the chicago dispLAcement ®

We can breathe a collective sigh of relief… The holidays are over.

Between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day, life as we know it becomes a smorgasbord of food, presents and parties. For a few blissful weeks we forget the diets, grudges and budgets to delight in delicious meals, time with loved ones and our plethora of new gifts and gadgets. At least that’s the way it usually starts out. However, this spirit of festivity typically warps into something less jolly once we begin to notice the expanding waistlines, inflated credit cards bills and the annoying way that our mother has to repeatedly ask if we’re taking our vitamins. I’m not ten years old anymore, Mom. Now go make me a sandwich.

But really I love my family. It might have taken moving two thousand miles away to realize that fact, but it’s true. When we get together, it’s always a good time. We eat. We laugh. We watch football. Does it get any better than that?

Sure, things can get a little tense from time to time. It’s the holidays after all, and we’re family after all. But it’s not religion or politics that tears us apart.

It’s games.

My cousins are big game people. I don’t mean that they like to shoot lions and rhinos; they merely like to kill their opponents in Scattergories and Trivial Pursuit. Their closet is filled with every game known to man; they don’t discriminate. Strategy games. Knowledge games. Spatial recognition games. If it has dice, cards or play pieces, my cousins have it.

The game playing always starts innocently enough. Usually we sit down with some yummy snacks, a little holiday music in the background and smiles all around. Yet within minutes, the mood begins to change. The jovial small talk shifts to an uneasy silence. With the exception of “Did you go already?” no one speaks.

That is until your own flesh and blood screws you over during their next turn.

“Shoot, I needed that!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Great, now I have nowhere to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, I might as well just quit. I can’t do anything anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

The season of goodwill toward men? Apparently not when you have twenty-five points riding on your connection from San Francisco to Miami. (Confused? Pick up Ticket to Ride, and you will know only too well what I’m talking about.) You may get a “sorry,” but we all know that your cousin isn’t really sorry. If she were sorry, she wouldn’t have just blocked your only route to Phoenix. You may share the same DNA, but that doesn’t mean your family won’t throw you under the train tracks. Literally.

Slightly more fun is when you’re the one doing the mass killing. Of course, you specifically asked to play TriBond because you rock the trivia games, but that doesn’t make it any less awkward when your little cousin is miserable because she can’t get out of the start circle. Still… Being a winner just feels so good. Not a chance are you going to throw the game.

But that’s just it. It’s just a game. A game that has enough power to sever familial ties built on years of love and understanding… Oh well, at least we have eleven months to repair the damage before the next round of devastation ensues.

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When saying hello or goodbye, one has at his disposal a few options.

1. The Bow. Unless you’re Japanese – and in Japan – or you’re making the acquaintance of Queen Elizabeth, I would suggest foregoing the bow route.

2. The Wave. Comes in handy for the germophobic segment of the population. Also, a very passive-aggressive gesture. Akin to saying, “I like you, but not enough to touch you. In fact, you’re kind of gross. Don’t get too close.”

3. The Handshake. This type of exchange is just that… Ahem, do you know where that hand has been? Very likely somewhere you don’t want to know about. And now it’s touching your hand. And whatever is on that hand is now on your hand. Don’t be surprised if you have pinkeye in the morning.

4. The Kiss. Unless you’re smooching your significant other or young offspring, I would highly discourage lip-to-lip contact; it might get you arrested. Not quite as alarming is the cheek kiss. Most Europeans do it. Most Europeans also shower twice a week. Proceed with caution.

5. The Nose Rub. Cute if you’re five-years-old and an Eskimo, but otherwise a bit weird. If you don’t believe me, try nose rubbing your boss at your next review.

Which leaves us with The Hug. Hugs are multifunctional. They can be used in times of happiness or sadness, triumph or defeat. Moreover, hugs have no restrictions. Use them anywhere. One can hug at home or school, the hospital or airport without worry of repercussion. Not to mention, a hug can get you out of a bind when that creeper blind date goes in for a kiss. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.

Most importantly, a hug can brighten someone’s day… and I’m not referring to the lucky recipient. Think about it. How many times have you regretted giving someone a hug? It’s the best pick-me-up around. Quicker than a vacation. Easier than losing that muffin top. Cheaper than drugs.

However, a word to the wise… Commit to the hug. Worse than a limp handshake, no one likes a bad hug. It makes both you and the hugee feel terrible. You know you gave a bad hug. They know you gave a bad hug. They don’t say anything about it. You want to apologize, or at least explain what happened – perhaps you realized as you were hugging that you had forgotten the deodorant that day – but you also don’t say anything. The only thing more awkward than a bad hug is saying, “Sorry about that hug.”

Otherwise, the hug is the hands down winner. Still don’t believe me? Then I present to you a hug challenge. Pick a target. I can be anyone. Your spouse of ten years that you hug everyday anyway (I hope!) or your coworker who totally covered for you the day after that crazy holiday party when you were too hungover to show your ragged face at work. Once you have selected your target, just do it. Hug them. Hug them good. Hug them hard. Let ‘em know you mean it. Then see what their reaction is. Sure, you might initially get a confused “what was that for?” look, but I guarantee within moments it will transform into a goofy smile and giddy laugh. Why? Because someone just showed them love. Who doesn’t love love? And once you see that goofy smile and hear that giddy laugh, you’ll have your answer. It’ll be a wonderfully weird but totally rewarding moment.

Good luck. May the Hug be with you.

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During this time of year, one might feel obligated to attend his or her company holiday party. If you are anything like me, this may be your response: “Why in the world would I want to spend any more time with these people than I already do? Plus I always get shafted during the white elephant exchange.”

Understood. Your reasons are completely valid. My advice? Don’t skip the festivities. Don’t deny yourself the opportunity to enjoy some free food, bad karaoke and (hopefully) an open bar. Just make sure that the office party you attend isn’t for your office; it’s much more fun that way.

Rewind to my first job in LA… I still remember how giddy I felt as I walked out of that fateful interview. Immediately I called my dad and exclaimed, “That’s where I want to work!” It was love at first sight. A few weeks later, I was sitting at my new desk and desperately trying to remember everyone’s name. I instantly bonded with my fellow coworkers; yet as the weeks and years went by, I realized as most adults do that my job had its highs and lows. What exactly was my job? Hmm… How to put this delicately? In a nutshell, I was the meanie. I was the one who yelled at you if you lost your parking pass. I was the one who told you that you didn’t have enough vacation days left for that trip home over Christmas. That kind of thing. As you might have guessed, I was super popular.

Also as you might have guessed, I like to write and that just wasn’t happening while I had this job. Of course 99.9% of people in Los Angeles have a “day job” while they work toward their dream of being an actor/director/big shot. It’s a hard line to walk. So eventually I decided that it was time for me to move on and tearfully said goodbye to my work family.

But whaddya know, they liked me! They really liked me! I had my doubts, but hugs never lie, and nothing beats showing up at the holiday party of a company you’ve quit and getting inundated with dozens of hugs.

And of course there’s the gossip.

This is the real reason why you should adopt a strict “only if I don’t work there anymore” policy when accepting an office party invitation. Even better is if you show up a few hours after the party has begun; by then most of your former coworkers have indulged in a drink or two or ten, and not only are so happy to see you, but also they almost immediately launch into all the good gossip. They know you, so they feel comfortable with you. Since you don’t work there anymore, you’re also a safe outlet. They don’t have to worry that come Monday morning you’ll tell all your coworkers that so-and-so did this-and-that with whats-his-face. It’s a win-win for everyone.

With one exception. If at the end of the evening you realize that you’re the only sober person left in the building, you have a choice to make. Either you silently slink out and say a quick prayer that your former coworkers get home safely despite their inebriated state, or you suck it up and offer them a ride. However, should you allow that holiday-induced “good will toward men” attitude to guide your actions, you just might end up with a half-dozen drunken holiday revelers stuffed into your compact backseat… and possibly someone in the trunk as well. Don’t ask me how I know this, but consider yourself warned.

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My parents didn’t believe in the concept of babysitters. Never had one. However, they did believe in free labor; my big sister usually was drafted into watching me whenever they went out. If Mila wasn’t around, then Plan B was to drag me along wherever they needed to go.

Big mistake.

One evening they decided to go couch shopping. Few things are more boring to a six-year-old child than furniture shopping. Especially in Sears. So while my parents discussed swatches with the salesman eager to make a sale, I dejectedly trudged behind and waited for my hell to be over. Luckily I then happened to notice the bed section. For a few moments I was again a happy child, enthusiastically throwing myself onto every bed in sight only to be shamed minutes later by the nearby saleslady who informed me that mattresses weren’t toys.

Sidenote: My parents didn’t even notice that I had gone missing.

Defeated once more, I started back to the couches… and that’s when I saw it: a Strawberry Shortcake canopy bed. It was beautiful. Tall and frilly and bright, it was the bed of my dreams and I instantly fell in love. It had to be mine.

Except that I already had a perfectly good bed and my parents had no intention of making a second big ticket purchase that evening. So I did the only thing a six-year-old could do; I whined until I got my way. I even went into “IwantitIwantitIwantitIwantit!!!” mode until they finally gave up. Several days later that Strawberry Shortcake canopy had found its forever home in my bedroom.

I was so insanely in love with my bed that I would jump up and down on it for hours on end. My initial goal was to jump high enough to touch the top of the canopy frame. Once I accomplished that (super easy), then my goal was to see how many times in a row I could hit the top of the canopy frame. Of course my father wasn’t too thrilled with my newfound pastime. He warned me repeatedly that my bed wasn’t strong enough to withstand the constant jumping, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was a little girl obsessed.

The inevitable happened. One night I was jumping and jumping and jumping until I heard the crack. A section of the plastic frame had split in two. This then caused the rest of the structure to strain, and the whole thing began to tip over the side of my bed. I held completely still, desperately hoping that somehow it would magically fix itself. Nope. Dramatically pausing for a split second, it then fell to the ground and made a spectacular crash onto my hardwood floor.

Uh oh.

A second later there was a knock on my door.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah… I-I just dropped a cup.”

“You dropped a cup?”

“Yeah, I dropped a cup.”

“Okay… Let me know if you need any help.”

I’ve never been a particularly good liar. My father knew. I knew he knew. There was no way I could cover this one up, and I had no one to blame but myself. Eventually I would have to face the music… *

Everyone has to face the music at some point, though sometimes I’m boggled by what people think they can get away with. Meaning? Once again we’re in the middle of a scandal where some politician has been accused of messing around with another women. This time it’s Herman Cain. Six months ago it was Anthony Weiner. A few years back it was John Edwards. Eliot Spitzer, Bill Clinton, Gary Hart… Certainly there have been more before these men and without a doubt there will be more after them. Just like me, apparently they couldn’t help themselves. Just like me, I’m sure someone warned them of the consequences. And just like me, they screwed themselves in the end.

To those politicians who have messed, are messing or will mess around: you will get caught. It might have taken a few hundred years, but we even outed Thomas Jefferson and his extramarital escapades. To think in an age of text, Twitter and Gloria Allred that you will escape is ridiculous. Take it from one who knows… You can never hide what you do in bed.

* As punishment, I was forced to keep that ridiculous bed – sans canopy – for the next ten years. Lesson learned.

I’m what you would call a worrier. I worry about everything: money, career, family, friends, love. I even worry about worrying.

Last week I woke up late for a flight and worried all the way to the airport. Mind you, I had already checked in online and still got to LAX ninety minutes before my flight’s scheduled departure time. At first I worried that I wouldn’t find a spot at the airport garage. I did. Then I worried that our shuttle would wait forever before leaving. We took off less than five minutes after I boarded. Then I worried I wouldn’t have enough time to go through security and get my Starbucks. I had my iced venti nine-pump easy-ice chai latte in hand within fifteen minutes. Then I worried that I wouldn’t get a good seat on the plane or be able to sit next to my friend. I scored the aisle and Sarah was seated next to me moments later.

Needless to say, I worry a lot about nothing worth worrying about.

“Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.”  ~ Leo Buscaglia

“If you want to test your memory, try to recall what you were worrying about one year ago today.”  ~ E. Joseph Cossman

“Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere.”  ~ Glenn Turner

Yeah, I get it. I see these handy dandy quotes all the time, but they never do me much good. I might stop worrying while I’m reading them, but then it’s out of sight, out of mind. Plus my mind is already too full of worrying.

So while in Chicago last weekend I had the chance to grab lunch with my father. Though he’s lived in the Chicagoland area his entire life, my dad doesn’t venture often into the city, and for those of you in the know, the ‘burbs are a far cry from the Loop.

To make it easier on him, I chose a restaurant just a block down from the hotel at which I was staying in Printer’s Row. Not a super busy neighborhood, and as luck would have it, we found a parking spot just twenty feet from the restaurant entrance. Doesn’t get any better than that. I checked the signs to make sure we were clear of street cleaning or zoning restrictions. All good. I then paid for two hours of parking and made sure our receipt was clearly displayed on the dashboard. All good. We proceeded inside to eat.

After grabbing a table and putting in our order, my dad and I began to discuss our usual topics: the weather and sports. That’s when mid-sentence he got up from the table and walked over to the front window of the restaurant. I watched in confusion as he casually peeked outside. Without saying a word, he then came back to the table and jumped right back into his summary of last’s week precipitation totals. I didn’t understand what had happened, but just chalked it up to my dad wanting to take in the beautiful Chicago scenery.

Five minutes later, he did it again. In the middle of my dissertation on why the Cubs need Theo Epstein, my dad got up from the table and once more looked out the front window. This time I had to know.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Just checking the car.”

“Checking the car for what?”

“Wanna make sure it’s not getting towed.”

I then experienced what Oprah calls an “Aha!” moment. There was absolutely no reason why my dad should have been worried. We were parking legally. We had paid the meter. Nothing was wrong. Yet my father could not stop worrying about his precious Ford Focus.

That’s when I began to worry… Whether we like it or not, we really do become our parents.

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I’m a sucker for weddings. I love everything about them: the flowers, the music, the dress. Tears flow freely even before the bride takes her first step down the aisle. Then there are the vows. What can be more beautiful than declaring in front of God and man your love and loyalty to another human being? Sigh… I love love.

Then the reception begins.

The more weddings I attend, the more I feel sorry for the bride and groom. From the moment they’re announced as husband and wife, there is only one thing on everyone’s mind: food. Oh, and the drinks. Never, ever forget the drinks. The guests certainly won’t.

Of course everyone goes to a wedding because they want to witness the happy couple’s blessed union. Though once the ceremony ends, the entire vibe of this joyous event shifts. What was just moments earlier a celebration of commitment turns into a desperate race to find out where the bar’s at. Is it open yet? Or more to the point, is it an open bar? Those two magic words will make even the most bitter of guests forget about their delayed cross-country flight, missing luggage or overpriced hotel room. An open bar really does makes everything better. Just open that bar fast. Super fast. Wedding guests do not like to wait for their reward.

Because that’s what the reception really is: a reward for being the dutiful friend or family member who put in a lot of time or money for the ceremony. Perhaps no one will ever admit to it, but you know I’m right. Though if my friends are any indication – love you guys! – you best not have a full open bar. If you do, you will be paying back that bill years after your student loan balance has reached zero.

The food, though… The food is something else entirely. Wedding guests don’t take too kindly when shortchanged on their meal whether that’s in terms of selection or quantity. Usually I know right away if the reception will live up to my expectations depending on the presence or absence of appetizers. Given that typical hour lull between the ceremony and reception, I’ve come to expect a hors d’oeuvres table in the same way that most everyone else expects a sunrise every morning. There’d better be one.

Some people are satisfied with just a bar before dinner is served. Not me. Regardless of what time of day the wedding is scheduled, you can bet that I’ve devoted at least the last five hours to this thing – getting ready, commuting, waiting for the ceremony to begin, the event itself (which can be upwards of an hour) and now waiting for dinner. Though to be honest, it’s in everyone’s best interest that I eat sooner than later. My meal schedule hasn’t changed much since infancy; if I don’t eat every couple of hours, I will wail. Loudly.

But appetizers will hold me over only for so long. I can be momentarily distracted by the reception speeches (again the tears), but then it’s back to what’s on my plate. Most weddings have your standard salad and bread offerings. Usually I’ve inhaled both before the entire room has even been served. That’s when the true test begins… What is the entrée? Is there a choice? Sometimes no. I once attended a reception where everyone – everyone – was served the same chicken and vegetables. When I woefully told my server that I don’t eat chicken, I received very little sympathy in return. His suggestion? “Eat around it.” I compensated by consuming four pieces of wedding cake later that evening.

While seeing a loved one tie the knot always puts me in a good mood, I am outright giddy when told that dinner is buffet style. Hells yeah! So not only do I get to choose what I want to eat, but also I get to take as much of it as I want? I wish you many, many years of wedded bliss.

In any other scenario, I hate buffets. With much respect to my father who loves a deal, I cannot bring myself to eat at Old Country Buffet. Whenever I walk into that place, all I can think about is that granny across the hall who probably coughed her dirty germs onto the pudding cup I’ll be eating in twenty minutes. It’s not conducive to good digestion.

But wedding buffets are awesome. Just recently I attended a reception with endless servings of shrimp, sushi and traditional Indian fare. I was in buffet heaven and quite literally went into pig mode. From what I’ve heard, as long as you keep putting food in front of them, pigs will keep eating. I don’t know if that’s actually true, but I can see how it might be. I couldn’t stop. Well past the point of mild discomfort, I still had three sushi rolls on my plate. How could I let them go to waste? It was only the gentle scolding of a dear friend who convinced me I would live to eat sushi another day – though maybe not as good and definitely not as free – that I finally threw in the napkin.

It pains me to say that I also skipped the cake that night. As previously mentioned, I am a big fan of cake. Any cake. Actually any sweet at all; I don’t discriminate. No cake? Only cookies? Fine by me. No cookies? Only brownies? Bring it. As long as there’s something to cleanse my palate, I’m good. Yet by the time dessert is served, most guests are either dozing into food coma or dancing in a drunken haze and don’t care much about the sweet stuff. However, I did make sure to try the ice cream. Yes, this wedding had cake and ice cream. If the reception was any indication of what’s to come, consider this my official RSVP to the 50^th anniversary party. I’m already hungry.

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Usually when I write it’s about antagonistic parking garage gates or annoying lemonade stand proprietors because that’s my jet-setting kind of life. My goal in relaying these trivial tales is to make you the reader hysterically laugh, or at least begrudgingly smile. (Like you just did, right? Don’t tell me you’re not smiling right now because I know you are!)

However, this is a different kind of blog post.

A woman died in my apartment complex last week. I can’t claim close ties with her just to milk the drama out of the circumstance, but we did exchange hellos whenever I would pass this woman in our courtyard. Her exact age I don’t know, but I would safely bet that she was probably pushing eighty. The two things I can recall about her are 1) a loss of hearing that caused her to talk a few decibels too loudly even when I was standing just inches away and 2) her fondness for baby blue eye shadow. I was fond of it myself. She was one of those ladies who refused to leave the house not looking like a lady. Every time I saw her she had her hair did and makeup on.

Suffice it to say that I was truly upset by the news of her death. She lived by herself, had no next of kin and it wasn’t immediately known that she had passed. I live next door to her church, and it was only her absence from services last Sunday that suggested perhaps something was wrong. It was.

And it got me to thinking…

I’ve had loved ones pass away, but this was very much a different scenario for me; her death while sad wasn’t nearly as distressing as the circumstances of her life. No family? No close friends? How can you be on this earth for so long and seemingly have so little to show for it? Yet I know this can’t be true. I have no details about this woman’s life or who was a part of it, but at the very least she had affected my life because here I was thinking about it. Initially her passing made me pray that I wouldn’t end up like that in another fifty years. Terrible, but true. After some time, it then made me think about how the dead always seem to have such a strong effect on the living. Kind of ironic.

Though in truth, we affect each other all the time while being very much still alive. We just don’t think about it as often. I don’t mean the big moments like a wedding proposal or pregnancy announcement; of course those occasions have a resounding ripple effect on multiple lives. I’m talking about the little things. Those instances that we may never consciously note in our minds. Allow me the following example.

A few weeks ago I was hanging out with a friend in Starbucks. We hadn’t chatted in a while and were getting each other up to date with what had been going on in our lives for the last several months. It was nice. After about a half-hour, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Barista: “Could you please keep it down?”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry! Was someone complaining?”

Barista: “No, but you’re getting a little loud.”

He got his wish. I was stunned silent.

Now for the record, I know my voice carries. I call it exuberance; others call it loud. (Especially my laugh.) The topic is already a sensitive one for me, and Barista Bully had just thrown a big ole spotlight on it. I couldn’t believe it; no one had said anything, yet he still felt compelled to publicly scold me? Obviously I haven’t gotten over the incident and have not since returned to that Starbucks. (It’s the closest one to me, too!)

I doubt that Barista Bully knew his remark would cut so deeply, but that’s my point. Day in and day out, we do and say things that mean nothing to us. Yet to the person on the receiving end of that look or remark, it can mean quite a bit.

Rewind to my junior high graduation. I was selected to give a speech that night but was deathly afraid of doing so. This wasn’t just an extreme case of glossophobia, though. A year earlier, I had fainted while attempting to explain my seventh grade science fair project to my teacher and two-dozen classmates… So yeah, I was nervous for good reason. I waited for my cue like a death row inmate waits for the injection needle; it was agony. My sweaty palms had warped my note cards, and I was certain that within moments I would be humiliating myself in front of my entire school.

Next to me sat D. A schoolmate since grade school, she was one of those exuberant types herself, always happy and smiling. Apparently she was also the observant type. Without saying a word, D reached over and grabbed my hand. She squeezed it. Hard. She didn’t let go. Words can’t express the wave of relief and gratitude that washed over me in that moment, and while her gesture didn’t completely erase my anxiety, it was enough. More than enough. I got through the speech without losing consciousness, so that’s at least something. And guess what? Twenty years later I’m still thinking about D and her act of kindness.

So that’s about it. I hope my neighbor is somewhere nice; perhaps heaven has a beauty salon or at least a makeup counter with free samples. I think that would make her happy. And even though you and I are still battling the daily grind we call life, let’s try to make each other happy, too.

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I’m a pretty decent driver. Never have I received a moving violation. Never do I change lanes without first looking over my shoulder. Only once have I sideswiped someone and taken out his side view mirror. Though due to these self-proclaimed superior skills, and as many a passenger has noted, I am a wee bit condescending – or all out hostile – toward other drivers on the road. It’s not pretty. You know how sometimes a lane is blocked off, and even though you made sure to merge early on, there are one or ten cars that expect to get in at the very last second? I’m the jerk who won’t let them. “No cuts, no butts, no coconuts.” You don’t get to zoom to the front of the line and then cut in. Not on my watch.

So, yeah, I’m definitely contributing to this whole road rage thing. Though lately I’ve been noticing that this driving-induced fury isn’t confined to merely those who are driving. All around me people who aren’t even behind the wheel are flipping out. Or maybe I’m just realizing that everybody in LA is crazy…

I was about a half-dozen cars behind at the intersection of Venice and National, trying to make a left-hand turn. That’s when I saw him: Nutty McNutterson. Presumably this guy was waiting at the bus stop, but he wasn’t so much waiting as having a full-on Falling Down moment right in the middle of Venice Boulevard. Saying he was mad does not suffice. He was enraged. So angry in fact that Mel Gibson would have been taken aback by his behavior. This dude was screaming. He was waving his arms. He was even pseudo kicking each car that drove past as if it personally offended him to see others with their own means of transportation.

Apparently the bus was running late. While the other poor would-be passengers were occupying themselves in any way possible to ignore Nutty, I was totally entranced, and it only got better when he spotted the bus barreling down his way. Many people at that point would have calmed down a bit. Not Nutty. He took it up a notch and actually walked into the street while gesticulating to the driver in a not so friendly way. I wondered if I was about to witness the final moments of this man’s angry existence… Alas, no. He got out of the way just in time for the bus to roll right past him. Didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. Yay! I was so excited to see what this guy would do next, but that’s when my fun was rudely interrupted by the lame-o behind me who wanted to get a move on.

Yet this was actually the second time that day where I was reprimanded for enjoying the scenery a little too much. Just minutes prior, I was honked at while hanging out at another stoplight. (This accounts for at least half the drive time in LA.) Initially I noticed an “Open House” sign on the corner with a few perky balloons tied to it. I then saw Batty McBatterson waiting on the same corner for the light to turn. Much to my amusement, one balloon in particular wanted to be friends with Batty and kept flying into her face. Though instead of simply taking a step away from the balloon and ending her predicament right then and there, this chick began to punch it. For every punch, each one more violent than the last, the balloon only became more desperate for love and was virtually suffocating her with butterfly kisses.

It was awesome. And just as I became totally lost in Batty’s battle against rubber and helium, she too completely forgot that she was trying to get somewhere. Only the impatient car horn behind me was able to finally snap us both back to reality. For her this meant a furtive glace around to see who had been watching her little meltdown. For me it meant gunning the gas toward Venice and National where Nutty was waiting to impress me with his Christian Bale impersonation.

So what’s the deal? Why are we all so angry? When people are taking out their frustration by abusing innocent balloons, there’s a serious problem. But I’m a hypocrite. Most likely my attempt to school others in the fine art of driving isn’t always successful. I’m probably just pissing people off, thereby causing them to be nasty to the next driver they encounter. Although neither Nutty nor Batty were the direct recipients of my road rage, regardless I feel somewhat responsible for their craziness because we all impact each other in some way. Maybe I cut off that bus driver ten minutes earlier and he decided to hell with it; he’s not picking up any more deranged passengers. So I vow to do better. From here on out, I will be the very definition of driving graciousness… Unless of course someone is doing twenty in a forty. Then I will angrily dart out from behind and yell a few choice words while passing by in a blur of blue metal. Dad, this means you.

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As a kid, I never really appreciated how awesome it is to catch a game – baseball, basketball or otherwise – in your own town. To experience the splendor and storied history of Wrigley or Soldier Field. To be surrounded by thousands of other fans screaming for the Blackhawks or Bulls. To have your father pay for everything.

Though I’ve long since accepted the smog and gridlock that come with living in LA, I have yet to embrace the Lakers, Dodgers, Kings or that red-headed stepchild called the Clippers. Never gonna happen either. How can I support a city that doesn’t even have its own NFL team? Puh-leeze. I’d sooner become a Cheesehead. But sometimes it does kind of blow to cheer for the away team.

I never considered just how odd it would feel to be odd man out until I attended a Blackhawks-Kings game a few years back. To go from the United Center where usually one walks out with a disconcerting ringing sensation in the ears and sandpaper throat to the Staples Center… It was weird. Be vewy, vewy quiet. That’s all I kept thinking; no one was making a peep. Even when the Kings scored, there was barely a ruckus, and I live for the ruckus. Sometimes back in the day I even had other Blackhawks fans shoot me none-too-friendly sideways glances in our very own stadium. (I have been blessed with the ability to scream quite high and loud for all the wannabe kidnappers and rapists reading this. I also have a sweet left hook so don’t get any ideas.) You can imagine my conundrum. Throughout the stands sat many other Chicago fans, but it just wasn’t the same. From the moment I could actually hear the national anthem being sung, I was bummed. It all went downhill from there. No cheering. No Tommy Hawk. No fun.

Fast-forward to this week. The Cubs were in town for a three-game series against the Dodgers, and I was going to one of them with about eighty other Columbia College alums. Dodger Stadium wasn’t new to me; I’d been to the venue for a few baseball outings already. Definitely better experiences than my bizarro world Staples Center debacle, but a lot had changed since my last time there. In particular, the police presence. Like most everyone else I know, I was deeply saddened and shocked to hear about the Giants fan beaten by those whom I refuse to call baseball fans or even human beings. More like animals. Definitely cowards. Anyway… I’ll admit that I was a wee bit nervous. Eighty plus Cubs fans all together in one section? Were we putting ourselves in a Wild Kingdom situation here? You know, where the sweet, unsuspecting, perhaps slightly dim gazelles are trying to quench their thirst from a peaceful little pond when all of a sudden they’re viciously attacked by a pride of lions? Sure, we’ve bravely weathered a hundred years of verbal abuse from pretty much everyone else on the planet, but I’ll gladly be on the receiving end of a few “Cubs suck!” as opposed to having actual broken bones.

However, I shouldn’t have been so worried. For one, there truly is strength in numbers, and maybe that’s what I needed all along. I just have to make sure that whatever game I go to in Los Angeles, there are at least a couple dozen other Chicago fans with me. Because it really is all about your friends. That’s what makes going to a game so much fun. The camaraderie. The laughter. The way you can make a fool of yourself and it’s not even slightly embarrassing because everyone else is acting like a fool right along with you. Plus it didn’t hurt that we had the most perfect night weather-wise and all-you-can-eat nachos!

For the most part, the Dodger fans were gracious as well. Maybe because they risked arrest if they weren’t, but so be it. I once heard a story about a White Sox fan getting a Budweiser bottle to the forehead at a known Cubs bar, so we’re not perfect either. (Though perhaps not the smartest move on his part to patronize an establishment called The Cubby Bear.) We did hear a few “boos,” some of which were directed at a father and his young son, but there are classless idiots no matter where you go. However, they do seem to love the sporting arenas. Hmm… But best of all, the Cubs won! So as the Dodger fans began to file out before the game was over – can you really be considered a fan then? – we Cubbies cheered and held high a huge ‘W’ flag. Yes, someone actually brought a Cubs Win Flag. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

While waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store the other day, I noticed a very unhappy woman walking through the sliding glass doors with a ripped bag. Utilizing my snap judgment skills, I thought she might be homeless; snap judging again from the way she began to irrationally berate the nearest cashier for said ripped bag, I wasn’t so sure anymore. Could be anyone in LA. For his part, the cashier was extremely gracious and said she could take as many bags as she liked, but this only added fuel to her fire. She then proceeded to whine that she didn’t want multiple bags; she wanted just one decent bag to hold all her stuff. Listening to her tirade, I had to admit that the woman had a point. It’s annoying when those bags rip. Yet moments later as I was unloading my own many double-bagged groceries into the car, I wondered, “Is this where we’re at as a society?” Forget the unemployment rate, rising gas prices and the government almost shutting down. We’re also complaining about grocery bags now?

I know, I know… It’s human nature to complain. We hate our job. Our boyfriend. Our neighbors. We want a vacation. A new car. Six pack abs.

Yet many of us won’t ever have a good enough job or boyfriend or body, so we complain about it. We vent to our friends and family for minutes… err, hours on end. Then we sigh dramatically and say, “But I guess I shouldn’t complain. I have a roof over my head. I have food in the fridge. It’s not like I’m some starving kid in Africa.” And then our friends say, “No, it’s okay. Besides, you can’t compare yourself to that kid in Africa. It’s all relative.”

Is it, though? Why shouldn’t we compare ourselves to that kid in Africa? I’ve used the “all relative” line a dozen or more times myself, but I’m not entirely sure it’s warranted. Why again that logic? Just so I have permission to complain about annoying salespeople who won’t leave me alone or the annoying dryer that never dries my sheets all the way? Because it’s always something that’s “so annoying.” Know what else is annoying? Not having a roof over your head. Or food to eat even if you had a fridge to put it in. Or being torn away from your family at eight to become a child soldier. That’s annoying.

Okay, maybe the kid in Africa isn’t comparable. Apples and oranges you say. But what about that pseudo homeless lady in Ralph’s? Or the panhandlers who magically appear every time I’m at a red light? Poor me. I’m the unlucky schmuck who just missed the left turn signal, and now I have to wait that eternal two minutes while this dude walks up and down the center median with a dirty disposable cup and outstretched hand. So what do I do? I pretend not to see him. I try to find *something* in my purse. Or I change the channel on the radio. Or I just stare ahead at the light as he periodically peeks in my window to see if I have some change to spare.

Every time this happens to me, and it happens a lot, a chill goes down my spine. Somehow his tragedy is my catalyst for complaining because the entire time I’m thinking, “What if that’s me someday?”

I’ve had this conversation with friends as well. What if I become homeless? Of course they smirk and say, “That would never happen.” End of story. But it could happen. Easily. I live in LA, and it’s not cheap here. Gas has been above four bucks for well over a month now. If you want to live in a neighborhood (relatively) free from break-ins and shootings, be prepared to pay for it. Also be prepared for some stiff competition for any and all jobs. Should you not secure that dream gig as Spielberg’s heir apparent, don’t assume the barista position at Starbucks is wide open. I promise that you’ll be up against a few thousand other auteur wannabes.

What’s my point? I dunno. I know that most of the time our whining stems from some deeper need or desire. You hate your boyfriend because you just want someone who listens to you. You hate your job because issuing parking passes wasn’t your intended goal in life. I get it. And sometimes the complaining is just a way to blow off steam. Though in the grand scheme of things, most of the people I know are okay. In fact, we’re the lucky ones. Gas prices might continue to soar, but at least we still have our cars. They weren’t washed away in a tsunami. We might get frustrated with our reps in Washington, but I’m pretty sure we’ll never see tanks rolling down Sunset Boulevard as rebel forces try to take over Los Angeles. Though it would be nice if my landlord finally ponied up and bought a new dryer. I hate damp sheets.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net