the chicago dispLAcement ®

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

I was a bit of a nerd in school, so one of my favorite things is cultivating that nerdiness in others. I especially love getting kids to love learning. Plus, sometimes these children look up to me, which – I’m not gonna lie – feels amazing. Being seen as the ultimate authority on similes, homographs and dangling modifiers is such a rush.

Apparently I’m not the only adult with an imperative need to impress the twelve and under crowd. The library is constantly packed with people spewing their knowledge to those diminutive souls counting down the minutes until mom and dad rescue them.

Such was the case once again this particular afternoon. Trying to find an empty table, I circled the joint multiple times to no avail and finally decided that someone would have to begrudgingly share their claimed territory. That’s when I saw this little pipsqueak of a child. She was so small that her head barely cleared the back of her chair. Not to mention, multiple stacks of books covered the tabletop, hiding her tiny frame. I slowly approached and gently asked her, “May we share this table with you?” From the look on her face, I wasn’t sure if she understood the question. I was also pretty certain she was terrified of me. She slowly nodded her head. At that very moment, a gentleman walked up to our table. They didn’t look related, but he asked if she was okay. I then asked him the same question. Kindly, he also approved and so began my tutoring session.

Yet out of the corner of my eye, I kept watching this little girl fly through book after book. Given that she couldn’t be more than three years old – four tops – I assumed she was simply amusing herself with the pictures while a parent was surfing the nearby computers. About fifteen minutes later, she jumped down from her chair and proceeded to walk around to where I was sitting. She then patiently waited for me to finish whatever I was in the middle of saying. I paused and looked at her. That’s when she calmly asked, “What does ‘particular’ mean?”

I was shocked. I couldn’t believe this child was actually reading the book in her hands. I peered at the page to which she was referring; it was talking about a river. I tried to explain, “Well, particular means specific.” That didn’t help much. “Or it can be a way of saying that something is special. There’s nothing else like it.” From the way she was looking at me, I could tell she thought I too was special. Just not in a good way.

“What’s so special about it? It’s a river. All rivers are the same.”

“Well, you and I both have two eyes and two ears and many things that are the same, but we’re still special. No one else is like you, and no one else is like me.”

I began to feel a thin layer of sweat forming over my body. She wasn’t buying it.

“Or it can mean that they’re talking about only this river. No other river. Just this one. Does that make sense?”

“Not really, but okay.”

As she returned to her seat, the man from earlier reappeared. I then realized that he worked at the library. I must have looked completely dumbfounded because minus any prompting he informed me, “She can read at a third grade level. She’s read nearly all the books in the children’s section.” Oh… She’s one of those kids.

I tried not to feel like a total jackass and continued with my lesson. However, I was suddenly aware of this little girl listening to me. Whereas before I thought she was just another bored kid biding her time until her mom finally wanted to leave, I now knew that she was most definitely smarter than me and most likely judging me as I tried to explain proper semicolon usage to my student. I could hear the trepidation and self-doubt in my every word.

A few minutes later, she got up again and headed toward me. Please no…

“But I still don’t get it. It’s just a river. It’s not special.” Ugh. She was really stuck on this special thing.

“Special doesn’t always mean better than something else. It can also mean different. Not better or worse, just not the same.”

This answer seemed to somewhat pacify her. Encouraged that I might not be a total idiot, she then grabbed another book and promptly flipped to the page in question.

“I don’t get this. They misspelled ‘arithmetic.’”

I took a look. It read: “Why don’t mosquitoes teach math? Because they don’t know ar-itch-metic!”

“They didn’t misspell it, honey. It’s a joke. Get it? Because mosquitoes make you itch.” I then gave a hearty laugh to emphasize my point.

Realizing that she had mistakenly given me more credit than warranted, she silently headed back to her seat and buried her head in yet another book. I, on the other hand, decided it was time to look for another table.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

When saying hello or goodbye, one has at his disposal a few options.

1. The Bow. Unless you’re Japanese – and in Japan – or you’re making the acquaintance of Queen Elizabeth, I would suggest foregoing the bow route.

2. The Wave. Comes in handy for the germophobic segment of the population. Also, a very passive-aggressive gesture. Akin to saying, “I like you, but not enough to touch you. In fact, you’re kind of gross. Don’t get too close.”

3. The Handshake. This type of exchange is just that… Ahem, do you know where that hand has been? Very likely somewhere you don’t want to know about. And now it’s touching your hand. And whatever is on that hand is now on your hand. Don’t be surprised if you have pinkeye in the morning.

4. The Kiss. Unless you’re smooching your significant other or young offspring, I would highly discourage lip-to-lip contact; it might get you arrested. Not quite as alarming is the cheek kiss. Most Europeans do it. Most Europeans also shower twice a week. Proceed with caution.

5. The Nose Rub. Cute if you’re five-years-old and an Eskimo, but otherwise a bit weird. If you don’t believe me, try nose rubbing your boss at your next review.

Which leaves us with The Hug. Hugs are multifunctional. They can be used in times of happiness or sadness, triumph or defeat. Moreover, hugs have no restrictions. Use them anywhere. One can hug at home or school, the hospital or airport without worry of repercussion. Not to mention, a hug can get you out of a bind when that creeper blind date goes in for a kiss. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.

Most importantly, a hug can brighten someone’s day… and I’m not referring to the lucky recipient. Think about it. How many times have you regretted giving someone a hug? It’s the best pick-me-up around. Quicker than a vacation. Easier than losing that muffin top. Cheaper than drugs.

However, a word to the wise… Commit to the hug. Worse than a limp handshake, no one likes a bad hug. It makes both you and the hugee feel terrible. You know you gave a bad hug. They know you gave a bad hug. They don’t say anything about it. You want to apologize, or at least explain what happened – perhaps you realized as you were hugging that you had forgotten the deodorant that day – but you also don’t say anything. The only thing more awkward than a bad hug is saying, “Sorry about that hug.”

Otherwise, the hug is the hands down winner. Still don’t believe me? Then I present to you a hug challenge. Pick a target. I can be anyone. Your spouse of ten years that you hug everyday anyway (I hope!) or your coworker who totally covered for you the day after that crazy holiday party when you were too hungover to show your ragged face at work. Once you have selected your target, just do it. Hug them. Hug them good. Hug them hard. Let ‘em know you mean it. Then see what their reaction is. Sure, you might initially get a confused “what was that for?” look, but I guarantee within moments it will transform into a goofy smile and giddy laugh. Why? Because someone just showed them love. Who doesn’t love love? And once you see that goofy smile and hear that giddy laugh, you’ll have your answer. It’ll be a wonderfully weird but totally rewarding moment.

Good luck. May the Hug be with you.

Image: digitalart / 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.

If living in an urban area with a larger than usual population of crazies, you quickly learn how to be antisocial. Avoiding eye contact is a given, and pretending you can’t hear someone talking to you becomes routine even if that means ignoring the barista who only wanted to know if you’d like whip on your Frappuccino.

Yet being friendly is sometimes encouraged. For instance, at sporting events. In fact I’d dare say it’s impossible to attend a game and not get chummy with your neighbors. For one, those seats are super close to each other, and given the – ahem – heftier builds of some fans, you’re oftentimes making more physical contact with the guy sitting next to you than the players are on the field. Second, the bathroom breaks. If you force your entire row to stand up and let you wiggle past them more than once, you kind of have to be nice to them. Otherwise an “accidental” foot in your way or beer on your back should come as no surprise upon your fourth trip to the ladies’ room.

But because these people are here to cheer on the same team I love, it’s not that hard to bond. Case in point? Last week at the Blackhawks game. I immediately knew that the chick sitting next to me was cool when upon hearing my high-pitched scream she said, “Oh good, you’re loud, too. Most people hate sitting next to me because I make so much noise.”

Three hours later, Trish and I had become bona fide besties. We had discussed at length our childhoods, livelihoods, love lives and the fact that you should be very, very careful when comparing any female to a celebrity. During one of the timeouts, they were going around the stadium and matching fans to different Seinfeld actors. As it turns out, most women are horrified when compared to Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Personally I think she’s pretty, but I get it. Whenever somebody says, “You know who you look like?” I usually don’t want the answer. (BTW, guys apparently love being compared to Kramer. Not a compliment, fellas.)

Trish and I gossiped together, laughed together and screamed together. We also cried together when the Hawks lost during the overtime shootout. Suddenly the game was over; all the fans rose from their seats. I turned toward my new BFF who was chatting with her husband. I then turned back to my father who was making a beeline for the exit. I didn’t know what to do. I just met this really awesome person and now I was expected to walk away like the last three periods had never happened? Surely she wanted to become Facebook friends.

I gingerly tapped Trish on the shoulder. She spun around with a big smile. I knew it. She felt it, too.

Me: “It was so nice to meet you!”

Her: “You, too!”

Me: “Good luck with everything!”

Her: “You, too!”

Me: “So mayb-”

That’s when her husband nudged her from behind. She put up a finger for me to hold on and then turned her back to me once again. I waited… and waited some more. Then much to my surprise and disappointment Trish and her husband began to exit the row without even saying goodbye.

Whatever… She lives in Chicago and I’m in LA. It never would have worked out anyway.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Sunday night. Laundry night.

Anyone who has ever lived in a complex with shared washers and dryers knows that it’s all about strategery. Nothing is more frustrating than dragging that basket of dirty clothing to the laundry room only to find that every single machine has been taken… and you have exactly zero pairs of clean underwear left. What’s worse is that I happen to live in a complex with only two washers and one dryer. One working dryer. Hence, I do my laundry super late at night even though the landlord declared no washing after ten o’clock. I have a system, too. Sure, I always make sure to separate my whites from darks, but I also line up my cleaning products on the table in the order in which they’ll be used. I also group my quarters together so that I can grab exactly how many I need each time I make that trip downstairs.

I might have OCD but it works for me.

Anyway. On this particular Sunday night I finished washing my first load but had purposely grouped those items together because they needed to be air-dried. I then removed said items and put in my second load. I then checked the clock to make sure I would be back in twenty-five minutes to throw everything into the dryer.

Twenty-five minutes later… I entered the laundry room only to find that during that short interlude, somebody else had swiped the dryer. What the what? It was almost midnight. Who does that? They must have heard my washer in progress. Plus, who uses the dryer without first using the washer? Plus plus, they definitely knew that they were taking the good dryer.

I was furious.

Stomping back to my apartment, I assumed they would also be leaving their stuff in the dryer all night since it was so late. Jerks. I then jumped in the shower and tried to calm down; maybe their stuff would be gone by the time I was done. Though as I was sudsing my hair, it suddenly occurred to me that I had already loaded that dryer with quarters for my own laundry.

OMG! They had stolen my quarters!

Okay, perhaps it was a bit nearsighted of me to have loaded those quarters before actually needing the dryer, but it was late and I had done it numerous times before with no problem. So now not only was I irate that my neighbors had taken the good dryer, but also I was enraged that they had misappropriated my quarters for their laundry. In fact I was so angry that I was thisclose to jumping out of the shower, shampoo still in hair, just to run downstairs and throw their stuff out of my dryer. Instead I proceeded to rinse while determining a more rational course of action.

Here it was: I would return to the laundry room and one of two things was going to happen. Either their stuff would be gone and I would have to come to terms with the injustice of this situation, or their stuff would still be there and I could attempt to shame them into giving back those quarters. I wrote them a note:

“Hello! Four quarters were on this dryer before you used them for your own load. If you would like to reimburse me those quarters, you can drop them off at Apt. 7. Thanks!”

I didn’t really expect them to pay me back the money, but at the very least I wanted them to think about what they had done and hopefully feel bad about it. Throwing on my pjs, I then made a beeline for the laundry room. The dryer was silent. I opened it to see if their items were still in there. Empty. And that’s when it happened… You know those flashback moments when someone suddenly recalls a traumatic childhood memory or war experience? Now I get it because I had one, too. Nothing traumatic, though, just pathetic. As I stood there, staring into that black hole, it all of a sudden dawned on me… I had started that dryer.

After years of honing my laundry routine into a science, I now go through the motions without even thinking about it. So rarely do I not use the dryer for freshly washed clothing that I automatically loaded it with quarters anyway and pushed the start button; I only had forgotten that I did until that very moment. So basically I wasted a dollar on nothing. And I got angry with some thoughtless neighbor who didn’t exist. And I raised my blood pressure for a good hour. And I felt like a total idiot.

The end.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Usually when I write it’s about antagonistic parking garage gates or annoying lemonade stand proprietors because that’s my jet-setting kind of life. My goal in relaying these trivial tales is to make you the reader hysterically laugh, or at least begrudgingly smile. (Like you just did, right? Don’t tell me you’re not smiling right now because I know you are!)

However, this is a different kind of blog post.

A woman died in my apartment complex last week. I can’t claim close ties with her just to milk the drama out of the circumstance, but we did exchange hellos whenever I would pass this woman in our courtyard. Her exact age I don’t know, but I would safely bet that she was probably pushing eighty. The two things I can recall about her are 1) a loss of hearing that caused her to talk a few decibels too loudly even when I was standing just inches away and 2) her fondness for baby blue eye shadow. I was fond of it myself. She was one of those ladies who refused to leave the house not looking like a lady. Every time I saw her she had her hair did and makeup on.

Suffice it to say that I was truly upset by the news of her death. She lived by herself, had no next of kin and it wasn’t immediately known that she had passed. I live next door to her church, and it was only her absence from services last Sunday that suggested perhaps something was wrong. It was.

And it got me to thinking…

I’ve had loved ones pass away, but this was very much a different scenario for me; her death while sad wasn’t nearly as distressing as the circumstances of her life. No family? No close friends? How can you be on this earth for so long and seemingly have so little to show for it? Yet I know this can’t be true. I have no details about this woman’s life or who was a part of it, but at the very least she had affected my life because here I was thinking about it. Initially her passing made me pray that I wouldn’t end up like that in another fifty years. Terrible, but true. After some time, it then made me think about how the dead always seem to have such a strong effect on the living. Kind of ironic.

Though in truth, we affect each other all the time while being very much still alive. We just don’t think about it as often. I don’t mean the big moments like a wedding proposal or pregnancy announcement; of course those occasions have a resounding ripple effect on multiple lives. I’m talking about the little things. Those instances that we may never consciously note in our minds. Allow me the following example.

A few weeks ago I was hanging out with a friend in Starbucks. We hadn’t chatted in a while and were getting each other up to date with what had been going on in our lives for the last several months. It was nice. After about a half-hour, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Barista: “Could you please keep it down?”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry! Was someone complaining?”

Barista: “No, but you’re getting a little loud.”

He got his wish. I was stunned silent.

Now for the record, I know my voice carries. I call it exuberance; others call it loud. (Especially my laugh.) The topic is already a sensitive one for me, and Barista Bully had just thrown a big ole spotlight on it. I couldn’t believe it; no one had said anything, yet he still felt compelled to publicly scold me? Obviously I haven’t gotten over the incident and have not since returned to that Starbucks. (It’s the closest one to me, too!)

I doubt that Barista Bully knew his remark would cut so deeply, but that’s my point. Day in and day out, we do and say things that mean nothing to us. Yet to the person on the receiving end of that look or remark, it can mean quite a bit.

Rewind to my junior high graduation. I was selected to give a speech that night but was deathly afraid of doing so. This wasn’t just an extreme case of glossophobia, though. A year earlier, I had fainted while attempting to explain my seventh grade science fair project to my teacher and two-dozen classmates… So yeah, I was nervous for good reason. I waited for my cue like a death row inmate waits for the injection needle; it was agony. My sweaty palms had warped my note cards, and I was certain that within moments I would be humiliating myself in front of my entire school.

Next to me sat D. A schoolmate since grade school, she was one of those exuberant types herself, always happy and smiling. Apparently she was also the observant type. Without saying a word, D reached over and grabbed my hand. She squeezed it. Hard. She didn’t let go. Words can’t express the wave of relief and gratitude that washed over me in that moment, and while her gesture didn’t completely erase my anxiety, it was enough. More than enough. I got through the speech without losing consciousness, so that’s at least something. And guess what? Twenty years later I’m still thinking about D and her act of kindness.

So that’s about it. I hope my neighbor is somewhere nice; perhaps heaven has a beauty salon or at least a makeup counter with free samples. I think that would make her happy. And even though you and I are still battling the daily grind we call life, let’s try to make each other happy, too.

Image: Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My neighborhood is da bomb; I love it. It’s clean. It’s safe. It’s super residential. I never wanted to live next to twenty-somethings who partied all night long even when I was twenty-something, and thankfully they have steered clear of my ‘hood. Instead, you’re more likely to find the residents here tending to their rose gardens, chatting it up with neighbors or walking their Labs and picking up after them. This makes me very happy. I’ve been living here for a few years now and can honestly say that I adore pretty much everything about it.

Except for the kids. They’re becoming a problem.

Apparently the purpose of owning a home is to have a place to stash your offspring, as it seems like every house on my block has at least one child. Until recently this hasn’t been a problem. I’m out and about quite often – running is my stress outlet – and every time I go for a jog at least one or two tots will smile and wave their chubby little hands at me as their moms push their strollers by. Totally cute, right? But those preteeners… They have got to go.

It all started with the lemonade stand. For the record, lemonade stands are for children under the age of ten, and I’m being generous here. The crux of a lemonade stand’s marketing strategy – the only reason why it works – is because the kids are little and adorable. That’s it. That’s the hook. Why else would you buy that watered down waste? Not to mention the questionable sanitary conditions of said lemonade; you think those chunky little fingers weren’t inside a nose moments prior to grabbing that cup of bacteria-infested refreshment for you? But when all is said and done, that cherub is just too cute to refuse, so you buy the lemonade that will be used to water some nearby grass. Though once those diminutive entrepreneurs hit ten years old, it’s time for a new gig. Why? Because they’re neither little nor adorable anymore. It’s true and I have proof: my fifth grade school portrait. It’s atrocious. Pre-braces and on the verge of yet another growth spurt, I bear a shocking resemblance to that chick from Welcome to the Dollhouse. Moreover, for whatever reason – cattle and chickens juiced up on steroids, global warming, Keeping Up with the Kardashians – kids are, ahem, maturing faster than ever. Meaning? The cuteness factor disappears even earlier nowadays.

Anyway. There are these girls in my neighborhood, all about ten to thirteen, and I swear they have a lemonade stand set up every week. I know this because I’m constantly running past them. Note the word “running.” I don’t know about you, but I don’t carry cash or credit cards with me during a run. (Did you read that, Mr. Mugger Man?) In fact, it’s the only time I can leave the house without my arsenal of “things.” No cell phone. No planner. No wallet. But these kids don’t get that because every single time I jog past, they scream, “Lemonade!” and I do mean scream, which is another reason I wouldn’t buy from them had I the cash on me. Not a fan of the hard sell. However, I tried to be polite the first time this happened. I kindly smiled and shrugged, “Sorry!” So what did they do? Those brats just continued to yell “Lemonade! Lemonade! Lemonade!” in rapid succession as I fled down the block. This has happened now four or five times.

You may be asking, “Why don’t you just jog on the other side of the street?” For one, I refuse to be intimidated by those pint-sized bullies. I’m not going to change my routine because of them. Second, it wouldn’t matter. If they saw me across the street, they would either yell louder or chase me down. Perhaps that seems a little far-fetched? They wouldn’t actually chase me down, would they?

Last week. I was just minding my own business, jogging along peacefully. That’s when I saw them… Six or seven in all. No lemonade stand this time, though. They had graduated to full-on gang activity: hanging out on the street corner and loitering. Yet being the glass half-full gal that I am, I thought this could be a good thing. I approached with cautious optimism.

However, I couldn’t immediately cross the street due to passing cars, and this would prove to be my downfall. I had to do that lame jogging in place maneuver, and these kids thought it was hilarious. They promptly decided to join me. So there I was, stuck with a half-dozen obnoxious preteeners, all jogging in place together.

It was time to get out of there. Not willing to be the subject of their ridicule any longer, I darted into traffic and somehow made it to the other side of the street in one piece. I wasn’t alone. They had all followed me. Now what? What exactly was I supposed to do? I knew that if I said anything, this would only incite them to worse behavior. At the same time, the indignant prig in me felt compelled to admonish them for their bad manners. “Does your mother know what you’re doing?!” In the end, I did nothing. I was a kid once; I still know how to play the game. They want attention, plain and simple. To ignore them is the only winning strategy, so I did my best Helen Keller (who runs) impersonation and kept my eyes on the road. I never acknowledged their presence… And it worked. Before I finished the next block, they had all quit their quest to annoy me. Or maybe I’m just twice their age and in better shape. Or maybe next time I pass their lemonade stand I might “accidentally” kick their table and spill that disgusting swill. I’d be doing the whole neighborhood a favor.

Image: Vlado / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I consider myself a fairly happy-go-lucky person. I never went through a goth phase. I don’t listen to Bauhaus, and frankly, Edgar Allan Poe’s kind of a downer. Besides, why would anyone subject themselves to all that gloom and doom just for fun? Between stock markets faltering and unemployment woes soaring, the world is depressing enough. If I have two hours to kill, it will not be spent watching Sophie’s Choice; seriously, Pretty in Pink was tough enough to get through. It still pains me that Andie chose Blane over Duckie.

However, I have from time to time pondered my own mortality. In fact, I almost died once or twice… Okay, maybe not really, but it sure did feel like it. Though more unsettling than these would-be confrontations with death was the manner in which I was about to meet my maker. On both occasions, all I could think was, “This can’t be how I go out.”

My first encounter with the Grim Reaper occurred in a Ralph’s parking lot. (For those of you in the Midwest, I was at Jewel.) While loading groceries into my car, I suddenly noticed something in the sky. Not a bird. Not a plane. Not Superman. Rather it looked like some kind of spherical alien spacecraft, and while that may sound ridiculous, I was convinced that War of the Worlds was about to get real. My heart started to race. I looked around and noticed other shoppers looking up into the sky, also rendered immobile by the spectacle in front of them… Speaking of, you know how you’re watching a movie and the characters freeze when something bad is about to happen, and then you yell at the screen because they’re idiots and you know you would never just stand there and do nothing if the world was about to end? Well, you’re wrong. Tom Cruise didn’t instinctively know to get the hell out of Dodge; the script told him to steal that minivan and burn rubber. In real life, most of us would freeze because what exactly are you supposed to do if you spy alien ships descending upon earth? If they want to exterminate us, we’re pretty much dead no matter if we have icky human germs or not.

But I digress. In that moment, I wasn’t that bothered about meeting my demise; I just didn’t want it to happen in a Ralph’s parking lot. Seriously? This was how I was going to die? Not peacefully in my sleep surrounded by hundreds of loved ones? (I plan to be super rich when I’m old and have all my friends and family members fighting over my fortune after I kick the bucket.) Or perhaps I could go out in a literal blaze of glory rescuing orphans from a burning building? No, I was going to die in the O.C. surrounded by blinged out Escalades, fake and bake trophy wives and my bags of Totino’s pizza rolls.

As it turned out, I didn’t die. Instead I got in my car and booked it outta there as fast as I could. Upon reaching the safety of my home, I then went online to get the 411. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought our civilization was coming to an end; the local news reported multiple calls to the police department all due to a satellite having been launched that afternoon…

Fast-forward to last weekend. I’m taking a shower. Normally a routine procedure, but not on this fateful afternoon. As it was a very warm day, I had the window open in the bathroom (nothing can be seen from outside, I swear!) and was in the middle of sudsing my hair when all of a sudden I heard the unmistakable sound of a plane flying overhead. Except in this case, the plane seemed to be thirty feet overhead rather than thirty-five thousand… And it was getting closer.

“A plane is about to crash into my apartment.” This was the exact thought that ran through my mind; it was terrifying. All of a sudden I felt very alone, and time seemed to slow down. In fact I had enough time to realize that I was naked with shampoo in my hair and this was how they would find me in the rubble.

I braced one hand on the tile, the other on the glass door, and readied myself for impact. “I’m going to die in the shower. I’m going to die in the shower.” Here’s the other thing I realized in this moment. The whole life flashing before your eyes thing doesn’t really happen. Treasured memories don’t run through your mind like an old Super 8 movie. Loved ones that have passed on before you don’t suddenly appear to lead you into the white light. Instead you’re just thinking about how embarrassing it’s going to be when the first responders notice that you haven’t shaved in three days. Or at least that’s what I was thinking. Even on the brink of death, my vanity knew no limits.

Then I saw them pass by: the four military jets flying in perfect formation over my apartment building. Those jackasses. Because of them, I got shampoo in my eyes and was forced to contemplate my entire existence. Was my time on earth really over? What did I have to show for it? Just how big of a turnout would I get at my funeral? Man, they got me all worked up over nothing. Like I said, I don’t really like thinking about death… But dude, that dress Andie made for prom? I haven’t stopped thinking about that monstrosity since 1986.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.