the chicago dispLAcement ®

Yesterday a goat’s head was sent to Wrigley Field. My response to the person who did it?

Bravo, good sir. Bravo. Most Cubs fans I know just sit on their lazy asses and moan year after year about our perennially lovable losers. And then there are the ever optimistic – some may say naïve – fans that dream each April of a Pennant run only to have their hopes dashed by June. July if we’re having a really good season. But it takes a real fan to sever an innocent animal’s head and send it anonymously to Wrigley so that his contempt could be known. So again, bravo.

Just one question, though… What exactly are you protesting? Is it that we already have a losing record a mere week into the new season? Is it the overpriced tickets? The lack of parking? The shabby confines of Wrigley Field? Or the fact that we haven’t won a World Series since before the First World War? ‘Cuz there’s that, too.

Or maybe you were simply trying to remove the Curse of the Billy Goat.

That makes sense. After all, the Cubs were already suffering a Pennant drought for almost 40 years when Billy Sianis made his famous claim that the Cubs “ain’t gonna win no more.” Naturally his threat is the exact reason why we’ve continued to fail in winning the World Series for the last 60 years. So perhaps a goat’s head is precisely what the Cubs organization has needed all this time. What fools we’ve been!

And you know, the sacrifice of a goat’s life is nothing when you think about the monumental sacrifices that our players make everyday on the field. Like when Marmol sacrificed our 5-1 lead to the Braves last week, and we ended up losing 6-5. It must have torn him up that night, his only consolation being that he still has a contract for $9.8 million. I also admire his humility when asked about the booing that preceded his introduction at the Cubs’ home opener on Monday. Instead of admitting that he had failed Cubs fans and would resolve to do better, he simply said, “I don’t have to worry about it.” Right on, Marmol. It’s that kind of attitude that will surely get us a playoff run this September.

But back to the goat’s head. What’s a goat anyway? Apparently this animal has an IQ of 60, which is about that of a dog. Keep in mind, though, that this is all according to science… And what has science ever done for Cubs fans? So yeah, you probably killed a creature with reasonable intellect. You might even say that you butchered an animal not unlike your own pet Fido, but whateves. It was for a higher cause, right?

Because when it comes down to it, sports are all that matter. Think about it. What is more important than watching multimillionaires swing bats, shoot balls, and catch touchdowns? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they do it for the love of the game, right? If the players in the MLB, NBA, or NFL were paid the same as firefighters or public school teachers, I have no doubt that they would still pursue the glory of the World Series or Super Bowl just for the fans. And to any naysayer who claims that all baseball players are steroid users and all football players are alleged rapists and all basketball players are consummate philanderers… Like you’ve never done anything wrong. Hypocrite. If you can’t understand why sending a goat’s head to Wrigley Field isn’t a perfectly sane measure to take, you obviously don’t know anything about anything.

One final note to the gentleman behind the goat head prank… If and when the authorities find you, and I sincerely hope they do since anyone with your evident genius deserves his due recognition, be prepared for a firestorm of media attention. Yes, sir, you will reach a status the likes of which Steve Bartman could only dream. So good on you. You deserve every bit of the acclaim that you receive.

Image courtesy of AKARAKINGDOMS / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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!

Image courtesy of antpkr / 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

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.”

Image: 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 have a secret… I’m not a fan of deep dish pizza.

Whew! That felt good to get off my chest. Because I’m from Chicago, most everyone assumes that I must love Chicago-style pizza, which isn’t the case. Sure, I’ve had it dozens of times, but that’s only because I am a fan of eating, and that typically trumps any so-so feelings I may have about what I’m inhaling. Come to think of it, that’s exactly why I’m not a deep dish gal. I become nauseated after just a few slices. That gooey, cheesy goodness is amazing going down… until it settles into my stomach like a pile of bricks. I hate feeling hungry, but being overfull is even worse.

Luckily, this hasn’t been an issue since moving to California. Los Angeles has its own eating culture. I know of just a few decent pizza places around town, all of which serve New York-style slices; however, LA abounds with Mexican and Asian-inspired eateries. And raw restaurants. And In-N-Out. So when you can’t stomach one more sea vegetable salad, just grab a double-double cheeseburger animal style instead.

Yet not too long ago a friend said that she wanted to celebrate her birthday at an “authentic” Chicago-style pizza joint. She had mentioned the restaurant Masa before, and I’ll admit that my curiosity was piqued as to whether it could actually replicate this staple of Chicago cuisine. I may not love deep dish pizza, but that doesn’t stop me from getting super snobby about it. Alas, the pizzeria was on the other side of town. The only time I’m ever that far east is when I get a jury summons and am forced by law to show up; the odds were slim to none that I would ever be motivated enough to drive there and see if it had the goods. However, it’s an unspoken rule that we each get to call the shots when our birthday rolls around, so Chicago-style pizza it would be. I prepared by fasting the day of to ensure that my belly would be grateful to have anything filling it by that evening.

Masa was packed. Though as strange as this may sound, I love crowded restaurants. Maybe it’s because subconsciously I know they must have pretty good food if so many people want it. Or perhaps it’s the positive energy of people relaxing and enjoying themselves with friends and family. Whatever it is, I dig it. Plus, I was there with some of my best friends, so the night was off to a very positive start.

Soon enough our entire party had arrived and were served the restaurant’s complimentary bread. Have I mentioned how much I love complimentary anything? Free bread, free chips and salsa, those little mints at the hostess counter… I am on it like white on rice. And even though I would probably shop there anyway, it doesn’t hurt that Trader Joe’s has at least two free sample tables every time I pick up groceries. So yeah, I was quickly becoming a fan of Masa.

Then came the pizzas.

They were ginormous. They were also vegetarian-friendly, so I had my pick of three steaming monstrosities. I eventually decided on the one with the most veggies. More vegetables equaled less cheese and sauce. Less cheese and sauce equaled better odds of dodging indigestion. Per usual, I inhaled it. Couldn’t help myself. Not sure if the food was actually that good, or I just have major willpower issues, but my first slice was gone in less than two minutes. I knew I should have stopped there, but didn’t. Not wanting my carb-fueled serotonin rush to end, I abandoned all restraint and grabbed a second slice. This time it was a solid block of nothing but cheese, sauce and crust; I finished it quicker than the first. I would have happily indulged in a third slab of that deep dish deliciousness except I noticed that no one else was taking another piece. Though my gluttony instincts are strong, my vanity is stronger. I didn’t want to look like a total pig in front of my friends, so instead I waited until I was home to devour another slice. I was even thisclose to eating a fourth. However, food coma finally set in and I crashed before I was able to scarf it down.

Yet miraculously I woke up feeling absolutely fine. No deep dish hangover for this gal. So maybe that’s the key to eating Chicago-style pizza… Just stuff yourself so full that you pass out. It’s much easier to deal with the repercussions of overeating when you’re unconscious. I wish someone had told me this years ago.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Much like any other major city, Los Angeles is full of interesting people. And when I say interesting, I mean weird.

You get used to it. In fact, while in college I became rather accustomed to the oftentimes unusual activities of my urban mates. When you’re hustling five city blocks to get to your next class in two minutes – and it’s twenty degrees outside – you just don’t have the time to be shocked by the gentleman locked in a heated debate with a nearby tree. When you pass him every day for weeks at a time, you actually begin to find comfort in his peculiar presence. It feels more “weird” when he’s not fighting with the maple at 8^th and Wabash.

Yet since moving to LA, I’ve realized that my bizarre behavior threshold has taken a significant dive. I blame this on the driving culture of the city. You don’t interact as frequently with the unique souls that inhabit SoCal because you don’t have to walk past them or sit next to them. You have the protective barrier of your car to shield you from the eccentric code of conduct of those around you. When I was a frequent CTA passenger a few years back, I wouldn’t have thought twice of grabbing the empty seat next to the lovely lady who was deep in animated conversation with herself. Now on the rare occasion of having to walk somewhere – usually it’s to and from the parking garage at Trader Joe’s – I suspiciously keep my eyes on the random dude chatting away with no one in particular and give him a wide berth… until I realize he’s talking on his Bluetooth.

Anyway. I noticed him immediately from the comfort of my Mazda3. I had just pulled up to a light and saw him attempt to cross the street from my left. I watched as he carefully took note of his walk signal, ventured off the curb and proceeded to move forward. That could have easily been the end of my story, except that rather than continuing to the next block, he instead halted and put up his hand to stop the minivan waiting to turn onto my street. Though the vehicle was a good fifteen feet away from this fellow, and furthermore had not so much as moved an inch, he nevertheless felt threatened by this soccer mom and her Dodge Grand Caravan. He stood there for a good ten seconds – ten seconds that could have been used to actually cross the street – but he was determined to make clear his pedestrian right of way. I observed him with mild amusement and then looked over to see how the driver was responding to her newfound foe. As I suspected, she was completely bewildered. I’m guessing she didn’t often cross paths with individuals such as this chap at her yoga class.

And just like that, he decided to start walking again. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of assuming that my sunglasses had rendered me incognito. Noticing me noticing him, he then stopped in front of my car and started waving at me. Fantastic. Now what? On the one hand, I felt like a jerk to not wave back. That’s just rude, right? On the other hand, if I did wave, what else might he do? So I took the middle road and gave him a lame half-wave that resembled more an uncontrollable body tick. However, that satisfied him enough to keep moving to the other side of the street.

I then decided that my next course of action would be to stare straight ahead and just wait for the freaking light to change, but of course I couldn’t help myself. I had to look over to see what he was doing next, and because he had never taken his eyes off me, he considered this all the encouragement he needed to start waving once more.

Seriously? Okay, fine. Broken down by his somewhat admirable persistence, I finally gave him a proper wave back, which caused him to break out into a huge smile. Which made me smile. Which made him wave all the more zealously. Which made me laugh. Which made him take a step forward toward my car. Which totally freaked me out.

Thankfully, the light finally changed, and off I sped like Amanda Bynes trying to avoid a second DUI. Checking my rearview mirror, I watched as he continued to wave to every other automobile passing him by. So, wait… Our little exchange was just one of many for him? I felt oddly disappointed by this revelation. Maybe I’m the weird one.

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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