the chicago dispLAcement ®

Eavesdropping on other people’s conversations is fun. Though I have never tapped anyone’s home, I have on multiple occasions put my ear to a wall or door to get better acoustics. The best is when you catch random bits and pieces while standing in line at the airport or waiting for your drink at a bar. It’s a win-win situation. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. I will never see them again, so no matter what they say, I can’t hold it against them in the future.

Phone conversations are entirely different. Though people are just as likely to say ridiculous things over the phone, I’m amazed by how many people have uber private conversations via cell phone in completely public spaces. To make it all about me, it’s super awkward to listen to them. Last Halloween, my boyfriend and I had to suffer through a convo that some dude was having on the phone with his girlfriend in Party City. Because everyone was desperate to buy whatever cheaply made and overpriced costumes were still in stock, we were stuck in the checkout line for more than a half-hour as this guy professed his undying love for some chick. I’m all for being a lover and not a fighter, but I’m also an uptight American who would rather you keep in the bedroom.

Even worse is when someone’s arguing over the phone. You’d be surprised by how many of these conversations I’ve witnessed in Starbucks. Apparently paying $5 for coffee can make someone irritable. It’s hard to really know what’s going on in these conversations because both parties are working overtime to cut each other off, so all you really ever hear is “would you let me talk?” or “you’re not listening to me!” Perhaps the person on the other line isn’t listening, but I can guarantee you that everyone else is. The absolute worst, though, is when you are privy to a breakup happening over the phone.

Breaking up via phone is on my top five list of douchebaggery actions. Probably because it happened to me. If you don’t want to date someone anymore, that’s cool. But then man up and tell her face-to-face. Don’t call on a random Tuesday night and say, “My feelings for you have plateaued.” Not that that’s how it went down with me or anything.

Now most of the womenfolk I know are in complete agreement with me, so you can imagine my surprise when I overheard a chick doing the breaking up over the phone. I wasn’t at the airport, nor was I in Starbucks. I was simply jogging down my own street… and I could hear her a block away. You see, this lady wasn’t just ending a relationship; she was ENDING A RELATIONSHIP.

“WE ARE OVVVVVVVVEEEEEEERRRRRR!!!!”

I could hear her screaming this single phrase over and over and over again. At first, I thought I was hearing a Lifetime movie through someone’s open window. When I pinpointed the real source of the drama, I then became concerned that perhaps she was in trouble. (It was dark, so I couldn’t tell at first if another person was in the car.) But once I ran past her, I finally understood what was going on. She was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I tried to slow down to better hear what horrible things the guy on the other end of the line obviously must have done to deserve such rage, but her voice went all Charlie Brown “mwa, mwa, mwa” once her car was behind me. As I jogged on, I pondered the possibilities. Did he cheat on her? Did he steal money from her? Did he cheat on her with a hooker that he paid for by stealing money from her?

Then I felt bad. No matter how awesome you might feel in your moment of fury, breakups suck. I’m sure that underneath her wrath, she was silently mourning the end of her relationship… Nope. About forty-five minutes later, I was again heading toward her car. She was still there and still raging. In fact, I think she had gotten louder. And if I’m being really honest… it impressed the hell out of me.

Go on with your crazy self, girl.

Image courtesy of digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Working retail is awful. I say this because I know. I’ve enjoyed an illustrious retail past and have enthusiastically sold everything from garbage bags to showerheads to makeup remover. But by a long shot, working women’s retail is the worst of the worst.

I love my gender and have no plans to change it anytime soon. But let’s call a spade a spade… Women can be a neurotic bunch. I suppose the men folk might get weird about their appearance, too, but women take the cake. You can’t really blame us ladies, though. Once Photoshop was invented, it was over for most of us. Now you can’t turn a corner without finding a billboard or magazine with a gorgeous and totally fake female plastered on it. What that woman looks like in real life, I don’t know and nobody else cares. It’s the finely crafted perfect body you see before you that counts.

Now imagine working in women’s bathing suits.

It was hell. Every 15 minutes or so, I would walk into the fitting area only to find a mountain – and I do mean mountain – of bathing suits piled high in each abandoned room. Though the store had a limit on how many bathing suits a person could try on at a time, I worked the seasonal department by myself, which meant that I was usually outnumbered by women on the edge carrying no less than 40 suits with them into a fitting room.

Women get cray cray when it comes to bathing suits. Fellas, if you want a sneak peek at just how scary your lady can get, offer to go bathing suit shopping with her. Odds are she’ll turn you down quicker than you can say “I’ll buy,” because why would anyone subject themselves to the horror of showcasing her pale and dimpled body under fluorescent lighting no less, but if she happens to say yes… If you make it through the afternoon, you’ve become a man, my son.

I think my straw-camel-back moment occurred the day I realized that someone had tried on two-dozen or so bathing suits during the one time of the month when no woman should be trying on anything that isn’t already in her closet… if you catch my drift. Horrified, I finished my shift and simply did not return the next day. I’m not proud of the fact that I just bailed on my job with no notice, but I draw the line at bodily fluids. I still remember my manager’s voicemail message, telling me that I wasn’t in trouble and could come back at any time. The desperation in her voice made it clear that I wasn’t the first employee to unceremoniously bequeath the seasonal department to a soul braver than I.

So my point with this trip down memory lane? I have mucho respect for those that do work in retail. Because people are awful to you all the time. They don’t care if you’re already waiting on four other customers. They don’t care if you’re two hours overdue for your lunch break. And they certainly don’t care if they hurt your feelings. (I’m looking at you, Robert Schuller.)

Most of the time when I go shopping, I like to fly under the radar. I’m an able-bodied person and can usually find what I need on my own, thank you very much… until I do need help. Like when I was looking for a dress that I had found on a store’s website. Just one look at the overcrowded department, though, and I knew I’d never find anything in that chaotic mess of cotton and polyester. So I walked up to the nearest salesperson, “Could you please help me find a dress that I saw online?”

I took her bored look to mean that she had some time to kill, so I continued to describe what I was looking for.

Her: “I don’t know anything like that.”

Me: “Oh, okay…”

Her: Exaggerated sigh. “Let’s look online.”

She led me to the cash register.

Her: “Find it for me.”

Now I spend pretty much my entire day sitting in front of a computer, but I’m a Mac user. I have as much ability to operate a PC as I do a spinning wheel, Morse code machine, or anything else obsolete.

I looked for an external mouse. Nothing. She then directed me to a two-inch by one-inch mouse pad. I tried in vain to navigate it. She then casually mentioned that it was a touch-screen computer. I began to wonder why she hated me.

Finally I found the dress.

Her: “Yeah, I don’t know anything like that… I gotta go to a meeting.”

And off she went.

I never saw her again, but I don’t blame her. Retail is awful.

Image courtesy of digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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.

Image courtesy of smarnad / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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.

Image courtesy of Ohmmy3d / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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.

Image courtesy of digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Typically I don’t run races. Why pay good money for something I can do for free in my own neighborhood? Yet once I heard about the Soldier Field 10 a few years back, I was hooked. You finish at the fifty-yard line inside the stadium and get to wave at your sweaty, exhausted self on the jumbotron.

Sign me up.

The first year I was too pumped about being on that jumbotron to really think about much else. I wasn’t even that tired upon finishing the race and naturally assumed that the next time would be just as easy. I was wrong. A year later, I was thoroughly bored by mile two and aimlessly staring down Lake Shore Drive. I had a whole lotta road ahead of me and was already beginning to lose my motivation. How would I ever finish this race? That’s when I began to notice all the other thousands of runners pounding the same pavement. Some were young. Some old. Some questionable as to whether they fully understood what they had signed up for. I saw more than a few individuals heaving as if they had never run a mile in their entire lives, let alone ten of them. Were they doing the race merely for that sweet jumbotron fix as I was?

Either way, people watching during the Soldier Field 10 has become my dirty little secret to success. The racers come in all shapes and sizes, but I have definitely noticed a few familiar types. Most annoy me, but then again, most people do no matter if I’m trekking against Lake Michigan or checking out at Target. (I’m talking to you, Ms. “Accidentally” Ram Me In The Backside With Your Shopping Cart.) Below is my unscientific list of the most common runner archetypes:

1. The absent-minded professor. Usually over the age of forty, this runner is totally in his own world. He’s a bit on the slow side, which is fine, until you try to pass him. The instant you attempt to go around him, he moves over to block you. Then you’re forced to awkwardly stop short to avoid tripping up both you and him. This cycle can repeat a number of times before you finally are free of his invisible prison.

2. The cat burglar. This runner is usually a dude, too, but much younger and faster. He’s the guy who is constantly trying to squeeze himself through the spaces between other runners, yet is rarely successful in accomplishing this feat without knocking into one or both of the unsuspecting victims. Moreover, this dude barely utters an apology and just keeps on running to inflict more carnage on those in front of him.

3. The chatty Kathys. As the name implies, these runners are women, and they always come in packs of two. Quite frankly, the chatty Kathys amaze me. I don’t know how they do it. It’s hard enough for me to weakly mouth thank you to anyone who cheers me on during the race, let alone engage in a full-blown conversation while running. Also impressive is that these women typically move at a fairly fast clip.

4. The tease. This runner can be male or female. Regardless of gender, they both display what I consider very bad running manners: they speed up and then slow down without any warning whatsoever… So here’s the deal. I oftentimes use other runners to keep my pace; however, I try to do it discreetly by running in sync behind them. I’ll shadow someone who I think is a good match when all of sudden they slow down two or three clips for no apparent reason. Or maybe I’m not as stealthy as I think, and they’d rather not have my annoying ass following them to the finish line.

5. The odd birds. This is the category in which I lump runners who can’t be explained any other way. Case in point? Tutu lady. I noticed this woman as I was on my way back to the stadium, though I heard her before I actually saw her. To my left I overheard a young man politely comment, “Nice hula,” to another runner. Okay, he’s a dude and didn’t know the difference between a tutu and a hula skirt. Yet instead of graciously accepting his compliment, or gently correcting him on his misused terminology, I listened as someone barked back, “It’s not a hula! It’s a tutu! Because I’m tutu cute!” I immediately had to know who this person was and turned around to find a fifty-something woman in braids and a handmade orange and navy tutu – it’s the Soldier Field 10, after all – huffing and puffing down the path. After that, I couldn’t escape her. Though she didn’t quite look the part of a runner, she definitely could keep her pace with me. She also made it her personal mission to verbally berate anyone who had decided to take a breather and walk. “Come on! Don’t stop now!” she would scream at the bewildered participants. Even I was afraid to slow down for fear that she would publicly chastise me.

The Soldier Field 10 has become a tradition of sorts for me. It marks my official start to the summer. It allows me the opportunity to come home and see family and friends. And it reminds me that running is about more than just winning… It’s about making fun of people.

Free images from FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Graduation time is here. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed students the world over are donning their caps and gowns as they bid farewell to high school and college. It’s also that time of year when noted celebrities give profound commencement speeches about the purpose of life and why you should floss your teeth everyday.

My opinion? Those lovely speeches are wasted on the wrong people.

Once upon a time, I too was a high school senior. In fact, I was the one giving a speech at my graduation, as I was the class salutatorian. Being salutatorian is a dubious honor at best. Does anyone care – or even remember – who placed second in a presidential election? Or more importantly, the Super Bowl? Yet you would think that since I fared well academically I would have been off and running come college, ready to tackle the world with both arms.

Nope.

I floundered during my first few years of school. In fact, I failed college, both academically and pretty much in every other way as well. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing or what I wanted. I only went to my *first* college anyway because my best friend applied there. She decided to do the pre-med sequence, and that sounded pretty good, so I did, too. I figured that becoming a doctor was the natural choice for me. After all, I had won my high school’s science award. However, not only did I perform horribly in every single one of those classes, but also I realized that I wasn’t that upset about it. Yet it was the not being upset that upset me. Even more disturbing was that the courses I enjoyed the most were – horror of horrors – the acting classes I was taking to fulfill my general education requirements. What the hell was happening to me?

I applaud the college freshmen that know exactly what they want out of life and how they’re going to get it. I fell into the latter category, though; I was an eighteen-year-old with a long road ahead of one or two hits and many misses before I realized what my life should be. A total of four schools and two degrees later, I am just finally beginning to somewhat feel that maybe I’m perhaps getting close to possibly figuring out what I might be good at… I think. Moreover, if you had told my eighteen-year-old self that I would one day be a writer living in LA, she probably wouldn’t have believed it. Partly because I never thought a career could be something that didn’t feel like work, and partly because I never thought I would willingly move somewhere with worse traffic than Chicago.

That’s not to say everyone should go about it my own winding way. On the contrary, I took a few licks here and there that I would very much like to forget. Yet those mistakes taught me the most valuable lessons. FYI, never enter into a living arrangement with a friend who is less than 100% financially reliable. If even once you have to convince yourself, “No, really, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” then run – don’t walk – from the leasing office. Now that’s something I wish someone had told me when I graduated high school.

Taking stock of your life at the end of high school or college is like getting a car wash in the middle of a Midwestern winter. It’ll be covered with ice and salt again in fifteen minutes, so what’s the point? Graduates may think they know it all, but the truth of the matter is that it takes a few years – or decades – before the pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. And there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, that’s exactly when those eloquent speeches might actually mean something to us.

For all of you who now pull all-nighters because of a colicky baby rather than a chem final… For anyone who prefers to blow off steam with a nice cup of chamomile tea instead of a keg stand… Now’s the time to hit up YouTube. Search “commencement speech.” At the top of the results is Steve Jobs’ 2005 Stanford commencement address. Take a minute (or 15 of them) to watch it.

Done yet? Cool. Pretty much everything he says is awesome, and certainly his words regarding death now hold a greater poignancy because of his passing last October. However, I’m drawn to the part about connecting the dots. As he states, you can’t connect them going forward. Most twenty-two year olds have accumulated zero dots to connect anyway, so they can’t really understand what he means, but hopefully the rest of us do. Looking back on the years since high school and college, can you see the connections? Regardless of any missteps you may have taken along the way, can you see the picture of your life taking shape? It’s like those dotted images in kiddie coloring books. It can be difficult at times to make out what it’s supposed to be, but then all of sudden you see the blooming rose or soaring eagle. If you too can look back at your life and see something beautiful, then congratulations. Better than any 4.0 GPA or graduation honor, that’s something truly worth celebrating.

Image(s): FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I’m a dog person. Always have been. I fell in love with them the moment my family surprised me with a puffball of a Pekingese for my 5^th birthday. Leo was the bestest dog ever. We grew up together, though technically, I suppose I did most of the growing. He never weighed more than ten pounds and was barely a foot tall. Plus, most of that height was fur. Yet for a little dog, he had a lot of love, and to this day I can’t think of him without getting a wee bit weepy.

It would be great to have a dog again, but there’s always a good reason – aka excuse – why I can’t. First it was college. Then a cross-country move. Grad school. And now an apartment that doesn’t allow dogs… even though my landlord lets his sister have two annoying yappers that go Cujo on anyone who gets within a twenty foot radius. The only reason why I have yet to “accidentally” step on or kick one of them is because I’m afraid they might “coincidentally” raise the rent on me the following week.

But fo’ reals, I love dogs. That’s why I’m always happy to dog-sit for a friend if I can. Everyone I know has pretty awesome pets, so it doesn’t take much beyond a few slobbery licks and a look from those big puppy dog eyes to break down Auntie Anna. They get a responsible caretaker, and I get snuggle time… sometimes against their will.

Curly Sue* is one of those dogs that makes you involuntarily go “aww…” when you see her. She’s a rescue, so though her breeding is a question mark, most likely it’s Basset Hound mixed with Corgi mixed with adorableness. When I babysat her last weekend, not a walk could be completed without at least one person asking, “What kind of dog is that?” Curly Sue is also a big sniffer of things – trees, flowers, unidentifiable smells emanating from some unknown source toward which she would lead me – so often our walks would last upwards of an hour. This meant that I would many times be stopped long enough to have any and all passersby interrogate me as to her genetic background. Even though she isn’t my dog, I just pretended that she was and happily answered their questions. (Mostly with information that I made up.)

Moreover, Curly Sue is keenly interested in other canines. The moment she spots a dog, she freezes and stares them down for many, many minutes at a time. That’s not to say she isn’t friendly. On the contrary, while other dogs that we encountered would sometimes flip out when they saw her, Curly Sue would quietly assess the situation by sniffing their rears and then be on her way. The problem is when she sees a dog too far away to sniff. If she can’t get up close and personal, she’s not satisfied and will stubbornly stand there until the dog is out of eyesight… and sometimes not even then. Curly Sue also weighs sixty pounds, so once she zeros in on another dog, there’s no moving her until she is good and ready to be moved. No amount of coercion or leash tugging will get that pup to walk unless she agrees.

So naturally Curly Sue and I were in the middle of crossing the street when she spotted another dog two blocks down. Upon spying her fellow canine, Curly Sue simply stopped dead in her tracks and stared ahead. Uh oh. First I tried mild coaxing…

“Come on, sweetie. Let’s go.”

No response. Then gentle urgency. “Curly Sue, honey, we gotta go.”

No response. Then insistence mixed with fear. “Curly Sue, now! We have to go now!”

Realizing that if we didn’t move in the next five seconds we would both be at the mercy of an oncoming Kia, I had no other choice but to drag Curly Sue to the sidewalk. Given that numerous other dog owners were in the vicinity and watching us, I felt like the biggest jerk ever. After years of ridiculing them, I suddenly felt intimately sympathetic to parents whose children have temper tantrums in planes and restaurants.

Curly Sue followed, but she wasn’t happy about it. I barely got her to the curb when she turned around and once again stared at the dog that I could barely see anymore. To help repair my image to the dozen or so strangers that had witnessed me yanking this sweet dog across the street, I began to lavish her with praise and petting to make it obvious that I wasn’t a monster.

A few minutes later, Curly Sue was sufficiently satisfied with her stakeout and ready to move on. We had walked maybe another block when she stopped for a second time. I scanned the area and realized that she now had in her sights a Chihuahua about thirty yards away. I gave her a gentle pull. Nothing.

I think I’m good being just Auntie Anna for a while longer.

* All names have been changed to protect the innocent and furry.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Some childhood memories stick for obvious reasons. Birthdays, holidays, graduations… Those special moments immediately get filed away into one’s consciousness. But then you have those random recollections that don’t fit any clear-cut category of meaningfulness. Like the time I accidentally referred to my friend’s baby sister as “it” instead of “her” and was given an impromptu grammar lesson by their eavesdropping mother. Or when I was “treated” to shopping spree by another friend’s mom, but was later interrogated as to whether or not my father would reimburse her for my new outfit. That was weird. Then there’s the time my sixth grade class was introduced to Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” I remember this for two distinct reasons: one, because my teacher seemed to become increasingly distraught as the song retold the tragic events of November 10, 1975, and two, because of the silence that took hold of my classmates as we too were drawn into this tale of thirty sailors succumbing to Lake Superior.

I would venture that anyone who grew up within a fifty-mile radius of the Great Lakes knows the story of the Edmund Fitzgerald. If you live within a fifty-mile radius of Chicago, then you might also know the story of the Eastland. This ship never even made it to the lake. It overturned while still docked in the Chicago River and took with it more than eight hundred lives.

The sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald. The sinking of the Eastland. The sinking of the Lusitania. Oh, and that Titanic boat. There’s a trend here. Now I’m sure that as a whole ships are extremely safe vessels on which to travel, but every single thing I know about them conclusively proves that they can’t be trusted. Should you argue that those incidents happened long before you or I were born, I have two words for you – Costa Concordia. Boom. Two months ago. Then her sister ship lost power in the pirate-infested waters of the Indian Ocean a month later. Boom x2.

However, I wasn’t actually aware of this (warranted) ship animosity until I was on one. Though I’ve been on many a speedboat throughout my life, I have never taken a cruise. Never met a captain. Never boarded anything resembling a luxury liner. Until last weekend.

Though an official resident of southern California for the last several years, I am shamefully lazy when it comes to exploring all the awesome things this area has to offer. The Queen Mary is one of those things. Permanently docked in Long Beach, I have gazed numerous times upon this ship turned hotel and event venue but have never experienced her grandeur myself. Now I would partake in her splendor on St. Patrick’s Day as hundreds of fellow passengers would partake in pints of green beer. A mass of drunken people on a huge boat with minimal supervision? Sounded like a swell time.

Though as we were dropped off in front of the ship, I immediately felt queasy. Strange… I never once suffered seasickness while on vessels a fraction the size of this behemoth. Technically, it wasn’t even moving. Technically, I wasn’t even on it yet. That’s when “My Heart Will Go On” began playing in my head.

Freakin’ James Cameron.

If I had any chance of shaking my shipism, Cameron ruined it with his monster-piece. Sure, I was a schmuck like everyone else when it first bowed in theatres and wept like a baby as Rose promised a frozen solid Jack that she would never let go… and then let him go to the depths of the icy ocean. But then I wiped my eyes, blew my nose and was done with it. Never saw the film again, and I don’t need to. Apparently along with every awkward parental encounter of my youth I have committed this movie to memory as I kept replaying it while trying to enjoy my St. Patrick’s Day onboard the Queen Mary. When we listened to the band playing Irish jigs, I imagined Jack and Rose gettin’ down with the blue-collar folks in Titanic’s basement. When we ventured into the captain’s quarters, I imagined the look on Edward Smith’s face as he realized that the ship was going down. Even when we were just moseying around the different levels, going up and down the interior staircase, I imagined the goofy look on Jack’s face when he met Rose for their first-class dinner.

So went the evening until we finally exited the Queen Mary safe, sound and relatively dry. (It just happened to be one of the ten days of the year that it rains in SoCal.) I suppose in comparison to how Titanic ended, we made out pretty okay. Maybe ships aren’t so bad after all as long as you never leave the shore.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

LA ladies sometimes get a bad rap. A stereotype has been perpetuated, thanks in large part to The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and its prequel The Hills, that we’re vapid, shallow and insincere. If we’re not shopping or botoxing, it’s only because we’re spray-tanning or gold-digging. Oh, and we have no real friends and consider every other female competition instead of a companion.

Sadly, those women are out there, but they’re everywhere: New York (less blonde), Miami (less clothed) or even Chicago (less vegetarian). No city has a monopoly on lame people. Lucky for me, I don’t often come across these self-involved souls and only hear about them second-hand from a friend who saw Paris Hilton stumbling out of The Standard last weekend.

Yet on any given night you will find an altogether different kind of woman out on the town. Though instead of scanning the crowd for her next sugar daddy or admiring the new DDs in the nearest reflective surface, this woman is too busy enjoying the company of her ten or more best friends. These girls come in all shapes, sizes and colors, but can easily be identified by the tight circle they form by the bar or more often on the dance floor. In other words, you are witnessing what is commonly called a ladies’ night.

I have participated in one or two ladies’ nights in my time, but perhaps not as often as you would think. Though LA women can rarely use bad weather as an excuse to stay home, you’d be surprised by how much time can go by between seeing friends in this town. Anyone in the entertainment industry usually puts in a ten to twelve hour day; needless to say, that kills most social engagements during the week. Should you reside west of La Cienega but all your friends live east of Highland, then you might as well resign yourself to seeing them at the next Thanksgiving potluck or perhaps your birthday party if they really like you. However, when the planets finally do align for the elusive ladies’ night, ‘tis a wonderful time.

Yet hitting the club isn’t a requirement for a BFF bash; in fact, my favorite ladies’ night is that of the at-home variety when you don’t have to worry about being groped from behind while getting your groove on or spilling your $14 cocktail on your dry clean only dress. Plus, without the deafening house music you can actually hear your friends and don’t sound like you smoked a carton of Marlboros the next morning because you had to scream every word for three hours straight the night before. Though regardless of any audio obstacles, we ladies get the gold star for our ability to chat long past any male’s oral breaking point. We can have discussions of epic proportions because one of the many things we’re great at is showing how we care through verbal communication, and should one be privy to a ladies’ night powwow, you will overhear at least one of the following conversation starters at some point in the evening:

1. “You look amazing!” The fairer sex dominates when it comes to supporting our sisters, and we’re not afraid to say it either. Yes, those chicks exist who cannot utter one kind word to another woman because of their own insecurities, but you will not find them at ladies’ night because they’ve made their bed and have no real female friends. Minus the Debbie Downers, the rest of us are free to gush about each other’s glowing skin, super cute new haircut or overall fabulousness.

2. “I love your outfit.” This may sound an awful like conversation #1, but don’t let the semantics fool you. #1 can refer to a number of awesome qualities that one’s friend may have, while #2 specifically highlights her keenly cultivated fashion sense. Totally different in girl world. Almost guaranteed to follow this statement is “Where did you get it?” I once had a weird junior high stalker situation when a girl in my class bought every last one of the short-alls I had purchased at Contempo Casuals – CC, I tip my forty to your memory – and had already worn to school. Subsequently, I was forced to retire them to the back of my closet for fear we would wear the same thing on the same day: a fate worse than death when you’re thirteen years old. Happily, Single White Female is a distant memory, so if someone likes what I’m wearing, I immediately tell her where I bought it. Who am I to deny Target yet another satisfied customer?

3. “Know any cute, single guys?” Yes, boys do eventually work their way into the conversation at some point. However, I must stress that those of the XY persuasion take up a relatively small portion of the night’s confab. Sorry to burst your bubble, gents. Though a main squeeze may momentarily surface in the conversation, more often than not any guy talk is regulated to gabbing about what single dudes we can hook up with our single friends.

4. “How’s work going?” What? You think our lives revolve around just shopping and men? On the contrary… The far majority of the awesome ladies I know are working women who do it not only for a paycheck, but because they are uber enthusiastic about their careers. More often than not, many minutes are devoted to discussing whatever new project/show/passion my girlfriends are working on.

5. “Please take that chip bowl/cookie platter/cheese tray away from me!” Okay, this isn’t so much a conversation as a command, but believe me, you will hear this uttered at least a dozen times before ladies’ night comes to a close. I can also guarantee that five to ten minutes later, you will then hear, “Can you grab me just one more cookie?” Gurrl, I’ll have one with you.

Image: thaikrit / FreeDigitalPhotos.net