the chicago dispLAcement ®

Nestled between its congested highways, strip malls, and high-rises, Los Angeles has amazing parks and scenic trails. The Eastsiders usually favor hotspots like Griffith Park and Runyon Canyon, while Westsiders typically frequent Topanga and the Santa Monica steps. I live somewhere in the middle, which means one thing: I never go to any of these places.

Well, that’s not entirely true. A few weeks ago, my boyfriend and I headed to Griffith at about 8 a.m. on a Sunday. It still took over a half-hour to get there. Because it had been more than a year since my last time to the park, it took even longer to find the trail that I kept promising him I knew by heart.

That’s why we tend to stick around my neighborhood. “Zero commute time” is one of my favorite phrases in the English language, so more often than not we just walk through my own neck of the woods. Though my ‘hood isn’t exactly swimmin’ pools and movie stars, I do distinctly recall once walking past a house that had an entire zoo of animals in its front yard. They were fake, of course, but I was so shocked and impressed by the homeowner’s no holds barred tackiness that I was determined to find this abode once more. For several weeks, I dragged my boyfriend up and down and back again throughout a three-mile radius of my apartment. Needless to say, we never found the house again, and I’m pretty sure my boyfriend thinks I just hallucinated the whole thing.

That’s also about the time he suggested we find somewhere else to walk.

I wasn’t willing to waste gallons of $4 gas just to sit in weekend traffic, so I racked my brain to find anything that resembled a hiking trail near my home. And that’s when the epiphany struck – Baldwin Hills!

Technically, I had never been to this park, but driven past it many a time. Given the dozens of weekend warriors that I would see upon each drive-by, I figured the place was legit. However, I had overlooked one crucial aspect of Baldwin Hills… its 282 steps to the top.

As soon as we spied the steps during our first outing, my boyfriend was super excited about them. Me, not so much. It wasn’t the physical challenge of climbing the stairs that bothered me. It was the prospect of tripping and falling down all 282 of them. Which can theoretically happen.

But we climbed them, and I didn’t die. So we came back the following week and climbed them again. I still didn’t die. In fact, I felt kind of good once I made it to the top and viewed the beautiful smog of downtown LA. When we reached the top of the stairs again last week, I was feeling pretty dang awesome until my boyfriend said, “I think I want to do it again.”

To buy some time – hopefully enough for him to forget his insanity – I asked if we could take the long way back down the hill. You know, so I could properly loosen up for the next stair challenge. However, once we finally made it to the bottom, he looked at me with eager eyes and a wide smile. We were doing this.

As I prepared myself once more for the stairway of pain, I got distracted by a father and son duo also making the climb. Cute, right? I thought so, too… until I heard the dad yell, “Come on! Let’s go! It’s a f*cking piece of cake!” after which he promptly dashed up the stairs, all the while berating his young son for his lame-ass climbing abilities.

The poor kid offered up a few weak moans of protest, yet he continued putting one foot in front of the other. In fact, he was going faster than me. By the time I made it to the top, I quickly scanned the area for Commando Dad and kid. While the dad was doing that weird jogging in place thing, his kid looked like he was about to pass out. He was leaning heavily on the railing for support, but his respite was short-lived. His father again began to chastise him: “Come on, let’s go! You don’t need that much time to rest!” The kid staunchly refused to move, and for about 30 more seconds, Commando Dad acquiesced. In the meantime, my boyfriend and I decided to make our final journey down the hill. A few moments later, Commando Dad walked past us with kid in tow.

“You ready? You ready? Let’s go!”

His kid was clearly not ready, but that made little difference to Commando Dad. He started running anyway. Dejected and defeated, his kid finally picked up the pace to catch up with his father. This made everyone nearby, including my boyfriend and me, laugh lightheartedly at this poor kid’s relentless misery.

We still were smiling from Commando Dad’s wacky antics when we passed yet another father and son sharing some bonding time at Baldwin Hills. That’s when we heard the dad solemnly inform his young son, “He’s coming up here right now, and he’s gonna kick your ass.”

Hiking is very different than what I remember it to be.

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Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all! In the spirit of this fine Hallmark holiday, I have yet another tale to tell of my one true love… Target.

Yes, it’s sad that the most exciting stories of my life revolve around Target, but when you spend 165 hours of each week working, eating, and sleeping all in the same place, a trip to the store is très exotic. But today’s anecdote is actually relevant to Cupid and company. For as I was perusing the Advil aisle, who should I run into than Mr. Bachelor himself, Jake Pavelka.

For those who don’t know, Jake is one of the more notorious alums of The Bachelor. Like every other dude who comes on the show to make out with two-dozen chicks – I mean, to find his future wife and soul mate – Jake got down on one knee and proposed to contestant Vienna Girardi after knowing her for a whole two months. Shockingly, they split just three months after the proposal aired.

Naturally, as soon as I saw Captain Jake (trained as a pilot, he apparently still flies the friendly skies, because he was in full uniform), I immediately pulled out my phone to Facebook the world about my celebrity sighting. Before posting my exciting news, though, I did a quick spell check of his last name. And that’s when I saw it… According to the folks at Google, Jake is 5’ 10”.

Nuh uh.

Now, let me first say that I didn’t really regard his height when I spied him. My only thought was, “Must Facebook immediately!” But almost bumping carts with someone gives you enough face time to know where you stand with them, so to speak. And being a decently tall gal – not thyroid problem tall, but a respectable height – I weirdly take note whenever a guy is shorter than me. Which Jake totally was. And I am not 5’ 10”.

Why I was so surprised at the discrepancy between his real height and that which his PR reps tweaked, I don’t know. I’ve lived in LA long enough to realize that most celebrities are never as tall as you imagine them to be. I guess seeing them on the silver screen – or even the small screen – distorts perception. But it’s not just famous folk who lie about their height, age, and Botox.

Allow me to tell you another story… This one’s about a girl who once went looking for love online. She “met” someone. He was perfect. His profile was witty. His emails were sweet and funny. And his one cropped, possibly from 1995, picture proved that he was handsome, too. Oh, and he had listed his height as 6’ 0”, which was perfect since our heroine was a decently tall gal. They exchanged crazy long messages for weeks on end and finally set a date for their first in-person encounter. The girl was oh so excited. Maybe he was The One! She picked out the perfect outfit: a sexy but not sluttish dress, a clutch big enough to hold both makeup and money, and adorable kitten heels. Why not? He was six feet tall after all.

She arrived at the restaurant early and waited nervously for him. After many minutes of nonchalantly fixing her hair in the window and glancing at the doorway, she finally saw him enter. He was exactly as she had imagined… except about four inches shorter.

So I have to tell you something. That girl was actually me. And that date actually happened. Mr. Wonderful(ly Short) arrived, and it was immediately awkward. Not because he was short. That didn’t bother me. It was the lying about being short that was the kicker. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? Surely, he must have done the math. My height was also listed on my profile – my real height. Epilogue: we were seated as quickly as possible and stayed there far longer than any other patron in the restaurant – not because we were having such a great time, but because neither of us wanted to get up and confront the elephant in the room. Or in this case, the shrimp in the room. Oh, snap!

Needless to say, I never saw him again. And unfortunately, he’s not the only guy that I’ve caught in a tangled web of short man deception. In fact, I became so skeptical of the whole online height thing that sadly I drilled my now boyfriend on his stature before I ever met him. And for the record – sappy alert! – he is every inch of awesomeness that he listed on his profile. Hallelujah!

But still I scratch my head and wonder… Why do you fellas do it? Why do you tell boldfaced lies about your height? Unless you can cover your tracks ala Tom Cruise and custom-made shoe lifts, you will never, ever get away with it. Us gals will figure it out, I promise.

Now I know the knee-jerk reaction that most men will have to my inquiry. “Women lie about their weight all the time!” And you would be right. We do. All the time. Probably more than you think. But I will bet my girdle that we can hide our weight indiscretions way better than your tall tales. We have lots and lots of fun devices that will smush, pull, bunch, and smooth out those extra pounds if we don’t mind not breathing for a few hours. And when all else fails, we always have black clothing.

I hear that Jake is now dating Kristin Chenoweth. According to Google, she’s 4’ 11”. Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.

P.S. Hugs and kisses to my Valentine, DD… “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height…” Preach it, Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

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It’s over. Another season of football is done.

Just a mere three months ago, I was ridin’ high. The Bears were 7-1, and I was certain that this was our year. Well, it didn’t happen. We got smacked by the Texans. Humiliated by the 49ers. Whipped by the Seahawks. And beaten by the Packers. That always stings.

So even though we were first in our division for the entire first half of the season, we didn’t even make it to the playoffs. My hopes were dashed, and Bears fans everywhere were forced to wait yet another year to bring back the Lombardi to Chicago. Even our go-to wellspring that is the ’85 Bears was somewhat tempered when Ditka suffered a stroke in November. All in all, it was a rough year for the Monsters of the Midway. Maybe we could use a Canadian to get us back on track.

And even though Lovie’s firing was a holiday highlight, I had to endure a month more of faking my enthusiasm for the playoffs. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I had plenty of reasons to be excited for the playoffs. Namely, to see the Packers get eliminated from them.

Here’s the deal. The Packers have the Bears to thank for winning the Super Bowl two years ago. It’s a dubious honor to be sure, but it’s true. Last game of the season. The Bears already had a bye, so it was what many would call a garbage game. Except that it’s never a worthless win over the Packers. Every victory counts, and according to trusty Wikipedia, we still hold a series win record of 92 to 88 over our rivals to the north. It would be 93 to 87 had we not lost the game that let Green Bay get a wild card into the playoffs, show us up at the NFC Championship, and swipe the Halas Trophy from us at Soldier Field. Of course, Green Bay did not repay the favor and beat Minnesota in their last game of the season this year so that we too could have our chance at Super Bowl victory.

So it felt oh so good when Green Bay finally succumbed to the 49ers last month. And though Harbaugh’s a complete loon, the fact that the Packers got beat by Jim and company felt like a small victory for Chicago fans, too. (Harbaugh played quarterback for the Bears in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s.)

It counts.

Anyway, with the Packers out of Super Bowl contention, I really didn’t have a horse in the race anymore. (My horse was whoever was playing the Packers.) The Falcons are boring. Plus, they’ve pretty much perfected the art of choking in the playoffs. I have family on the east coast who are New England fans, but I want to see New England in the playoffs as much as I want to see another installment of The Fast and the Furious. Then there are the Ravens, who I don’t know much about, except that Ray Lewis is sketch and John Harbaugh is big brother to Jim. Hmm… Okay. That made it interesting. Once the 49ers made it to the AFC Championship, my picks were set. The only thing that was going to make this Super Bowl any fun was seeing an all-Harbaugh fight to the finish.

Despite the fact that I got my wish, it’s always a little sad to watch the Super Bowl when your team’s not in it. Yeah, it’s a great excuse for one last bingefest before you finally make good on your resolution to lose weight, but still… It’s not the same. I can still remember that sweet, sweet first quarter during Super Bowl XLI when the Bears were leading the Colts 14-6. The rest of the game is a little blurry.

And that’s my only consolation. Though the Ravens beat the 49ers just four days ago, you’d have to scour the news outlets to find a single article about it anymore. I’m sure all the Baltimore fans are still raiding their local Targets for as much Ravens gear as they can get their hands on, but their incessant craving for hats and T-shirts and commemorative DVDs will soon pass as well. Because sports fans are fickle. Season after season, we celebrate and commiserate with our teams’ victories and losses. We argue over bad flags and questionable catches. We writhe in pain with our favorite players when they suffer a concussion or ACL tear. For four months – five if you count preseason and six if you’re lucky enough to make the playoffs – we rise and fall and live and breathe with our teams.

And once that Lombardi Trophy is hoisted high once more… We put on Netflix and pass out from the 5000 calories we ate. ‘Merica!

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I guess you could say that some of today’s television shows have catchy theme songs. Most people could probably recognize the open to Modern Family. Unfortunately, I think just as many people would instantly know Two and a Half Men as well. But with few exceptions, most network programs have super boring or nonexistent opens.

What happened? Back in the day, the theme songs were just as memorable as the shows themselves. Sometimes more so. I couldn’t tell you a single plotline from The Facts of Life, but hells yeah, I could sing you the open. And Cheers. And Three’s Company. I bet I could do a decent rendition of Diff’rent Strokes, too. Props to Alan Thicke.

As with most songs, whether they’re sung on television or radio, you form lasting recollections of them because of the moment or time period they evoke. But perhaps more branded into my memory are not the theme songs from the shows that I watched, but rather those that my father liked. Which, by the way, were all totally depressing.

I always knew when my dad had tuned into M*A*S*H because suddenly I would be overwhelmed by an inexplicable wave of sadness. Given that the open to M*A*S*H is called “Suicide Is Painless,” I think my reaction to hearing it was entirely apropos. That said, I barely knew my ABCs when M*A*S*H went off the air, so I’m not sure if having such feelings of melancholy were healthy for a kid my age, especially on a weekly basis. And here’s a fun fact… M*A*S*H was Emmy-nominated 11 times… for Outstanding Comedy Series.

Same goes for Hill Street Blues. Not the Emmy nominations for being a comedy. At least the academy – or whoever decided the votes – had the sense to recognize that the show was as depressing as its theme song and called it a drama. What I’m referring to is the sorrow I would experience while watching it on the couch with my dad, blankie in hand and thumb in mouth. Coping mechanisms.

And apparently I’m not the only one who went through television-induced depression during my formative years. Just the other night, my boyfriend and I discovered that we both suffer from Taxi post-traumatic stress disorder. Taxi was the worst of the despondent 1980s theme songs.

Now I realize that all the songs I’m mentioning have received high praise for their quality and composition and whatever other musical terms apply. So I’m not saying that they’re bad songs. But I am saying that they made me want to throw down a few sleeping pills with my chocolate milk and call it a night.

The thing about Taxi is that the entire show was depressing. The theme song was only the precursor to what would be 22 minutes of miserable characters and an even more miserable backdrop. No wonder Christopher Lloyd was always drugged out. I wish I could erase all memory of Sunshine Cab Company, too.

I must have a very different sense of humor from adults of the late ’70s and early ’80s. Like M*A*S*H, Taxi was Emmy-nominated multiple times – and won most of those nominations – for Outstanding Comedy Series. In fact, it was up against M*A*S*H three times – and trumped the Korean War “comedy” each year. It also beat out Mork & Mindy. Whaaat?

But I suppose even the tried and true sitcoms of the 1980s had their darker moments. I still remember the Family Ties episode when Alex battled his grief over a friend’s death. And what about when Carol Seaver’s boyfriend died? I wept many tears over Matthew Perry that night.

You don’t see that too often in primetime television anymore. I can’t imagine shows like Parks & Recreation or New Girl tackling teen drunk driving. Maybe because there are no teens on either show, but that’s beside the point. To be totally honest, though, I prefer it that way. I like my comedy straight up, and after a long day of work, all I want to do is tap out to Leslie Knope’s bubbling enthusiasm and Jess Day’s adorkableness. Though shows like M*A*S*H and Taxi may have their place among the greats of television programming, I’m content to let others explore the depths of their despair with them in syndication.

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A few weeks ago I discussed my disdain for being approached by strangers. I forgot to mention that I don’t like talking to anyone else either. Specifically, I hate cashier conversations.

Now before you label me a snob, allow me to impress you with my employment past. I have been once, twice, thrice, quice – that’s my word for four times – a cashier gal. Actually… five times if you count my one-day stint working at a deli. Once I realized how motherf*cking hard it is to work in food service, though, I threw in my hairnet and called it a day. But aside from my short-lived career making cappuccinos and paninis, I have spent many an hour behind the cash register. And I’m not just talking cutesy boutiques where you get one customer every two hours. (Though I have had that job.) I’ve put in time at Target and Bed Bath & Beyond, y’all. I know the deal.

And here it is… They say that multitasking gets twice as much done in the same amount of time. I also say that multitasking gets twice as much done – as long as you don’t mind it getting done half as well as if you just focused on one thing at a time. Which is my point.

Whenever a cashier strikes up a conversation with me, he double swipes at least one thing I’m buying. Without fail. As a matter of fact, it’s even happened to me twice in the same week. So this isn’t a superiority complex thing. This is a cold hard cash thing.

The first time was at Target. Of course. I’m there all the time, but I made the grave mistake of wearing a provocative shirt. Nothing sexy, mind you. On the contrary, I had on a huge, very un-sexy T-shirt that happened to have my alma mater’s name emblazoned across it. Without so much as saying, “hello,” my cashier instead blurted out, “I used to live in Chicago.” Great.

Some people may call me cheap. I prefer thrifty. While looking up alternatives for the word thrifty, I found parsimonious. I like that one, too. Anyway. My thrifty ways likely come from my Dutch blood, but I’m cool with it. Yes, I add up every item as I put it into my cart. I also watch the price display like a hawk when I check out. But because I can’t multitask, if the cashier starts talking to me, there’s no way I can keep track of the register’s beeps. And neither can he.

The cashier then tells me that he loved Chicago but left because “the winters are so cold.” Yeah, I’ve never heard that before. Finally, we wrap up our convo, and I walk away, intensely scanning the receipt for mistakes. And there it was… a double charge for exactly 97 cents.

I know what you’re thinking and I don’t care. That’s 97 cents that I could use for ChapStick.  So you bet I went over to customer service and made them refund it to my credit card. Ain’t no shame in my game.

The next afternoon, I was at the grocery store. Why I didn’t just use the self-checkout, I’ll never understand, but I was immediately punished for my laziness once the cashier started ringing me up. For one, the dude had to pause every three items to cover his mouth and cough. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was also having a conversation with the next cashier over about the best home remedies for a cold. Apparently the other guy is a big believer in wonton soup. So not only is my cashier hacking all over the groceries I will soon be eating, but also he’s not paying any attention to ringing me up. In fact, I saw the double charge as it happened, but he was so engrossed in his conversation that I couldn’t get his attention to stop him.

With lips pursed, both from annoyance at my bad luck and fear of catching his germs, I swiped my card and waited for my receipt. Once in hand, my eyes immediately found the double charge – it’s like my superpower – and I pointed it out to the cashier.

He was totally nice about it, but because he was also so totally out of it, he proceeded to refund me for three boxes of cereal instead of one. Dammit. Now what? Though I’d love to have that extra $5.36 in my pocket – not to mention, I felt like the grocery store did owe me for my future cold expenses – I knew it would be wrong. So I informed the cashier of his second charge error. I truly hope I was his last customer of the day because it took about three tries before he understood what I was saying.

No wonder why Amazon is worth 90 billion dollars.

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You don’t know what you got until it’s gone. And people are weird. I was reminded of both facts last weekend when I went for my regular sojourn south of the border – the Los Angeles County border, that is.

Before I became a resident of Los Angeles, I called Orange County my home during grad school. And though it’s been a few years since I’ve lived behind the Orange Curtain, it still feels oddly familiar every time I have to hit the brakes when the 22 East meets the 5 South. Seriously, how is that interchange busy at 8am on a Saturday? Which is exactly what I was forced to do while driving to see my longtime hair stylist, Miguel.

You see, every couple of months, I drive approximately 40 miles (80 if you count roundtrip) to get my hair done by the same guy I’ve been going to since I moved to California. Some might call this behavior extreme – and by some I mean men – but the ladies can back me up on this one. It’s worth every penny of that gas money.

But it’s not just the hair. I multitask my appointments and also treat myself to a pedicure each time I go to the salon. Debbie (not her real name) and I also share a long history. And it’s not just about how great she is at making my toes look all pretty. We have a relationship, people. We talk about stuff. I tell her about work, she tells me about work. I tell her about my family, she tells me about her family. Hell, I’ve even seen pictures of them, and I love it. This is why I keep coming to this nondescript strip mall shop.

To make the most of my O.C. Saturdays, I always book the first appointment of the day, and without fail, Miguel and Debbie are waiting with open arms each time I walk through the door. However, I happened to get there a little early this past Saturday and was mildly surprised that Debbie wasn’t already there. Miguel met me at the door and said he would call her to let her know I had arrived. Cool. I had to pick out my nail polish anyway.

After deliberating way too long on a shade, I finally sat down and began that magazine flipping thing you do when you’re not really paying any attention because you’re suddenly beginning to feel like something is wrong. Miguel approached me again to say that his call went directly to Debbie’s voicemail.

“Oh, okay. Does she live far away?”

“No, just a block from here.”

“Oh, great! She’ll probably be here any minute.”

That’s when Miguel awkwardly informed me that she might not be coming at all. Ever. Debbie had quit two days earlier without any notice.

I was incredulous. How was that possible? I had just talked to her a few weeks ago! And why didn’t she call me? That’s what friends would do, right? I was upset, but more than upset, I was confused.

“How could she quit? Is she okay?”

Miguel’s response didn’t exactly confirm a positive answer… Debbie quit because she thought the end of the world was coming.

Although 12.21.12 has come and gone, and the earth has not been consumed in a ginormous fireball, Debbie has some lingering suspicions that Armageddon has been rescheduled for a future date. Maybe she’s right, but is that reason enough to bail on my pedicure? I had no words to respond. I could tell that Miguel felt weird by association, and who could blame him? I’d feel uncomfortable, too, if forced to relay the message that someone I know had gone nuts.

Still, I didn’t quite understand why the end of the world would prompt someone to just throw in the towel on life, so I pressed for details. Miguel didn’t have much to tell me, other than Debbie had been spending every morning at church. I felt like I was part of some weird Dateline special.

I decided to call her myself, but as Miguel had encountered, my call went straight to voicemail. What kind of a message do you leave after learning something like that? I know I sounded just as bewildered as I felt, but managed to string together a few words to wish her well. “Okay, bye…” Forever. Click.

Five days later and counting, Debbie still hasn’t called me back. And I still don’t know what to make of last weekend’s events.

And I still need a pedicure.

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As a kid, I didn’t much heed cautionary stranger danger tales, but now I take them to very much to heart.

It probably has everything to do with my days in Chicago. From the time I left my apartment to when I arrived at school, it was like my very own game of Frogger. But instead of trying to avoid cars and trucks – and for the record, drivers are trying to run you over – I was doing my best to miss the weirdos and creepers on the street.

Not to say that Chicago isn’t awesome. It is. In many ways, Chicago is like a big bag of jellybeans. Most of it you can devour and enjoy without worrying, except for those icky licorice ones. And if you happen to like licorice, that’s on you. Weirdo.

I’m sure this is no secret to anyone who has lived in a city, but the trick to avoiding oddballs is pretending they’re not there no matter how eccentric their behavior. There’s a fellow having an argument with himself on the bus? Keep your eyes on your book. There’s a lady petting an imaginary dog on the sidewalk? Check your voicemail like it’s an ordinary day. Because the moment you make eye contact, it’s over.

Now a Los Angeles resident, I’m not nearly as vigilant when roaming the streets of this great city. Probably because I never roam. No one does. We drive, which is highly effective at eliminating most instances of unwanted contact. It’s really nice. Not to say that LA doesn’t have its own oddballs. They hang out in Starbucks and Whole Foods.

But you can’t avoid all the people all the time, right?

So the other day, I was doing my weekly grocery shopping. (For the record, I’m a Ralph’s and Trader Joe’s gal. If I shopped at Whole Foods, I’d probably be hanging out there all day, too, because I no longer would be able to afford rent.) Now when I frequent Trader Joe’s, I prepare myself. First, you have the eager-eyed petitioners outside. Does anyone actually stop and talk to them? Then there are the uber-friendly workers, whom I used to think were oddly cool until someone told me that they’re required to be nice. It makes a whole lot more sense, though. But even the other shoppers will throw a smile your way if you accidentally look at them. However, today I was in Ralph’s, which is normally a contact-free zone. You can then imagine my surprise when I was accosted in the refrigerated cookie section.

Upon assessing the situation, I noticed that the dude in question had a kid, so I relaxed a bit. Though children do not automatically rule out the possibility of being weird, you can usually downgrade the terror alert level from red to a solid yellow. Plus, he had a package of sugar cookie dough in his hand. My initial instincts told me that this was simply a clueless dad.

“Excuse me, but could you help me with something?”

I noticed that this guy had a British accent, which put me into an internal tailspin. Normally I don’t think twice about being brusque with strangers, but this guy was a foreigner. And we all know the bad rap that America gets abroad. Time to turn on the charm.

“Sure! What can I help you with?”

As his little daughter looked on, British man proceeded to ask me about what type of dough would be best for molding into shapes. I enthusiastically indicated that he had already found the best kind for his needs.

“But can you dye this dough?”

The truth is that I had no idea. I was leaning toward no, but given that he had no intention or aptitude to actually make dough, and his daughter was listening to every word we were saying…

“Sure! I mean, you’ll probably have to work it in, but I think you can do it.”

This answer satisfied him. He thanked me with his British accent and quickly went on his way before his daughter could question the purchase. For my part, I felt very pleased with myself as a smug American would. I then inadvertently smiled at a woman examining packages of cream cheese. She immediately averted her eyes.

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The dentist’s chair has not been kind to me over the years. But I’ve gotten used to it, and my dentists have gotten used to me. Because something’s wrong with my teeth every time I go in for a checkup, I’m required to come back for multiple visits, which has given me ample opportunity to get to know my dentists. In the past, I would chat with them about their kids, their German Shepherds, whatever. Sure, they did most of the talking, as I was typically laid out with a mouth full of dental equipment, but it has always made the minutes pass by a little more enjoyably.

Then about two years ago, my dentist hired a new hygienist. She’s great. In fact, she’s so cool that I actually get a little bummed when she hands me a cup and tells me to swish, which indicates that my visit is over.

The first time I met her, I immediately liked her. She’s like me; she loves to talk. Plus, even if you’ve known her for only ten minutes, it feels like you’ve been BFFs for ten years. Thing is… I can’t remember her name. I know that’s bad, but cut me some slack. I only see her twice a year. I’m sure she must have introduced herself upon our first meeting, but now it’s far too late to ask her name. To avoid total awkwardness, I have to find creative ways to say hello and goodbye without being obvious that I don’t know if she’s a Jane, Jennifer, or what.

That aside, our visits are very pleasant. I learned during our very first appointment that she had just moved to Los Angeles, so we immediately bonded over being LA transplants. And then there’s the boy talk. Yes, I discuss my love life with my dental hygienist. But for the record, she started it. All it took was, “So are you dating anyone?” for me to totally regress into junior high mode and divulge all information. Her squeals of delight and outcries of “I’m so happy for you!” only encourage my behavior. It can be tough at times to hold up my end of the conversation as she looms over my gaping mouth with her cleaning tools, but this doesn’t seem to hinder our talks in any way. In fact, she is very adept at interpreting my gurgles.

Then the last time I saw her, she revealed the reason why she left her hometown. I’m not at liberty to disclose such private information, but needless to say, it was a shocker. At the same time, I took her revelation quite seriously. She had waited two years to tell me, so obviously this was a big step forward in our relationship. Suddenly I was wishing that she could knock off early from work so we could grab a coffee and chat more about the motive behind her move. But wouldn’t you know it… I didn’t have any cavities. My time at the dentist was over for another six months.

Which is beginning to concern me a bit.

I always have something wrong with my teeth. However, I have gotten a clean bill of health after each of my last four checkups. Coincidentally, all four appointments have been presided over by this hygienist.

As much as I love her, I’m beginning to wonder if my rapport with my hygienist is to the detriment to my oral health. Could it be possible that she’s too distracted by our conversations to notice my cavities? Or maybe she does spy them, but is too nice to tell me? I could totally see her doing something like that. Whatever it is, I’m not altogether convinced that my years of dental misery are miraculously behind me. If even she could find just one teeny tiny cavity, it would put my mind at ease. Odds are, I’d get to hang with her a little longer, too. That would be so nice.

Image courtesy of Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I guess I have one of those faces.

On a regular basis, I’m asked, “You know who you look like?” to which I instinctively cringe. To be fair, sometimes their answer is not completely mortifying. Other times… oy. I have to put on a brave face and hide the tears. You think I look like who?! Inevitably, I realize that in their own mind, they think they’re giving me a compliment, which is why I feign gratitude. The only thing more awkward than getting told that you look like a fugly celebrity is letting the compliment giver know you think said celebrity is fugly. Even more troubling is when in the back of your head, a teeny tiny part of you can understand why they think you look like that celebrity. It’s not a very good feeling.

Other times, I’m simply baffled by my alleged celebrity doppelganger. It’s not about them being ugly or pretty; I just don’t understand how anyone in the world could think that I look like them. Imagine if you will telling Seth Meyers that he looks like Alexander Skarsgard. Personally, I think they’re both adorable, but never would I ever confuse one for the other. So there’s that.

I get the “you know who you look like” question so often that I’m beginning to wonder what the deal is. Do I seriously have that generic of a face? How can I look like Drew Barrymore, Alyson Hannigan, Allison Janney, Michelle Monaghan, Laura Prepon, Emma Stone and Kate Middleton all at the same time? I feel like I’m one of those freaks from a Conan O’Brien “If They Mated” skit. Or the compliment giver needs to take a second look at me, because while I have a healthy sense of self-esteem, not for a second do I think I look like the would-be Queen of England.

Sure, every once in a blue moon I too meet someone who makes me think, “Holy cow! They totally look like ______!” However, rarely do I vocalize my opinion. Why? Because I realize that everyone’s sense of physical beauty is different. While I happen to think that Jessica Chastain is gorgeous, perhaps someone else does not. Honestly, though, stopping myself from telling someone that they look like a certain celebrity is not my problem. I have an entirely different conundrum.

For the life of me, I cannot remember faces.

It’s horrible. Just as I have felt awkward and offended by being told that I look like so-and-so, I have definitely made others feel weird and annoyed because I flat-out didn’t remember them. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve said to someone, “So nice to meet you!” to which they replied, “Yeah, we’ve met before.”

Most of the time the people on the receiving end of my inadvertent slight are extremely gracious. Except for this one time… I was at a party with a bunch of old college friends. All of a sudden, someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned around to find a random dude with his arms wide open. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!”

Uh oh.

I had no clue who he was. Of course, I couldn’t admit to that, so I just went with the moment and accepted his bear hug. All the while, though, my mind was scrambling to place this guy. Through the power of deduction, I reasoned that he must be a former schoolmate. After all, I was surrounded by a dozen other college peeps. Yet I couldn’t keep quiet. I couldn’t just smile and pretend like everything was cool. I had to say something… “Yeah, right? I haven’t seen you in forever! What class was it that we had together?”

His face immediately fell. The girl with whom I had been chatting – a bona fide college friend – quietly uttered, “Anna, Matt didn’t go to school with us.” That’s when I tried in vain to dig myself out of the embarrassment pit.

“Oh! I didn’t recognize you with the facial hair!”

He wasn’t buying it, and to make matters worse, he informed me that he was taking my chair because I didn’t remember him. We then proceeded to avoid eye contact for the rest of the evening.

So yeah… People don’t like being forgotten. Or in my case, people don’t like being told that they look like someone else. Don’t get me wrong. Some of the people to whom I’ve been compared are lovely women. More than anything, I think my inordinate sensitivity to such compliments stems from a rather unfortunate childhood incident that has scarred me for life. That’s how most of our eccentricities begin, right? Long story short, my mom chopped my beautiful, long flowing locks just days before I was to begin kindergarten. Even then, I was keenly aware of how a bad haircut can pretty much ruin your life. Anyway, one day my dad came to pick me up after school. As we were saying goodbye to my teacher and walking toward the car, she called out after us. “Anna, you look just like your dad!” I immediately burst into tears.

So now you understand.

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Last month a friend asked if I wanted to participate in a webcast. Or rather, she inquired, “What do you know about Chicago’s parking problems?” Though I haven’t been a Chicago resident for several years, I am well versed in how annoying everyone finds the new parking meters that make you pay day, night, or national holiday. Even I find it aggravating to pony up five bucks for two hours when I come to visit, but it beats any parking garage in the city. To give you an idea of how atrocious the parking garage situation is in Chicago, my father has told me at least a half-dozen times about the historic day when he wasn’t forced to pay a $13 tab for a grand total of 10 minutes in an Old Town garage. Apparently getting off the hook for a parking garage fee is more wondrous than turning water into wine. Or perhaps he retells the tale so often because the only reason he was downtown was to pick up something for me, and I should be continually reminded of the grave financial danger he miraculously averted.

But back to the parking meters. The short version of the story is that they suck, too. About four years ago when Mayor Daley was halfway out the retirement door, he decided that it would be a good idea to sell the city’s parking meter system to a foreign interest that could charge whatever they wanted whenever they wanted… for the next 75 years. Moreover, none of the revenue would be pumped back into the local economy. So yeah, some people are still a little grumpy about this deal.

Though for the record, I’m really not one for politics. Sure, I have very strong opinions, which I often cannot back up with actual facts – I’m an American, right? – but usually I try to keep my nose out of all that political mumbo jumbo. However, the allure of having my 15 minutes of webcast fame was just too much to resist. I enthusiastically told my friend that I would love to join in the political discourse.

The morning of the webcast, I was a mess. I was sweaty and fidgety and not at all happy that I had agreed to this thing. Truth is, I’m not a political person or a public speaker. I can write and rewrite to my heart’s content, but you can never erase spoken words. I had a strong premonition that either I would say something very stupid or have someone call me out on my ignorance for the entire world to see. Plus, I hate the way my face looks on webcam.

But a promise is a promise. I couldn’t bow out now. So I made my way to my friend’s office and was quickly set up in one of the conference rooms. They did the requisite tech checks for both audio and video, and everything seemed ready to go. Including my bowels.

The webcast was about all the American cities that are in financial crisis. I was one of a half-dozen speakers, plus a mediator. Oh, and I was also way down on the VIP totem pole. The mayor of Stockton was among the list of participants, so needless to say, I had some time to kill before they would be calling on me to join the conversation. I was totally fine with that.

The webcast started out well. The moderator was awesome, and I immediately found myself drawn into the conversation of the leading panelists. In fact, a part of me was getting more excited than nauseated at the thought of adding my two cents. Now that I was actually there, listening to the debate, I became way more relaxed about the whole thing. And if I did suck, I just wouldn’t let anyone know about it. Except for my father, who by DNA mandate must love me even when I make a fool of myself, and my boyfriend, who I figured might as well know sooner than later that I tend to make a fool of myself, I made certain not to tell another soul about my webcast invite.

My friend had informed me ahead of time that the webcast would last about 30 minutes. I checked the clock; we were already 10 minutes in. I assumed I would be introduced at any moment, and boy was I ready… I had been rehearsing my opening line since that morning and felt pretty confident I would nail it.

Then suddenly, some random dude walked into the conference room. Without saying a word to me, he peered at my laptop screen and started waving his hands in front of it. I was utterly confused… and annoyed. Um, did he not know I was about to make my webcast debut? That’s when he turned to me and asked if I could hear and see the other participants. Was this a trick question? Yes. Of course. Now get out of my eye line, sir. He then informed me that the control room couldn’t get my webcam to work. Though it performed flawlessly less than an hour earlier, the stupid thing was apparently broken. The dude then turned on his heel and exited the room.

So now what? I looked back at the clock. Another five minutes had gone by. Time was running out. I tried to compose myself and get back into the conversation. I had missed the last few points that the other panelists had made; if they called on me now, I definitely would look like a moron.

Didn’t matter. The powers that be never got my webcam to work, and I dejectedly sat in the conference room as if my father had given me a timeout. And like every other brat who gets a timeout, I busted out of there as soon as the webcast came to an end. In fact, my friend was nearly running after me apologizing as I headed for the exit and found the nearest Starbucks to comfort myself with a venti Frappuccino.

In retrospect, I suppose it was for the best. While I was secretly hoping to show off my brilliant oratory skills the likes of which no one has seen since the days of Lincoln, the more probable outcome was that I would sound like Miss South Carolina… And as Mark Twain once said, “It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.”

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