the chicago dispLAcement ®

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.

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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

So the other night I was having a very serious discussion with a friend regarding what we would do should there be an alien invasion.

She had just seen the recently released Battle: Los Angeles and was giving me a play-by-play of plot points. It got me to thinking… There are a lot of films about UFOs coming to Mother Earth. Funny ones like Men in Black. Patriotic ones like Independence Day. And super creepy ones like Signs. The details vary; they might land quietly in the middle of some sleepy farm town, or to get our attention they might decide to blow away the White House. Sometimes they want only our planetary resources for sustenance; other times they want our very bodies as incubation chambers. Either way, they most always want us dead.

Yet despite the fact that these beings figured out a way to travel millions of light years (give or take) to find us, we Earthlings always win in the end. Know why? Because we’re the human race! We got chutzpah! And when Bill Pullman tells us, “We will not go quietly into the night! We will not vanish without a fight! We’re going to live on! We’re going to survive!” then damn right we will.

But that’s just make-believe. Movies aren’t real. We all know none of that would ever happen… Because we would never, ever survive an alien attack if those little green guys didn’t want us to.

It’s true. Know why? Because whether or not we prideful humans care to admit it, those dudes are way smarter than us. Where do you think the phrase “light years ahead” came from? If they managed to navigate multiple galaxies to find our puny planet, then I for one feel confident they did the necessary background check as well. They would know if our germs were harmful to them or if our water was toxic. I mean, come on. I know humans who won’t drink the tap when vacationing in Mexico. You think UFOs would be any less careful?

I wouldn’t even try to resist an alien invasion. Really. If one afternoon I noticed a fleet of flying saucers annihilating my neighborhood, I would pretty much call it a day. I’d type off one last Facebook status update to all my loved ones and then guiltlessly eat every last carton of ice cream I could get my hands on until my time had come.

But here’s the thing. We needn’t worry. If ever we do come face to face with those guys from outer space, I’d put good money on them being more E.T. than some monstrosity with acid for blood. Know why? Evolution. Allow me to explain. Once upon a time, should you come down with a nasty cold, you would probably get sliced open and bled – on purpose – so you could get better. Should you be accused of witchcraft, you would get thrown into a river to see if you could float. If not, congratulations! You may be dead, but at least you weren’t a minion of the devil. Sometimes you didn’t even get the benefit of the doubt; you’d just be tied to a stake and lit up in front a crowd of cheering spectators. Thankfully, we don’t do these things anymore because we’re better educated and more civilized. Not to say that we still don’t have a long way to go, but that’s my point. If E.T. does visit Earth, then he’s already gone the distance, both literally and figuratively. He doesn’t want to wipe out our species; rather he wants to heal our boo-boos with his fingertip. Sure, he might smirk at our primitive need for clothing and steal all our Reese’s Pieces, but that’s about as aggressive as he’s ever gonna get.

So in case you’ve been losing sleep about how you would survive an extraterrestrial battle in Los Angeles, Chicago or anywhere else on earth, don’t. If UFOs do show up one day, they’ll probably be saving us from some human-made catastrophe, not creating one. However, I would worry about surviving a zombie attack. If that happens, then we’re really in trouble.

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Ah, children. The future of tomorrow…

Over the last year I’ve been volunteering for this amazing organization that once a month reads to kids in grades kindergarten through fifth. It’s a blast. I’ve met some great people and read some super fun books. Best of all, I’ve been given the opportunity to instill a love of reading into the hearts and minds of our country’s youngest generation. These kids are awesome. They love to laugh and learn. They love to be silly. They also love to lie. A lot.

A big part of the organization’s creed is to get the children involved in storytime. Engage them. Don’t just rattle off pages while the kids stare on dazed and confused. As I always have the kindergarteners, this is an absolute must. Losing a five-year-old’s interest is fatal to the reading experience. So I ask a lot of questions. Who has a dog? Who’s been to the ocean? Who can do a cartwheel? Things like that.

What I started realizing about two volunteer sessions in is that children always have to take it one step further. They don’t just have a dog. They have seventeen. They haven’t just seen the ocean. They’ve gone swimming with sharks. And yes, they can do a cartwheel. It’s a requisite for joining the circus, which they’ve been a part of for a few years now.

At first I’d humor them; after all, they’re just kids. Then I would give them a chance to revise their statement by innocently asking, “Have you really sailed around the world?” Instead of ‘fessing up and saying, “No, but I’d like to someday,” they just smile and nod emphatically. So you can’t spell your own name, but you’ve navigated the Straits of Magellan? Doubt it.

Of course I want to call them out and yell, “You’re lying!” but I can’t. That would be frowned upon. Yet at the very least I’d like to teach them a lesson or two on the finer points of lying properly. First of all, don’t be so obvious about it. You’re going to raise a few eyebrows if you claim you’ve been to the moon. Very few people have and definitely no one under the age of ten. Second, pick and choose your moments. If you tell me in the span of an hour that you’ve traveled to Antarctica, built your own airplane and survived an alien abduction, I’m gonna know something is up.

Lying is something we all do. Adults are just better at it; we’ve had years of experience to hone our skills. Take for instance the job interview. Who doesn’t tweak the truth a tad during this grueling exercise in proving your worth as a human being? Did you take a college class called Zombies in Popular Media because it sounded like fun? Then you had a minor in sociology. Were you in charge of ordering office supplies and employee birthday cakes at your last job? Then you were the Senior Operations Manager. It’s the truth… sort of.

Or try consoling a friend whose unrequited love has finally burst their bubble. We’ve all been there. Most likely the truth is that Mr. or Ms. Perfect just didn’t find your friend attractive/funny/smart, but they didn’t have the heart to say as much because that would be cruel. You can’t say it either because your friend agreed to give you a lift to the airport that weekend and you don’t want to pay for a taxi. So now you two need to “figure out” why he or she was rejected. This poor person who did nothing more than say, “I’m not interested,” is suddenly under intense scrutiny regarding every facet of his or her life. Ipso facto, this person has intimacy issues. Or he’s intimidated by strong, independent women. Or she subconsciously sabotages healthy relationships because of poor self-image. Two hours into the conversation and you’re still trying to pinpoint the exact moment during Mr. Perfect’s childhood that the mommy issues began.

We lie for various reasons. Sometimes we do it to give ourselves a boost. Sometimes someone else needs that boost a bit more. And while we’ve all heard the saying, “Honesty is the best policy,” no one ever mentions how much grief it can cause should you abide by such a policy. Take that saying to heart and you’ll have no job and no friends real fast.

So listen up, kids of America. Take it from someone who knows. Your future’s not gonna be so bright if you keep up with these ridiculous lies. You haven’t actually teleported through time or won an Academy Award. Just not possible. Saying that you’re in talks about an indie film, now that I might believe… See the difference?

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I have a confession to make. I don’t really “get” the theatre.

I blame growing up in the eighties. When I wasn’t watching MTV, I was playing Super Mario Bros. When I wasn’t playing Super Mario Bros., I was reading Sweet Valley Twins. Going to see a play or musical wasn’t on the radar. As a kid the closest I ever got to a stage was watching the high schoolers sing and dance during our school’s annual Octoberfest program, but as they constantly broke character, I was quickly disillusioned by the notion that the theatre could do anything for me. I preferred my make believe to be projected from the television in my living room.

It wasn’t until college that an attempt was made to cultivate a love for the theatre, yet even then it was somewhat forced. To fulfill a gen-ed credit I took a theatre appreciation class and at best tolerated the endless lectures explaining proscenium arches and stage left versus stage right. Not long afterwards I was given the chance to attend a real live musical currently in town. I walked into the theatre that night with serious misgivings, but upon hearing the first verse of “Memory,” I finally forgot that on stage was a grown woman dressed up as a past her prime feline. I was hooked. For the next several years, I went to as many musicals as I could: Cats, Miss Saigon, Les Miserables, Chicago, Rent. Being in the same room with people pretending to be nineteenth century French ex-convicts or Prohibition-era murderesses was still a bit strange for me, but I was able to get past it while listening to “On My Own” or watching Bob Fosse’s mesmerizing choreography.

Plays, on the other hand, have continued to be a problem. I realize that thousands of years before anybody ever heard of an AMC theatre or HBO, there was the stage. And I love reading Greek tragedy. I adore Shakespeare. Even Tennessee Williams is pretty cool. Regardless, sitting in a theatre and watching actors act feels odd. So in your face.

During grad school, I had a very dear friend who worked at the South Coast Repertory and would graciously give me tickets to the plays; I saw this as a second chance to finally appreciate this ancient art form. Instead I just kept thinking up hypothetical catastrophes. What if there was an earthquake right now? What if the power went out? What if I ran up on stage and ripped off all my clothes? I was dying for something to happen that would force the actors to break that fourth wall. They weren’t in ancient Troy or Romeo’s Verona. They were in Orange County, California, and hundreds of people were watching them in a darkened theatre. I had a mean compulsion to stand up and shout, “I know you know we’re here!”

And speaking of clothes getting ripped off… The worst is when the characters have to get sexy. Once that happens, forget it. I am totally out of the story. Sure, I probably have some maturity issues to work out, but come on, it’s just weird for an audience to watch people getting it on. Is anybody even paying attention to the play anymore? Because I’m not. I’m just wondering if the actors in question are as uncomfortable as I am.

However, my biggest issue with the theatre is the occasional bad acting. Now I know bad acting abounds in film and television, yet should I encounter it, I simply walk out of the room or turn off the TV. Not so easy in the theatre. Once it becomes obvious that an actor is really, really bad, I experience a kind of discomfort similar to what happens when watching an ice skater fall during her program. But this time there’s no off button. I can’t just change the channel. I have to sit there and endure an endless parade of falls for the next hour and a half.

So… last weekend I attended a friend’s play. Completely in the dark (pun intended) regarding its origin or storyline, I knew only two things: my friend was in it and there was no intermission. This last bit of information concerned me somewhat, but as my friend is a fantastic actor, I figured that watching him perform would hopefully make the time fly by.

Steve didn’t disappoint. He was great. However, I needn’t have worried in the first place. At some point during the performance, maybe a half-hour in, maybe later, I suddenly noticed that I was leaning forward in my seat. I had forgotten about not having an intermission. I had forgotten that we weren’t really in the Bronx. Instead, I was hanging on every word each character said, wondering how this story would end, but at the same time not wanting it to end at all. I loved this play.

I’ve watched hundreds of movies; most of them are not that good. Yet it’s films like It Happened One Night and Raiders of the Lost Ark and This is Spinal Tap that keep me coming back for more. Have I seen hundreds of plays? No. Not even close. Yet for years I’ve been condemning the entire art form based on the few I had seen and not liked. That’s hardly fair. Having had the opportunity to enjoy Savage in Limbo made me realize that as with many other things in life, I simply had made a snap judgment on something of which I knew very little.

Though I wouldn’t have minded a little Mr. Mistoffelees number thrown in. Just to mix it up a bit.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I just found out that next month Jeopardy! will be airing episodes with a contestant named Watson. Watson is an IBM supercomputer. As if I didn’t have it hard enough already.

Jeopardy! is one of my last remaining outlets to prove to the world that I’m smart. A way to separate myself from those pathetic souls on Leno’s “Jaywalking” segment who religiously watch every episode of Wife Swap, yet cannot name one state capital. Though as much as I hate to admit it, I have a lot more in common with those folks than merely wishing Jay Leno had never entered our lives.

It’s embarrassing how much I don’t know nowadays. This wasn’t always the case. For instance, I used to know what a polynomial was. I used to know who Andrew Carnegie was. We all knew who Andrew Carnegie was. Sure, sometimes school sucked. Waiting for the bus in subzero wind chill wasn’t so much fun. My uninspired lunches were a bummer as well. (FYI, Dad. No child ever needs or wants two apples in her lunch bag.) Those minor irritations aside, at least I knew how to properly diagram a sentence.

However, everything fades with time, including intelligence. I was confronted with this sad truth some years back upon applying to grad school. Aside from having my transcripts and recommendations in order, I decided to sign up for the GRE. Though not required for every program, I wanted to cover my bases just in case. Besides, how bad could it be? Specifically, I figured the quantitative, or math, section would be a breeze. Believe it or not, math was my strong suit in school. However, I hadn’t taken a class in quite a while, so I snagged one of those GRE prep books and cracked it open to the quantitative section. I instantly flipped back to the front cover. Had I purchased the hieroglyphic version of this book? Because I had no idea what I was looking at, let alone could I decipher its foreign language. Eh, no big deal. I assumed it would all come back to me within a day or two. Within a day or two, I reasoned it would come back after a week or two. After a week or two, as I rode the bus to the GRE testing facility, I prayed it would come back during the exam ala A Beautiful Mind. I imagined myself a female (and non-schizophrenic) version of John Nash and compelled the mathematical genius within to reveal itself. Fast. When my score arrived in the mail a few weeks later, my eyes searched for the quantitative result… I hadn’t performed so much like John Nash as I did the guy from Sling Blade. Sidenote: the grad school I eventually attended did not require the GRE.

That was the last time I was truly tested in the academics department. You might ask, “Didn’t you go to grad school after that?” Yeah, I did. For film. Not to say that film studies can’t be strenuous, but let’s call a spade a spade. Going to grad school for film is not the same as continuing your education in law or medicine. While I was debating the legacy of John Hughes in American cinema, my med school friend was delivering babies. There is a difference. Now all I have left to prove my academic worth are Jeopardy! and Trivial Pursuit.

The trick to Trivial Pursuit isn’t so much having raw smarts as having common sense. Most times you don’t need to know the answer at all; you just have to pay attention to the way the question is phrased. Example: “What did 100,000 self-conscious American women buy 200,000 of in 1980?” The key words here? Self-conscious. American. Women. Answer? Breast implants. Obviously. Yet sometimes you still come up short. Especially mortifying is when you know the answer but your brain refuses to release it. Then you look like a real idiot… So I was playing Trivial Pursuit with my family over the holidays. Question: “Who were the actresses that played Thelma and Louise in Thelma & Louise?”

I yelled “Susan Sarandon!” before my cousin even finished reading the card. “And… And… Shoot. Hold on a minute. Just give me a minute. I know this! I know her! I can picture her in my mind right now! She was in The Accidental Tourist. She played the president on that TV show. And she was on Family Ties!” My cousins politely listened to my exercise in thinking out loud. How could I not remember this actress? If my grad school education was to prove useful in any way, now was the time… Nothing. I hung my head in shame as the name Geena Davis was spoken.

And now Jeopardy! How can I possibly compete with a supercomputer? This show was my last saving grace. One of the very few opportunities to feel superior to others, both those on the show and in your living room, should you know “What was Commander in Chief?” when no one else does. And if you didn’t know Commander in Chief? Well, whatever. Nobody watched that show anyway.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

New Year’s Eve is upon us. Oy.

As my last few posts have hinted, I love everything about the holidays. I love the appreciation of food and friendship on Thanksgiving. I love the magic and memories made at Christmas. I love alliteration. But New Year’s? Well, it just sucks.

Not the actual new year. That part I’m all about. I relish wishing strangers, “Happy New Year!” Initially it throws them and there’s this half-second of awkward silence, but they all recover with an even more enthusiastic echo of my sentiment. It’s the little things. And cracking open my brand new planner come January 1 is Christmas morning all over again; I have 365 new gifts just waiting for me. Totally cheesy, to be sure, but also totally true.

New Year’s Eve is brutal, though. Everyone – everyone – wants to know what you’re doing that night. 200 Cigarettes hit the nail on the head. Everybody goes into panic attack mode on December 31. What are you going to wear? Where are you going to go? Who are you going to kiss?  I’ve explored the options over the years. I’ve done the house party thing. I’ve done the bar thing. I went ice-skating one year and clinked champagne glasses at one of LA’s trendier restaurants – they all try to be some kind of trendy – another year. I even did the Times Square ball drop as we entered the year 2000. And though I’ve enjoyed myself at each of these outings, I’m always fantasizing about being in bed as of 12:01am.

At least in Chicago you had an arsenal of excuses if you wanted to stay home: “It’s snowing outside,” or “It’s zero degrees outside.” Something along those lines. The one time Mother Nature is your friend during a Chicago winter. People buy those excuses. They understand. After all, who wants to combat single digit temps while keeping their eyes akimbo for ice puddles all night long? Lest you forget, I would also like to remind you that the ladies are encouraged to wear attire not at all appropriate in this type of climate. Like that’s fair. I can tell you from experience that the chances of catching hypothermia from open toe heels on New Year’s Eve in Chicago are very real. And good luck trying to catch a cab.

Alas, it never snows in LA, so the excuses are somewhat harder to come by. I may be exhausted and slightly larger from a month and a half of holiday parties, but time to suck it up. Literally. Take a deep breath and force that little black dress on one last time. You have to, right? Because there’s this air of superstition that hangs over New Year’s Eve; if you have a lame night it will surely translate into an even lamer year. If you don’t have a date, forget trying to find your soul mate anytime soon. If you stay home, kiss your social life goodbye for the next year. My last New Year’s Eve was spent taking care of a dear friend who had forgotten that she and alcohol don’t mix well. New Year’s Day? It started with saltines and ended with an urgent request for me to pull over on Sunset Boulevard so that my brand-new car would avoid being christened with the remnants of cheese ball and tequila. So was the rest of my 2010 pukey as well? Not at all. I may have had one or two dry heaving moments, but all in all, it was a very good year.

A beautiful wedding doesn’t always translate into a beautiful marriage. Likewise, what you do on New Year’s Eve doesn’t decide your fate for the coming year. If you want to spend the night with hundreds of strangers in a crowded club, I say go for it. If the person you most want to spend the evening with is yourself, that’s okay, too. Whatever it is that you decide to do, be safe and have fun. Most importantly, remember that once the clock hits midnight you have in front of you an entire year to mold and make into anything you want. That is reason to celebrate.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net