.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

I’ve always been comforted by noise. It’s like my security blanket, or rather it became my security blanket when my parents chucked my real security blanket ala Mr. Mom when I was only four… Jerks. Since then, I pretty much have to have something on when doing pretty much anything: cooking, cleaning, sleeping. In fact, one of my favorite things is dozing off on the couch while a movie plays in the background. (Most likely wrapped in a blanket my parents will never get their hands on.)

Conversely, I get kind of freaked out when it’s too quiet. It feels like something bad is about to happen, or at least that’s how it goes down on the big screen. It’s dead quiet and then Michael Myers takes a kitchen knife to your temple. I’m no dummy. I especially get spooked whenever driving around the Chicago ‘burbs late at night. Everything seems to shut down once the sun disappears… It’s like they know. I remember once driving around town to find anything fast food to eat. Not even ten o’clock, it already was a ghost town. Nothing was open. I finally got desperate and shamefully headed over to Walgreens to buy whatever prepackaged garbage I could get my hands on. They were locking the doors as I parked.

Which is why I love LA. Twenty-four hour Walgreens. Twenty-four hour McDonald’s. Twenty-four hour everything. Should I suddenly need a two-pack of Sharpie pens or a large fry at 2a.m., I am secure in the knowledge that I won’t have to wait until morning to satisfy my desire. It’s awesome.

Also awesome is my neighborhood. I live off a somewhat major street, and while I’m probably breathing in more than my fair share of the already ridiculous amount of exhaust this city produces, I’m cool with it. Except for the occasional – okay, daily – screeching of tires that makes my heart stop every time, I like listening to the constant hum of cars passing my apartment all hours of the day. It’s calming.

Across the street from me is a fire station, and yes, they don’t care if it’s three in the afternoon or three in the morning; those sirens are screaming at least a dozen times a day. This doesn’t bother me either. In a weird way, knowing that I live a mere fifty feet from a dozen very capable (and might I add, very nice looking) firemen makes me feel safe.

However, the singing in my neighborhood is getting out of hand. Seriously. There’s barely an hour of the day when I’m not hearing someone singing something, and judging from what I’ve endured so far, we don’t have any American Idols living on my block. For one, I live next door to a church. I swear they have choir practice at least five times a week, which would lead you to believe that they might be pretty good, right? Practice makes perfect? No. They sound horrible. Actually, I’m surprised it doesn’t rain more in my neighborhood; as a child I was told that raindrops are the tears of angels. Believe me, if they can hear this singing, they are weeping. I also live two doors down from an ashram, and they just love getting their chant on as well, especially on weekends. I wouldn’t mind this so much if they would just switch it up every once in a while; it’s always the same chant. I mean, really, it’s like eating ice cream every night. I love me some ice cream, but I would eventually get sick of it if I had it every single night. What about cake? Or brownies? Or maybe no dessert at all every once in a while. Would that be so bad?

But the worst are my neighbors. Granted, they don’t all sing at the same time. Their concerts aren’t as loud or as long, but somehow it’s still worse. At least when there’s a group singing together, their terrible voices somewhat cancel each other out. When it’s somebody singing solo, you can’t not hear how bad he or she is. In particular, I have a neighbor who loves breaking out the power ballads just as I’m going to bed. I’d like to believe that he sings in the middle of the night because he thinks everyone else is unconscious, but I suspect he knows that his audience has nowhere else to go at that hour and will inevitably be captivated, or rather held captive, by his golden voice. His specialty is love songs from the 1970s.

Though I suppose it’s not all that bad. At least I’m not listening to gunfire or crying babies all day long, in which case I’d easily choose gunshots over screaming infants. Not to say that I’ve been able to take the high road and ignore all the wannabe Kelly Clarksons and Taylor Hicks. (By the way, what happened to that guy?) As a sign of protest, I’ve taken to shower singing. With my window open. Why? Because I’m no singer either, and I want everyone else to suffer the way I’ve been suffering. Sure, it’s petty, but I have confidence that my point will be heard sooner or later. When that time arrives, I will finally have back the peace and quiet that comes only from motorcycles revving, ambulances wailing and my movies blaring.

Image: fotographic1980 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net