the chicago dispLAcement ®

As a kid, I always got excited for the first day of school. (Nerd alert!) As soon as I received that packet in the mail informing me of my new teacher and required materials, it was game on. First, the rush to pick up my Lisa Frank folders and pencils. Next, the selection of the perfect first-day-back-to-school outfit. Finally, the wait. As it turns out, it doesn’t take that long to grab a few pairs of jeans and some sweaters from Sears. I still had weeks to go before the day when those scholastic pearly gates would open once again. By the time I was less than twenty-four hours from that magnificent moment, I could barely lie still let alone sleep; therefore, in an ironic twist of fate, I usually fought to keep my eyes open the first day of school, as I was completely exhausted from weeks of expectation.

Still, it was awesome to have something to get that stoked about. Not so much anymore. Sure, there might be a season premiere or two that I anticipate each year, but usually I fall out of grace with said show around the third or fourth episode. Short attention span. And I can tell you right now that you will not see me getting in line days ahead of time this summer just to watch The Avengers on opening night. Oh, and Black Friday? Forget it. I would much rather extend my post-Thanksgiving food coma for as long as possible than drag my bloated self to the nearest Best Buy to get pepper-sprayed while wrestling for the last half-off HDTV in stock. But that’s just me.

With one exception.

Every year around this time, life gets a little more exciting. A little brighter. A little tastier. Why? Because it’s Shamrock Shake season, folks.

That’s right. I am an unabashed die-hard lover of the McDonald’s Shamrock Shake. Some might say, “It just tastes like mint.” Others, “Why would you eat anything that unholy shade of green?” Still others, “Gross.” But to me, it’s like drinking rainbows and sunbeams and smiles all at once.

It may have something to do with my childhood. Some peeps are sentimental about their Cabbage Patch Kids or original Star Wars figurines; I happen to have fond memories of the Shamrock Shake. If you haven’t heard, Chicago is pretty big into the whole St. Patrick’s Day thing. In fact, we love it so much that we turn our river green to celebrate it. That, combined with McDonald’s being headquartered in the nearby suburbs, and you have an annual marketing blitz that encourages sucking down as much of that green yumminess as your stomach can handle. I remember many a trip to Mickey D’s for a Shamrock Shake or ten during the limited time they were offered. It was glorious.

Which is why I go into Shamrock Shake shock whenever I hear that someone I know has never experienced one. How can this be? What kind of deprived childhood did you have? It’s like growing up without sunlight or water. Only recently did I then learn that McDonald’s didn’t always have the Shamrock Shake available at all its locations. It’s taken forty-two years for them to finally see the error of their ways; you’ll be relieved to know as I was that as of 2012 the sublime Shamrock Shake is available nationwide.

Yet just the other day I was informed once again that someone dear had not yet tasted the sheer wonder that is the Shamrock Shake. I informed said individual that whether he liked it or not, he would be having one that weekend with me. How exciting to actually witness somebody’s baptism into the Shamrock Shake world!

Alas, it was not meant to be. Upon seeing him a few days later, he casually mentioned that he had tried one… without me… and it wasn’t that good. What?! Blasphemy! I was visibly crushed. In an effort to temper my quickly deflating good mood, he then offered to try another. Not all was lost; I was convinced I could convert him yet… We got our shakes. I took a sip. He took a sip. I waited eagerly for his next words.

“It tastes good. Better than last time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s good.” Okay, not exactly the ringing endorsement I was hoping to hear, but I suppose not everyone can feel the Shamrock Shake spirit. Oh well, just means more neon green yumminess for me.

Image: africa / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I’ve never been very good at learning foreign languages. Actually, I’ve been horrible at it. Terrible. Miserable. Awful. I even grew up with a mother who’s bilingual, yet never picked up more than a few words of her native tongue. Though nowadays it seems that kindergarteners are being taught Spanish or French, my option to take a foreign language didn’t become available until high school. Besides the standard Spanish, our second choice was Latin. That was it. No French. No German. No Mandarin. About 95% of our freshman class immediately signed up for Espanol. That made sense, right? You were bound to use Spanish at some point down the road, if even to place a proper order at Taco Bell… So of course I opted for Latin. Though I now have “carpe diem” forever seared into my brain, I certainly did not seize the opportunity to learn something that might have served me better in life.

Once I started traveling abroad, I relied on the kindness of strangers – and their English comprehension – to get by. I figured I would never go anywhere so remote that no one would speak English. If on the off chance they didn’t, I would break out plan B: speak loudly and gesticulate wildly. That usually did the trick. Once while in France, a woman came up to me and started to spew a firestorm of French. I knew immediately that she assumed I was a native. In some weird way, I took that as a compliment. However, I couldn’t understand a word of what she was saying to me. Embarrassed, I replied, “Je suis desolee. Je ne comprends pas.” Translation: sorry, I don’t understand. This was all I retained after three years of French in college.

French 101 was about as close as I ever got to having a nervous breakdown. Upon my first day of class, I had naively assumed everyone was like me: a French newbie who wanted to learn about another language and culture. Wrong. So wrong. Every other student but me had taken French all throughout high school and wanted an easy A. It was hell, but I kept going. Each semester, I would sign up for the next class, and though I managed grade-wise, it was becoming a situation of diminishing returns. As the lessons became more and more advanced, I was forced to spend more and more time on my homework to ensure that it was perfect. It was the only way to balance my in-class participation grade: a big, fat F. The moment I stepped into that classroom, the cold sweats would begin. Hearing everyone around me speaking French was like listening to birds chirping or dogs howling. I hadn’t the slightest clue what anyone was saying. No matter how much I studied, it never sank in.

So I quit.

Years later, I still haven’t earned that bilingual title, though I’m not too broken up about the French thing. I have my own theory why la langue Francaise never took; it’s because I grew up in Chicago. French is a beautiful language. Chicagonese is not. Your mouth learns how to say words in an entirely different way. I should have tried German.

And though it’s been a few years since I’ve visited a foreign land, now more than ever I’m frustrated with my stunted language-learning brain. I may live in LA, but that doesn’t mean a plethora of languages other than English aren’t spoken here. You can drive through many a neighborhood where all the store signs and billboards are in Spanish or Korean or something else that doesn’t make any sense to me.

Plus, I hate when you realize someone is talking about you in another language and you’re helpless to do anything about it. As a child, it happened quite a bit when I was in the presence of my mother, aunt and baba (that’s grandma to you). Most of the time they would speak to each other in English, but then suddenly switch over as swiftly as birds changing flight. I would study their faces and could tell from their self-satisfied grins that they were discussing me. It was infuriating.

Not much has changed since then, except instead of family members dishing behind my back – err, to my face – it’s my students and their parents. It’s an unsettling feeling when you’re thanking them for a bottle of water and moments later they’re laughing about something I can’t understand. Was it something I said? Did I dribble down my chin? What is it?! But little do they know that I now have a secret weapon: my iPhone. Did you know there are dozens upon dozens of applications that can translate any language into English? C’est vrai.

Voila!

Image: Kookkai_nak / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Jury duty. Again.

If I sound a tad irritated, you would be right. Aside from my father who has been summoned for jury duty exactly once in his almost seventy years and claims that it’s a very “interesting process,” most people I know view it the same way they view luggage fees and half-days at work… Lame. Just add the fee to the freakin’ ticket price, and give employees the entire day off. Everyone knows nothing gets done on a half-day.

Anyway.

Quickly finding the seat most removed from stranger danger, I settled in and whipped out my laptop. No more than thirty seconds later, someone took the seat rightnextome. An older and rather burly gentleman, he was obviously not familiar with the unspoken rules of personal space. In no mood to feign politeness, I scooted one seat over. Unperturbed, he remained where he sat, hands folded over his Buddha belly, and silently bided his time until a suitable mark arrived. A few minutes later, she appeared; a very nice-looking and very unlucky woman sat down across from him.

“So did ya get any traffic comin’ over here?”

She politely answered no. That was encouragement enough for him. He continued that he had come all the way from Arcadia, but didn’t mind the drive. Unlucky Lady declined to comment; he was not deterred by her silence. I tried to block out his rambling with my headphones, but no matter how loudly I blasted Enya – it was one of those days – I couldn’t drown out his voice. Then much to my surprise I heard him say, “Yeah, my wife was just told that her breast cancer came back, but she don’t want chemo no more. Said she don’t want to live like this, gonna kill herself somehow.”

Come again? Did I hear that correctly? How did the conversation turn from commuting to cancer? I couldn’t believe this man was spilling his life story to someone he met exactly two minutes ago. My mind then flashed back to my college years when I was also working retail. I suddenly remembered the number of times when after purchasing a pair of earrings or cute blouse, a customer would casually launch into a tale about her cheating boyfriend or intrusive mother. Usually my response was, “Would you like to have your receipt or should I put it in the bag?” I’ve never been much good with TMI. However, I have also never passed up a sweet eavesdropping opportunity and promptly shut down my iTunes to better hear my neighbors.

As it turned out, Unlucky Lady was quite the chatterbox herself. Initially resistant to Buddha’s conversation starters, she began to speak up more and more. Perhaps a bit too much. Within a few minutes, I found out that she had a “horrible track record with guys,” but was now living with a very nice widower who may or may not want to marry her. However, this didn’t trouble her. He treated her well and that’s all that really matters, right?

Buddha listened intently and finally issued a reply: “I told my wife that if she was gonna kill herself, wrecking a car would be wrong. Who knows who she might hurt?” Hmm… Not sure if that was an appropriate response, but Unlucky Lady just smiled sweetly and allowed Buddha to continue until a pause surfaced in the conversation. She then took that opportunity to tell another story about how wonderful her boyfriend was. They continued like this for hours, each taking turns talking about their lives without actually engaging the other. It seemed to suite them both just fine.

We finally broke for lunch. Freedom.

Upon returning to my holding cell, I absentmindedly sat down in the same seat as before. Buddha did the same. I quickly looked around for Unlucky Lady, but couldn’t find her anywhere and got nervous. Would I be Buddha’s next target? Thankfully, some poor soul made the mistake of sitting in the chair next to him. Within moments I heard Buddha say, “So my wife got her cancer back. Said she don’t want no chemo. Just wants to kill herself.”

While Unlucky Lady stoically hid her annoyance if indeed there was any, Unlucky Man was not as subtle. I noticed a leg twitch that became more and more pronounced as Buddha continued to chatter away. This dude had an opinion on everything…

Dating: “The man should always pay. If I were a lady, I’d get up and walk outside the second the check hit the table.”

Minimum wage: “This feller pays his employees $18 an hour. That’s how you get ‘em to stick around!”

Population control: “People are having too many babies.”

Family relations: “I haven’t talked to my brother in over five years. No birthday cards, no Christmas wishes, no nothin’!”

High school reunions: “The ones that were the most likely to succeed haven’t done anything with their lives. The hot chick is so fat she can’t see her own feet, and the ugly duckling is a knock out.”

Standardized testing: “They should throw it out in the wind. It’s bullsh*t.”

The Amish: “They’re just havin’ fun.” (I might have misheard that one.)

I was quite impressed by how Buddha could go on and on about nearly any topic. Of course, he eventually circled back to his favorite: his wife. “When she first got sick and had her surgery, I would wake up every morning at 4am to change her bandages and clean her wounds. Some men might have left their wives, but I’m old school. For better or worse, richer or poorer.”

I suddenly wanted to give Buddha a hug. Though his incessant talking was slightly infuriating, he was just a lonely old man mourning his sick wife and the little time she had left. Perhaps talking it out was a way for him to make peace with the situation. If he found solace in a stranger who was willing to listen, why should I be bothered by it?

Eventually those of us left in the holding cell were dismissed and given another year’s reprieve from jury duty. I walked out without saying anything to Buddha. Then again, I couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise; still chatting away, he followed Unlucky Man out the building and together they disappeared into the afternoon sun.

Image: farconville / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I was very spoiled. For the last two years, I had lived without any neighbors across my hallway. Pure bliss.

Then three months ago they moved in. Fresh out of college. New to LA. Nice enough guys. We were formally introduced when I tried to enter my apartment with a basket full of laundry but couldn’t as their oversized papasan cushion was blocking my door. I assumed the endless bounding up and down the staircase would cease once they were fully moved in. I was wrong. Day or night, weekday or weekend… doesn’t matter. I find it amazing that for individuals who seemingly never go to bed, they have the energy to take the stairs two at a time every time. Not to mention the adorable way they let the screen door slam whenever they come or go.

Yes, I am a total ageist. I don’t consider myself much older than my new neighbors, but the self-righteous judgment began the second I saw those baseball caps slung on backwards and the empty pizza boxes laying on their floor. You see, my neighbors love to leave the door open whenever they’re home. Apparently they think apartment buildings are just dorms with bathrooms and no weirdo roommates.

I wish I could say that my neighbors are proving my narrow-mindedness wrong, but no. They still act like frat boys. They stay up late. They have friends over all hours of the night. They like to play their music loud and video games louder. And lately I’ve noticed a strange aroma emanating from their apartment. A delightful mixture of Acqua Di Gio, stale beer and locker room. This all seems very normal to them.

Of course the simple solution would be to tell them to shut their door, but I can’t. I can’t be that “lame chick” from across the hall who wants to kill their fun at two in the morning. I feel like I have a good twenty to thirty years ahead of me before that should become my moniker. Plus, I think one of our other neighbors already complained about the slamming door situation as last week I overhead them mocking said informant. “Don’t let the door slam or we’ll get in trooou-ble.” They then high-fived each other and proceeded to exit the building, ahem, letting the door slam.

The other ugly truth is that a part of me doesn’t want them to shut the door since I’ve become fascinated with their conversations. Sure, some might call this eavesdropping, but I rather see myself as a kind of Jane Goodall figure who is trying to understand the characteristics of these creatures we call twenty-something males. I have already come to a few ground-breaking conclusions:

1. Most words in the English language can be replaced with the term sh*t. For instance, “Coachella already sold out! Can you believe that sh*t? That sh*t ain’t cool, bro.” Likewise, the word sh*t can be added to the conversation for greater effect. “So, like, I was watching Homeland and sh*t… Sh*t, man, that sh*t is intense!” This observation also applies to the term f*ck.

2. Any film based off a comic book figure and/or starring Nicolas Cage can easily be analyzed for two hours or more.

3. Video games are highly underrated regarding their life-changing prowess.

4. I really, truly hope I never sounded this idiotic when I was that young.

Like I said, they’re generally pretty nice guys, but the second I see a St. Pauli Girl poster hanging on their wall, I will do everything in my power to get them evicted.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

When at the airport, you can almost always tell who’s from LA. Oftentimes they can be IDed by their Uggs and/or Ed Hardy and/or spray tan. If that doesn’t work, just look them in the eye… because you won’t be able to. Nine times out of ten, they’re wearing sunglasses. Inside. Sometimes at night. Always obnoxious.

It’s become a hobby of mine to guess who’s traveling home to Los Angeles versus flying through on their way to Phoenix or Portland or anywhere else Angelinos don’t care about if it’s outside a 310 area code. In fact, I’ve become so good at it that I can spot an LA resident long before I make it to my gate. From the moment I enter the terminal, it’s game on…

I spied him while checking in my bag. He couldn’t have been any more LA had he been wearing the Hollywood sign on his back. Tall and lean, but in a diet-of-cigarettes-and-whiskey rather than working-out-and-eating-your-veggies kind of way, he was clad in a studded leather jacket and those signature sunglasses. Yet what set apart from the rest of the crowd was his hat. A top hat. On top of a baseball cap.

Yes, this man was wearing two hats. One would assume that the top hat alone would garner him the attention that he was obviously seeking, but no… He had decided that to really sell his look, he needed both accessories. Or maybe he was just cold. Either way, I couldn’t stop staring at him.

Over the years, I’ve seen some interesting flying fashions: footed pajamas, workout bras, Lucite heels. I don’t mind them either; it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun traveling without those diversions to brighten my day. I, on the other hand, like to keep it simple. Jeans, sweater, boots. Cursed with running into people when I least expect it, I choose to leave the Lucite heels at home.

Anyway. Distracted by a girl who was “checking in” her two-pound Chihuahua, I lost sight of Top Hat. I needn’t have worried, though. By the time I made it to security, there he was, standing head and shoulders and top hat above the rest of the passengers.

The line was painfully long and slow. It took nearly fifteen minutes just to make it to the stop point where they double-checked my ID and ticket. Every few minutes, I would scan the crowd to find Top Hat, anxiously awaiting the moment where he would be forced to remove his hats to go through the scanning process. I found myself getting giddy with the idea of what he looked like underneath those hats. Was he covering up a carrot top? Was he bald? Did he have some kind of disgusting, misshapen head?

Oh yeah… Did I also mention that the only thing I like better than people watching at the airport is eavesdropping on TSA conversations?

“He’s still there.”

“Is he still wearing those crazy hats?”

“Yup.”

“Who does he think he is? Some kind of magician?”

It was AWESOME. Because the line was moving at a snail’s pace, for a good five minutes I was lucky enough to stand right next to a throng – yes, throng – of TSA agents, all of whom were ridiculing Top Hat. Come to think of it, we probably would have moved a lot faster had any of those agents, six in all, helped with the scanning process, but who am I to tell someone how to do their job? I was more than happy to listen to their astute observations.

“He looks ridiculous.”

“Does he know where he is? This ain’t some party.”

“I wish a wind would come through and blow those hats off.”

At last… The moment had arrived. I, along with my TSA peeps, watched with baited breath as Top Hat finally removed his wardrobe malfunction. I then understood why he wore those hats in the first place. Though indeed ridiculous, he did manage to elicit a kind of weird/cool/interesting look with them. Without them, he merely looked… normal. Boring. Just like everyone else. His head? Round. His hair? Short and blond. Nothing at all unusual. Disappointed, I watched as Top Hat promptly returned his top hat to its proper place and receded into the distance.

However, this experience did provide me a definitive answer to a long-burning question: do TSA agents mock airline passengers? Ah… Roger that. So the next time you see an agent stifling a laugh as you exit the x-ray machine, rest assured that anything too small or too big or too saggy has been detected and noted. You’re welcome.

Image: africa / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I have never believed in Santa Claus. Eleven months out of the year, this is a non-issue. Yet come December an unsettling feeling comes over me that perhaps, just maybe, I might have missed out on something special during my childhood. This strange sensation flares up quite a bit during Christmastime – while watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer or merely cruising the mall – but grows to a crescendo whenever I catch a glimpse of how excited the kiddies get if someone utters the name Saint Nick.

So the other day I was doing my thang and volunteering with that very rad organization Reading to Kids. Per usual I was going to read to the kindergarteners (my apologies to the six and above crowd, but you’re not nearly as much fun) and was expecting to carry out the same drill: read, craft time, the end. However, it being the holiday season, Reading to Kids decided to bring in Santa as a surprise for the little ones and to spread some holiday cheer. Well… it was supposed to be a surprise, but word gets around quick when it involves the big man with a belly like a bowl full of jelly.

Sworn to secrecy, we grownups were told that Saint Nick would be making his appearance during reading time, and one little girl in my group was only too eager to meet him. While the other kids could be easily distracted by counting the number of snowflakes on each page – appropriately enough this month’s book was about winter – this little munchkin would periodically lean into my ear and whisper, “Is he coming?” to which I would reply, “Shhh… It’s a secret.” She then would nod knowingly, a Cheshire grin stretched across her dimpled face.

But no Santa.

We finished up the book and moved on to craft time. FYI: When it comes to five-year-olds and crafts, save yourself a world of frustration and let them do whatever the hell they want. The theme for the month is magic, but they want to draw a dinosaur? Great! You were super stoked for them make hand turkeys, but they’d rather do a portrait of Buzz Lightyear? Fantastic. So while our tykes were busting out their best double rainbows and renditions of Optimus Prime, we all waited for Santa to show, and no one was more excited for his arrival than my little munchkin. Every so often, we could hear bells jingling outside; each time that little girl would look up from her drawing, eyes wide with anticipation, and stare at the empty doorway. Disappointed, she would inevitably turn to me, her face a question mark. I would then reassure her with a smile and softly say, “It’s okay. He’s on his way.”

Minutes later, I was so totally absorbed in my Frosty the Snowman masterpiece that I failed to notice Saint Nick finally entering our classroom. It wasn’t his jingle bells or hearty “ho, ho, ho!” that got my attention, but the pitiful wailing of munchkin. I was shocked. What had happened? Was she on the naughty list? Had Santa smacked her around or something? I looked to Saint Nick who simply shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment. I then scanned the rest of the children. I could see the wheels turning; if munchkin was crying, they naturally assumed there must be a good reason for it and were about to follow suit. I had to act quickly.

I rushed over to the little girl’s side, swept her up into my arms and retreated to a corner of the classroom while my partner desperately tried to redirect the children’s attention back to Santa. We were on the verge of a kid catastrophe, but thankfully Kris Kringle knew how to get the situation back under control. “What do you boys and girls want for Christmas?” Immediately they were too preoccupied with their demands to worry about munchkin anymore.

Apparently the reality of Santa versus the idea of him was just too much for her to handle. I wasn’t surprised. He’s huge. He’s loud. He wants you to sit on his lap and then promises to sneak into your house in the middle of the night while you’re asleep. Yeah, I would say that’s sufficient grounds for a breakdown. This little girl didn’t trust Santa any further than she could throw him, and though I managed to quell her tears, she gripped me like her life depended on it until Saint Nick exited the room.

At last it was time to wrap up, and we headed back to the auditorium. While waiting for their parents to arrive, the children were encouraged to sing a few holiday jingles. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw the red suit. Uh oh. Santa was back. I immediately turned around in my seat to see if munchkin had noticed; she was already crawling over her little buddies to get to me. Promptly positioning herself in my lap, she pulled my arms around her as a physical barrier and stared down Santa until he finally waved goodbye and left for good.

Maybe I didn’t miss out on much after all.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So not that long ago I was having a lovely little chat with my father. Having sufficiently discussed the weather, we had now moved on to sports. Specifically, Jay Cutler. Somehow we had gotten on the topic of last year’s season and the many sacks Cutler took. Though our offensive line has much improved since then, I at some point commented in a very serious tone, “Cutler can’t afford to have another concussion.” (This was prior to his season-ending thumb injury.)

I assumed that my father was attentively listening and perhaps even impressed by my astute observation regarding Cutler’s physical state. A moment of silence. He then declared, “You know he had a concussion, right? Can’t afford to have another one of those.”

Hmm… I guess my dad wasn’t listening as closely as I had thought. In fact, it was quite apparent that he had completely tuned me out while I gave my layman’s analysis of our favorite football team. That’s cool. I’m just his baby daughter who loves him dearly. No big deal.

Alas, this is just one more example of what I have been told once or twice or for a lifetime: I can talk a lot. A friend once informed me, “Anna, you could have a conversation with a rock.” It’s true. I dunno; maybe it’s the whole Gemini communicator trait or I simply have a sad need to be heard by the rest of the world. Either way, it recently came to my attention that the post you are currently reading happens to be my one-hundredth blog piece.

Wow. Even I’m surprised that I could find a hundred different things to talk about.

Usually I don’t discuss the “big three”: politics, religion or sex. It’s not that I don’t care about these topics, but there are enough people out there who can comment more intelligently on them than myself. Plus, I just don’t think they’re that much fun anyway. If Facebook is any indication, those issues usually get everyone pretty ornery. I don’t have enough fingers to count the times I’ve witnessed a status update blow up with twenty or more – ahem – impassioned comments whenever someone mentions Obama, Perry or anyone else crazy enough to put themselves in the political spotlight. (Yes, I do think you have to be insane to want to do that in this day and age.)

That’s why I comment on the little things. People watching at the car wash. The thrill of competition that is Catch Phrase. And Nazi lemonade stand proprietors. They may not be those big life moments one remembers on their deathbed, but I guarantee we’ve all experienced them.

John Lennon was on to something when he said, “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” I also like, “There is a great woman behind every idiot,” but I digress… Regardless of whether you think Lennon was the walrus, he was right on this one. Life is about the little moments. Battling a stubborn kayak. Getting caught primping at the DMV. Finding the perfect old folks diner.

Which is why I love my readers all the more. I don’t write about anything that’s going to change your life. No career or health tips here, and I certainly don’t write about anything that will make you rich. Yet you continue to read. I can only assume that you see some value in what I am writing because the one thing I do know is that time is money. Whether you’re a CEO of a multi-million dollar company or the CEO of your husband and two kids, we all have packed schedules. So thank you. Thank you for humoring my humor and supporting me for these past one hundred posts. I hope you continue to find as much joy in reading my silly little stories as I have in sharing them with you.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

Big mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uh oh.

A second later there was a knock on my door.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah… I-I just dropped a cup.”

“You dropped a cup?”

“Yeah, I dropped a cup.”

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently I am so stuck in my ways – or so clueless – that when my internet went down the other day, I simply pouted and assumed I was screwed for the afternoon. That is until my genius friend suggested I go somewhere with free WiFi. Oh yeah!

Fifteen minutes later, I was at my local library, happily browsing the interwebs once more. Ten minutes after that, I noticed a nice looking gentleman walking over. No open tables were left. However, he decided to share with the young lady one table over from me. I tried not to take his snub personally; after all, her table was closer to the outlet needed for his laptop. Ten more minutes later, another gentleman entered the library. Not quite so nice looking. In fact, I was certain he was homeless. Of course, he headed straight for my table.

I have this habit of not making eye contact with strangers unless absolutely necessary, so though I could see him coming my way, I kept my eyes on my monitor. I could sense him hesitating to sit down, as my paperwork was already spread across most of the table. We played chicken for a good thirty seconds; he stared and I pretended not to notice him staring. Ultimately deciding that was more annoying if he just stood there, I collected my files to make room. That’s when he began to move in.

Fo’ reals. He had a ton of crap with him. Again, I’m pretty good at assessing a situation with only my peripheral vision, and this dude had no less than three overstuffed backpacks that he was meticulously emptying. However, I began to notice that he was unloading some pretty serious hardware. He kept pulling out computer gadgets of all shapes and sizes, so I began to wonder, “Hmm… Maybe he’s not homeless. Maybe the greasy hair and black fingernails are a purely aesthetic choice.” This is LA.

After claiming more than two-thirds of our mutually shared real estate with his junk, he sat down… and promptly fell asleep.

He did that thing we all did in high school where you put your hand to your forehead and look down at the table. Remember that move? You assume that if your teacher can’t actually see your eyes, he won’t know you’re sleeping? Within five seconds this guy was out. I began to take inventory of his equipment. Though plentiful, it looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster circa 1992. I also noticed that he hadn’t turned on any of his gadgets despite the fact that he brought his own power strip for all those many plugs.

That’s when I finally got it. This guy was definitely homeless. He was also smart enough to realize that you can’t loiter in the library. Perhaps he had tried it once or twice and was thrown out for his efforts. So now he had resorted to this elaborate scheme of collecting abandoned computer junk and setting it up to make the employees think that he was working. All to get some shelter and a little sleep.

I don’t know what his story was, but given that Thanksgiving was only three days away, I suddenly found myself wondering what he would be doing that day. The library would be closed. The forecast was predicting rain. Where would he go?

Until that moment, I wasn’t having the best day. Meaning, I couldn’t check Facebook from the comfort of my own home. Also, I wasn’t looking forward to fighting my way through the crowds at Trader Joe’s that evening to get my groceries for Thursday. Moreover, I was a tad annoyed that one of my students had cancelled last minute. But I still had a home. I still had food. And in just seventy-two hours, I would be eating more than one ever should in a single day while surrounded by the smiles and laughter of friends.

My table partner was still asleep by the time I had to pack up and go. I hope he was able to get the rest he so obviously needed… And to each and every one of you, a very blessed Thanksgiving. May you be safe, warm and content.

Image: Rawich / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s hoping she’ll forget.”

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

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

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

Image: africa / FreeDigitalPhotos.net