the chicago dispLAcement ®

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.

It’s always a drag when you do something embarrassing in public. Though once upon a time, you would suffer said humiliation for maybe a few minutes before life returned to normal. Nowadays, everyone and their mother (literally!) have an iPhone in hand 24/7, and hence the moment can be recorded and replayed ad nauseam on YouTube for all future generations to enjoy. Yet even when you’re with just a few friends or family, nobody enjoys falling over the coffee table or forgetting the “l” when explaining that the clock is slow. (True story.)

But at least your friends and family know you and hopefully realize you’re not an idiot all the time. They can contextualize your faux pas among the many other non-mortifying things you’ve done over the years. Though if that trip or Freudian slip occurs in front of a stranger, they have nothing else by which to judge you. As far as they can tell, you always walk around with a bat in the cave or your fly down. Head & Shoulders was right; you never get a second chance to make a first impression.

That said, not too long ago I was visiting my cousin in Michigan. It was lovely. The weather was perfect; the company was great; I was having a blast. To top it off, my cousin surprised me with a kayaking trip for a little bonding time, river style. I’d never been kayaking, but figured how hard could it be? I wasn’t worried.

Cindy, the very nice and cool owner of Rogue River Rentals, drove us to our starting point. Once there, she unloaded the gear while my cousin, who casually mentioned having kayaked “maybe once or twice” before, looked like a total pro. Without any guidance or prompting, she got in her kayak and pushed off from shore. That’s when I began to get a little nervous. How did she do that? Though in the spirit of not wanting to look like a moron, I remained silent. Cindy dragged my kayak to the water’s edge and told me to get in. Easy enough.

Then she told me to adjust the pedals. I had no idea what Cindy was talking about. “The foot pedals. You want to get your knees lower.” I couldn’t figure out how to shift them farther back into the kayak. This was not starting out well; cue the sweating. As both women silently stared at me for what seemed an eternity, I finally unlocked the damn pedals and the only thing left to do was shove off… Cindy gently pushed the kayak into the water. It all went downhill from there.

Sidenote: I’m one of those people who would never survive a natural disaster or zombie attack. Sounds morbid, but it’s true. The reason being that I don’t do anything when the unexpected happens. A few years back, we had a mild earthquake in the middle of the day while I was at work. I happened to be in one of the back offices when the tremors began. I remember staring at the walls, which seemed to be oscillating. It was fascinating to me. At one point, I though to myself, “Should I exit the building?” but I never moved a muscle. Apparently I lack both the fight and flight response.

Anyway, back to the kayak. I felt the push. I attempted to aid that push with some half-assed paddling. Then I felt the kayak tilting right. Instead of compensating left, I went right, too. Right into the river. I tipped over thirty seconds into our trip.

I was chin-high in water before I even understood what was happening. However, I knew enough to realize that I should be completely mortified. And I was. Not only was I soaked to the bone, but also my kayak was now sinking to the bottom of the riverbed. As one of my flip-flops was also floating down the river, I was too distracted to help Cindy wrangle the kayak. Poor Cindy. Even empty a kayak is heavy; filled with water, it was like dragging a dead body back to shore. Humiliated, I just watched as she struggled and finally got the thing on dry land.

All the while, both she and my cousin were asking if I was okay. Minus a few bruises, I was fine. Really it was my ego that was hurting. Normally I consider myself decent at the athletic stuff. I’ve never won a gold medal or anything, but I also was never the last picked for kickball in grade school. What the hell was my problem?

I didn’t care so much that my cousin had witnessed my mishap; she’s known me her whole life and has seen better and some worse. It was Cindy who concerned me. I met her all of ten minutes ago, and now I had just fallen into the river. Not because of some hidden rock under the waterline. Not because of some giant anaconda trying to squeeze the life out of me. I was just that bad at kayaking.

While Cindy drained the kayak, I tried to make light of the situation and joked that I was a huge klutz who did this kind of thing all the time. Not sure if that was the right tactic. I think I only worried her more that only one kayaker would be alive at the end of this trip. Odds are good she was comforted by the fact that both my cousin and me had signed liability releases back at her office.

Alas, the trip was a success, and I accrued zero more falls into the river. Though my suspicion that Cindy might have been nervous about me was confirmed upon our return to dry land. Still more than a hundred yards from shore, I could see a figure patiently watching and waiting for us. It was Cindy. Don’t know how long she had been there, but can’t say I really blamed her. “Yep, she thinks I’m an idiot,” I mused. She wouldn’t be the first.

Image: m_bartosch / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Most women want to look effortlessly beautiful. It’s true. Yet few can actually walk out the door looking fabulous merely by pulling a comb through their hair and throwing on a pair of jeans; everyone else has a little more work to do, though no woman wants that primping and tweaking to be seen in public. A la The Great and Powerful Oz, that curtain is to remain closed at all times.

So not too long ago, I noticed that it was time to renew my driver’s license. As my address had changed, I couldn’t renew online, which saddened me on multiple levels. For one, I loathe the DMV. It’s all kinds of depressing. Whenever I’m forced to enter one of their offices, it feels like a date where I’m about to break things off with the guy. I’m tense and a little sweaty, but there’s no way out of it. Plus, when it’s all over, I can treat myself to a Starbucks and move on with my life.

Second, I already liked my current driver’s license photo. I look happy and super tan. Way tanner than I have ever been in actual life. I know for a fact that I wasn’t even close to being that tan. Believe it or not, not every day is a beach day in LA. Yet after analyzing several other CA-issued licenses, it is my firm belief that the DMV is working in cahoots with the California Travel and Tourism Commission, deliberately tanning all driver photographs to perpetuate the SoCal stereotype of sand, sun and fun. Very sneaky… and I don’t mind one bit. You should see my old Illinois license in comparison; I look like I was just exhumed from my casket.

Anyway, my first attempt to the DMV was aborted when informed that they don’t take credit cards. Whaaat? A second attempt was also cut short when I noticed the appointment line snaking around the block. Even more depressing than the DMV? Waiting two hours just to get inside the building. Yet upon my third attempt, the ball finally got rolling. I filled out my paperwork, passed the eye test – no glasses, ma! – and needed only to take that picture. The picture that would be my official proof of ID for the next five years of my life. That’s pretty serious stuff. Depending on that photograph, I may or may not get the body check when going through airport security. Depending on that photograph, I may or may not get that free second drink from the cute bartender. I find that even when you’re standing in front of someone looking fabulous, should they see a less than flattering driver’s license pic, it instantly drops your street cred. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

There are no mirrors at the DMV. However, I noticed that the two women operating the cameras were sitting inside this huge glass cubicle, a cubicle that gave off just enough of a reflection to substitute for a mirror. I glanced around to make sure no one was paying any attention and then slyly began to give my hair a once-over before getting in line. That’s when one of the camera chicks caught me in the act: “Excuse me, you’re too close to the camera. Your shadow’s gonna be in the picture.”

Dammit. Not only did this woman just call me out, but also she did it in front of a half-dozen strangers. Hot with embarrassment, I proceeded towards the line. That’s when another DMV chick stepped in: “Sheila, she isn’t botherin’ no one. She’s way on the other side of the glass. Let her fix herself if she wants to.” She then grabbed me by the elbow and led me back to the cubicle to finish my primping, but not if Sheila had anything to say about it.

“Her shadow isn’t gonna be in the photo, Liz?”

“No! Why would it be in the photo? You’re a good ten feet away and the camera’s pointing in the other direction.”

“Well, I dunno. Just thought she shouldn’t be so close.”

“Aw, let her fix her hair if she wants to. She isn’t doin’ nothin’.”

I was mortified. At this point, all picture taking had ceased while Sheila and Liz continued to debate whether or not I was ruining everyone else’s photos. The people in line looked none too happy with me, and I noticed that some of those sitting in the waiting area had turned around to better hear the conversation. Liz had a death grip my arm; there was no escaping this nightmare. Finally, she turned to me and said, “You go right on ahead, honey. Do what you need to do.”

What I needed to do was disappear. Liz walked away. Sheila resumed her work. Eyes to the floor, I briskly made my way to the back of the line. I couldn’t care less about how I looked anymore and just wanted to get the hell out of there. That lasted all of two minutes, though. Realizing that I was next in line to be photographed, my vanity resurfaced and I quickly whipped out the lip gloss one last time before flashing the most dazzling smile I had in my arsenal for the camera, all the while questioning whether or not the blouse I was wearing clashed with the curtain backdrop. Oh well.

Epilogue: The picture turned out all right, but somehow they messed up my address. Considering using that as an excuse for a second chance at a better photo. Fingers crossed it’s Sheila’s day off.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The evening started innocently enough. I was meeting up with friends, all Columbia College grads, for a night of vegan food and zombie gore. The perfect yin-yang combination.

As we greeted each other with hugs and hellos, a call came in that two more would be joining us. Fantastic. The more the merrier, right? Lovely people they were, one of them in fact another CCC connection. Since I was sitting closer to the couple than the rest of my friends, and because I had never met them before, I began asking questions. Found out that he was born and raised in Chicago. Still lived there. She lived there as well. Lovely.

Adding to the loveliness of that evening was the weather. It just so happened to be one of the warmest nights in LA over the past few months. So warm that we decided to sit outside for dinner. Yet about halfway through our meal, one of my friends got the chills and put on her coat. With that small gesture, the evening took a turn…

“I swore I would never become one of those people who needed to wear a jacket in seventy degree weather,” said my friend as she slid into her pea coat. I nodded in solidarity. However, the breeze had indeed turned a tad brisk over the past half-hour, and I was secretly wishing for a jacket myself. Two of my other friends then chimed in, woefully noting just how chilly it’s been in Los Angeles over the last several weeks. We soundly agreed that it was “about time” the weather began to cooperate in SoCal.

The Chicago couple was conspicuously quiet as we continued our tirade regarding the intolerable sixty degree weather as of late. Picking up on their lack of sympathy, I began to feel a wee bit bashful. Quickly, I covered with a joke: “I know you guys just had the third worst storm in Chicago history, but it’s been cold in LA!” They kindly obliged my comment with a courtesy laugh. I then realized that though it would have been well warranted, they didn’t join the conversation with their own complaints about the Midwest’s miserable winter this year. No whining about the multiple feet of snow dumped on the city over the last three months. No complaining about the freezing temps endured for days at a time. Nope. Nothing.

For some reason the lyrics to “One of These Things” from Sesame Street were suddenly bouncing through my head, and that’s when it hit me. My friends and I had changed… Mutated in fact. No longer were we the friendly, yet hearty Midwesterners of just a few years back. We had become La La lobotomized.

It got worse; we started talking about The Industry. Totally my fault. I hadn’t seen my friends in a while, so naturally I began to ask what everyone had been up to lately. (I like to ask questions, okay?) One friend mentioned the crazy hours she was currently working for The Celebrity Apprentice.  My other friends also work in television, so of course their jobs became part of the discussion as well.

On the one hand, that’s what you do when you hang out with friends; you talk about your lives. On the other hand, your job sometimes becomes your life when living in Los Angeles. If you work ten to twelve hours a day at the studio/production company/on set, then yes, that is your life whether you like it or not. Therefore, it can easily dominate the conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, though, we didn’t totally ignore our Windy City friends. We continued with our inquiries. Turns out they were road-tripping around the western US for a few weeks. Had we more time, I would have kept going with the questions. For instance: “Did you know that Rahm Emanuel is Ari Emanuel’s brother? Who’s Ari Emanuel? Hello! Don’t you watch Entourage?” However, we were already late for the zombie apocalypse and had to get a move on. The couple hopped into their car, and all of us locals hopped into another. The plan was to have our guests follow us to the theatre since they had no idea where they were going. Fair enough… Yet upon arrival, we realized there was nowhere to park. In a matter of seconds we unanimously decided that the very nice couple from Chicago was on their own. Our transformation to the dark side was complete.

Image: xedos4 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I just found out that next month Jeopardy! will be airing episodes with a contestant named Watson. Watson is an IBM supercomputer. As if I didn’t have it hard enough already.

Jeopardy! is one of my last remaining outlets to prove to the world that I’m smart. A way to separate myself from those pathetic souls on Leno’s “Jaywalking” segment who religiously watch every episode of Wife Swap, yet cannot name one state capital. Though as much as I hate to admit it, I have a lot more in common with those folks than merely wishing Jay Leno had never entered our lives.

It’s embarrassing how much I don’t know nowadays. This wasn’t always the case. For instance, I used to know what a polynomial was. I used to know who Andrew Carnegie was. We all knew who Andrew Carnegie was. Sure, sometimes school sucked. Waiting for the bus in subzero wind chill wasn’t so much fun. My uninspired lunches were a bummer as well. (FYI, Dad. No child ever needs or wants two apples in her lunch bag.) Those minor irritations aside, at least I knew how to properly diagram a sentence.

However, everything fades with time, including intelligence. I was confronted with this sad truth some years back upon applying to grad school. Aside from having my transcripts and recommendations in order, I decided to sign up for the GRE. Though not required for every program, I wanted to cover my bases just in case. Besides, how bad could it be? Specifically, I figured the quantitative, or math, section would be a breeze. Believe it or not, math was my strong suit in school. However, I hadn’t taken a class in quite a while, so I snagged one of those GRE prep books and cracked it open to the quantitative section. I instantly flipped back to the front cover. Had I purchased the hieroglyphic version of this book? Because I had no idea what I was looking at, let alone could I decipher its foreign language. Eh, no big deal. I assumed it would all come back to me within a day or two. Within a day or two, I reasoned it would come back after a week or two. After a week or two, as I rode the bus to the GRE testing facility, I prayed it would come back during the exam ala A Beautiful Mind. I imagined myself a female (and non-schizophrenic) version of John Nash and compelled the mathematical genius within to reveal itself. Fast. When my score arrived in the mail a few weeks later, my eyes searched for the quantitative result… I hadn’t performed so much like John Nash as I did the guy from Sling Blade. Sidenote: the grad school I eventually attended did not require the GRE.

That was the last time I was truly tested in the academics department. You might ask, “Didn’t you go to grad school after that?” Yeah, I did. For film. Not to say that film studies can’t be strenuous, but let’s call a spade a spade. Going to grad school for film is not the same as continuing your education in law or medicine. While I was debating the legacy of John Hughes in American cinema, my med school friend was delivering babies. There is a difference. Now all I have left to prove my academic worth are Jeopardy! and Trivial Pursuit.

The trick to Trivial Pursuit isn’t so much having raw smarts as having common sense. Most times you don’t need to know the answer at all; you just have to pay attention to the way the question is phrased. Example: “What did 100,000 self-conscious American women buy 200,000 of in 1980?” The key words here? Self-conscious. American. Women. Answer? Breast implants. Obviously. Yet sometimes you still come up short. Especially mortifying is when you know the answer but your brain refuses to release it. Then you look like a real idiot… So I was playing Trivial Pursuit with my family over the holidays. Question: “Who were the actresses that played Thelma and Louise in Thelma & Louise?”

I yelled “Susan Sarandon!” before my cousin even finished reading the card. “And… And… Shoot. Hold on a minute. Just give me a minute. I know this! I know her! I can picture her in my mind right now! She was in The Accidental Tourist. She played the president on that TV show. And she was on Family Ties!” My cousins politely listened to my exercise in thinking out loud. How could I not remember this actress? If my grad school education was to prove useful in any way, now was the time… Nothing. I hung my head in shame as the name Geena Davis was spoken.

And now Jeopardy! How can I possibly compete with a supercomputer? This show was my last saving grace. One of the very few opportunities to feel superior to others, both those on the show and in your living room, should you know “What was Commander in Chief?” when no one else does. And if you didn’t know Commander in Chief? Well, whatever. Nobody watched that show anyway.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

We all know those people. The ones that are super comfortable with letting it all just hang out. You want to show me how real your fake boobs look by jumping up and down? Okay, fine. You’re only forty and already wearing adult diapers? My condolences. But it’s cool. I can handle random public nakedness and unexpected bodily functions. What I don’t understand is why some people will flash the girls or divulge their bathroom behavior without even knowing my first name. Oh, did I forget to mention that? Yeah, I didn’t know either of those individuals. First example? Happened in a restaurant bathroom. Second example? In a clothing store. Those folks were both perfect strangers to me. Or more importantly, I was a perfect stranger to them.

And that’s my point. When did it all of a sudden become acceptable to assault others with your most personal odds and ends?* Because I see and hear it all around me. Thing is, it’s happening so much nowadays that not only are strangers totally at ease with telling every little detail of their lives to random passersby, but also peeps are now asking completely invasive questions without realizing that it’s none of their damn business.

Allow me to elaborate.

The bank. I had just one quick transaction to make, but upon entering the lobby saw that at least ten people were already waiting in line. Defeated, I slowly walked over and added myself to their miserable company. But then an unexpected angel came to my aid – none other than second-generation actor Scott Caan! Or maybe it was just Scott’s doppelganger. Either way, he said that he could take care of my request at his desk.

Within sixty seconds I was all set. A satisfied customer, I flashed my biggest smile and thanked him for his speedy assistance. As I was about to get up, however, he asked if I had a safety deposit box. Why no, Scott Caan. I did not. He then informed me that I could be eligible for a free one at the bank. Believe it or not, this intrigued me. I have no valuable baubles at home. No deeds or bonds. Nothing that would make it onto “Antiques Roadshow,” but I’ve always had this weird fear of my apartment burning down. Mind you, I live across the street from a fire station and already have a fireproof safe in my home. Regardless, Scott drew me in with his lure of yet another means to protect my social security card and Star Wars PEZ figurines.

I was hooked, and he knew it. Scott then segued into, “So how do you pay your bills?” Umm… All right, I guess it was okay to tell him. He did work at a bank after all. The next words out of his mouth: “Why don’t we take a look at your accounts?” That’s when I began to get nervous. It was like I was getting an impromptu physical and didn’t put on the good underwear that morning.

All of a sudden we were looking at my checking account activity. “So what do you do for a living?” And my savings account. “Do you have any plans for buying a home?” And my car loan. “You had your car for fifteen years? Why?” It was a nightmare. No offense, Scott Caan, but the shiny little placard on your desk that reads “Personal Banker” does not entitle you to ask anything you want about my life. The worst part was that we were within plain sight – and earshot – of everyone in the bank. Scott hadn’t yet received that sweet promotion with the corner office and personal parking space. He didn’t even have cubicle walls. We were sitting exactly two feet from a dozen strangers who now knew how I had financed my car and that my greatest wish in life is to touch others through my writing.

But Scott Caan was on a roll. He wanted to show me how to set up automatic payments through the bank’s online system and asked to whom I owed money every month. He might as well have asked if I’ve ever peed my pants in public. I was in hell. The situation was totally spiraling out of control. And now the sweating began. I wanted to just get out of there, but knew that would entail having to shake Scott’s hand. Not only was I folding under the pressure of his humiliating inquisition, but also was stressing over having to offer up my dripping palm to thank him for it.

Then suddenly I was rescued from my rescuer: Scott’s cell phone started to ring. He glanced first at the phone and then back to me, uncertain of whether he would take the call. I gladly made that decision for him. “Oh, don’t want you to miss that! Thanks for your help!” Leaping up, I quickly slapped his outstretched hand and promptly booked it towards the door. I was eager to make my escape, but nevertheless slowed down and turned around. I headed back towards his desk. Sigh… I knew it. “Will you please log out of my account?” All my financial bits and pieces were still on the screen for everyone to see. Scott Caan, stick to acting.

* I am well aware of my hypocrisy, dear readers. No one’s perfect.

Image: Chris Sharp / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Last week I wrote about what a great time I had at the AFI Fest. Indeed, it was lovely. Lovely, minus the wardrobe malfunction.

Lemme back this one up a bit… I have a problem getting ready on time. Yes, it’s true. I am a female stereotype. When I should be out the door at 9am, usually I leave by 9:15am. While shooting for 5pm, I’m gone more like at 5:10pm. Then I dash across town, road raging and pleading with the clock to slow down because I hate being that person: the late arrival that everyone else silently judges. So on the night of the Hamill premiere, I actually started to get ready early. Hair and makeup? Done and done. The only thing left to do was get dressed, and I still had nearly an hour before my 6pm departure time. Perfect.

I slide on my dress and attempt to zip it from behind. It goes about a third of the way and then refuses to go any farther. I try again. Again I am denied. Hmm… Is it caught on something? I take it off and then zip it. Goes all the way up with ease. Okay, let’s try this again. Slide. Zip. Denied.

Now I know what you’re thinking… “Um, Anna? Maybe you’re just too fat for the dress? Did that ever occur to you?” Yes, my dear smartasses, it did occur to me. That is why I tried on the dress four days earlier to make sure I hadn’t plumped up since the last time I wore it. And guess what? It zipped on the first try.

You can then imagine how perplexed I am. But it’s only 5:30pm. I still have a half-hour. No worries. However, I decide to distract myself for a few minutes because I can already feel a panic attack looming. I make sure my ticket is in my purse. I brush my teeth for a second time. I… I need to get that dress on. I try again. No. I try harder. Nope. Yet this time I feel something give. I take it off. A tear. Awesome. Stupid Forever 21 dress.

I try a different tactic. Maybe gravity will help me. I arch my back ala luau limbo style and then try to zip, but no luck. Okay, time to get serious. I get down on the ground and once again arch my back again ala camel pose (for all you yogis out there) and try to zip. Nada. However, I do manage to crack my back all by myself.

And now sweating begins… I let out a not so silent scream. This damn dress has been refusing to comply for over a half-hour, and now my slippery fingers can barely hold onto the zipper. Time for reinforcements. But who? My landlord? Could this be considered a maintenance issue? And then the Force speaks to me: “Elise! Call your friend, Elise!”

In this town, having a friend within walking distance is a very rare and wonderful thing. And until six months ago, I didn’t have one at all. I don’t even associate the words “friend” and “neighbor.” But then I realize that yes! Yes, I do have a friend in the neighborhood. I just pray she’s home.

“Hi, Anna! How are you?” No time for formalities; I cut right to the chase.

“I need your help right now! Can you please come over?” The girl is at my door in less than five minutes. Just one problem – she can’t zip it either. To demonstrate that the dress is deliberately taunting me, I take it off and show her that it will zip all the way. Even she tries a few times to make sure she’s zipping correctly. I put it back on. No dice. Poor girl. I can hear the frustration in her silence. Well, we had fought the good fight. Resigning myself to wearing one of my much less cuter dresses, I try one last-ditch maneuver. Twisting my arms around, I guide Elise’s hands to clutch the dress and grab the zipper myself. Pulling, pulling… The dress zips.

I spin around. We look at each other in shock. Then with multiple hugs and many thanks, she and I are out the door. It’s 6:20pm. Oh well…

But wait! There’s an epilogue to this story. Fast-forward a few hours. The Roosevelt is done. The movie is done. Nothing left to do but make a quick trip to the ladies’ room and call it a night. As I head to the sink, a voice calls over my shoulder, “Excuse me! Can you please help me?” I turn around to find a very exposed woman in the corner, her dress so completely unzipped that I am staring right at her bare bum. She apologizes for her nakedness, but we both know that she’s not embarrassed at all. This woman is the quintessential LA stereotype: blonde hair, tanned skin, smokin’ body. Anyway, her dress zips on the first try. Of course it does. It’s a Herve Leger. You don’t pay a $1000 for a dress that doesn’t zip on the first try. She thanks me, and I walk out smiling.

That, my friends, is what we call paying it forward.

Image: Francesco Marino / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Ah, Chicago…

I could smell the Italian beef. I could taste the deep-dish pizza. I could hear those around me bemoaning how awful “da Bearsss” played on Sunday. I was home.

In Los Angeles.

Huh? That doesn’t make any sense. Am I lying? Not at the moment. Losing my mind? Perhaps one day. But no. Monday night I attended the 2^nd Annual Chicago LA Link Event – thank you, Columbia College! – and received a small glimpse of what heaven must be like.

Truth be told, I wasn’t expecting much when I received the invite. I had never heard of this event and wasn’t sure who would show aside from my college friends. Also, given the circumstances of the day – RAIN! OMG! – I was certain the turnout would be small. It was like God testing the real Chicagoans to separate the wheat from the chaff. The strong from the weak. The awesome people from the lame.

I arrived within the first hour, and already the place was packed. A fabulous venue, about as big as you can get for a restaurant, yet it still couldn’t hold all the guests. People were spilling onto the street. I couldn’t believe it. And then it dawned on me. Free Chicago food. Portillo’s. Lou Malnati’s. Eli’s. All the major food groups were represented. People get fanatical when they hear the words “open bar,” but when compounded with authentic Chicago cuisine, then you have a true feeding frenzy on your hands.

My friends and I circled dutifully for the first hour or two, mingling among familiar faces and perfect strangers. When the occasional celebrity crossed our path, we’d exchange looks and ask, “Was that who I think it was?” But honestly, I was growing less and less enamored of my fellow Chicagoans as the night wore on. They were no longer my compadres. Rather, just one huge obstacle course between me and the food.

Given that I’m a vegetarian, it was heaven and hell for me that night. I don’t miss my meat-eating days, yet the hot dogs at Wrigley always mock me with their inviting aroma every time I visit The Friendly Confines. And of course this shindig flew in a Vienna Beef stand. I did not give in. Nor did I give in to a deliciously evil Portillo’s Italian beef sandwich.

Nevertheless I was sabotaged. Not only was this restaurant serving Chitown favorites, but also they had platters upon platters of sushi. I guess they were trying to class up the joint a bit. When I saw them, my revolve faded like the Cubs in September… I still have a huge soft spot for seafood. A soft spot right in my belly. And after three glasses of sangria, I would have sold my right kidney for a spicy tuna roll. Once I caved, it got ugly real fast. Nom nom nom… I couldn’t stop. But within a matter of minutes, the buzz began to wear off. I needed a bigger hit. That’s when I saw the crab leg platters. They never stood a chance.

I tried to quell my craving by downing a slice of Eli’s cheesecake, but it was like throwing a cup of water on the Great Chicago Fire. I needed the crab. I meandered nonchalantly toward the kitchen. I spied three trays  – two sushi and one crab – just sitting there. All alone. Just begging me to fulfill their destiny. I happily obliged and proceeded to vacuum them into my mouth. A few crab legs here, a piece or two of sushi there. But as I began round three on the crab, a server came up alongside me and swiped a sushi platter. A moment later, another server came for the second one.

Oops.

I guess I was supposed to wait until being offered the food and not just scarf it straight from the kitchen counter. But to the servers’ credit, neither of them said one word to me as they took away their demolished trays. What they were thinking is a whole ‘nother story. I didn’t care. I was still hungry. Then one of the chefs put out another tray of Eli’s cheesecake. Chocolate banana.

I’m definitely going to hell.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net