the chicago dispLAcement ®

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

Big mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uh oh.

A second later there was a knock on my door.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah… I-I just dropped a cup.”

“You dropped a cup?”

“Yeah, I dropped a cup.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: Rawich / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

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’ve always been comforted by noise. It’s like my security blanket, or rather it became my security blanket when my parents chucked my real security blanket ala Mr. Mom when I was only four… Jerks. Since then, I pretty much have to have something on when doing pretty much anything: cooking, cleaning, sleeping. In fact, one of my favorite things is dozing off on the couch while a movie plays in the background. (Most likely wrapped in a blanket my parents will never get their hands on.)

Conversely, I get kind of freaked out when it’s too quiet. It feels like something bad is about to happen, or at least that’s how it goes down on the big screen. It’s dead quiet and then Michael Myers takes a kitchen knife to your temple. I’m no dummy. I especially get spooked whenever driving around the Chicago ‘burbs late at night. Everything seems to shut down once the sun disappears… It’s like they know. I remember once driving around town to find anything fast food to eat. Not even ten o’clock, it already was a ghost town. Nothing was open. I finally got desperate and shamefully headed over to Walgreens to buy whatever prepackaged garbage I could get my hands on. They were locking the doors as I parked.

Which is why I love LA. Twenty-four hour Walgreens. Twenty-four hour McDonald’s. Twenty-four hour everything. Should I suddenly need a two-pack of Sharpie pens or a large fry at 2a.m., I am secure in the knowledge that I won’t have to wait until morning to satisfy my desire. It’s awesome.

Also awesome is my neighborhood. I live off a somewhat major street, and while I’m probably breathing in more than my fair share of the already ridiculous amount of exhaust this city produces, I’m cool with it. Except for the occasional – okay, daily – screeching of tires that makes my heart stop every time, I like listening to the constant hum of cars passing my apartment all hours of the day. It’s calming.

Across the street from me is a fire station, and yes, they don’t care if it’s three in the afternoon or three in the morning; those sirens are screaming at least a dozen times a day. This doesn’t bother me either. In a weird way, knowing that I live a mere fifty feet from a dozen very capable (and might I add, very nice looking) firemen makes me feel safe.

However, the singing in my neighborhood is getting out of hand. Seriously. There’s barely an hour of the day when I’m not hearing someone singing something, and judging from what I’ve endured so far, we don’t have any American Idols living on my block. For one, I live next door to a church. I swear they have choir practice at least five times a week, which would lead you to believe that they might be pretty good, right? Practice makes perfect? No. They sound horrible. Actually, I’m surprised it doesn’t rain more in my neighborhood; as a child I was told that raindrops are the tears of angels. Believe me, if they can hear this singing, they are weeping. I also live two doors down from an ashram, and they just love getting their chant on as well, especially on weekends. I wouldn’t mind this so much if they would just switch it up every once in a while; it’s always the same chant. I mean, really, it’s like eating ice cream every night. I love me some ice cream, but I would eventually get sick of it if I had it every single night. What about cake? Or brownies? Or maybe no dessert at all every once in a while. Would that be so bad?

But the worst are my neighbors. Granted, they don’t all sing at the same time. Their concerts aren’t as loud or as long, but somehow it’s still worse. At least when there’s a group singing together, their terrible voices somewhat cancel each other out. When it’s somebody singing solo, you can’t not hear how bad he or she is. In particular, I have a neighbor who loves breaking out the power ballads just as I’m going to bed. I’d like to believe that he sings in the middle of the night because he thinks everyone else is unconscious, but I suspect he knows that his audience has nowhere else to go at that hour and will inevitably be captivated, or rather held captive, by his golden voice. His specialty is love songs from the 1970s.

Though I suppose it’s not all that bad. At least I’m not listening to gunfire or crying babies all day long, in which case I’d easily choose gunshots over screaming infants. Not to say that I’ve been able to take the high road and ignore all the wannabe Kelly Clarksons and Taylor Hicks. (By the way, what happened to that guy?) As a sign of protest, I’ve taken to shower singing. With my window open. Why? Because I’m no singer either, and I want everyone else to suffer the way I’ve been suffering. Sure, it’s petty, but I have confidence that my point will be heard sooner or later. When that time arrives, I will finally have back the peace and quiet that comes only from motorcycles revving, ambulances wailing and my movies blaring.

Image: fotographic1980 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Last month I spent some time traveling through the Midwest. It was great. Every morning, I would wake to a pressing itinerary of seeing loved ones and enjoying the day at whatever yummy restaurant or café chosen for our catch up session. Though I passed through many exotic locales such as Grand Rapids, Michigan and Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I spent half my time in Chicago and would crash nightly at the home of my good friend, S. I’ve known S for about ten years now, and she’s one of those fantastic friends who graciously gives up her own bed for visiting guests and doesn’t get mad when they come home at midnight and want to chat even though she has to get up for work in six hours. Also, she lives in high-rise with a killer view of the city.

So one evening I was having dinner with another friend, D, at Hub 51. Great food. Even better mojitos. And creepy monitors in the ladies’ room that watch everyone in the restaurant. Yet after a delicious slice of icebox pie, I forgot about all that. I also forgot how late it was getting. I knew that S hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep the last couple of nights (I might be partly to blame for that); also, she was battling a cold. But I was having so much fun! Not wanting to be a total jerk, though, I texted that I would be home within the half-hour. No response.

I didn’t think much of it. Once I finally arrived at her place, or five blocks away – how I miss Chicago parking! – I called to give her a heads up. Because S lives in a high-rise, you can’t just walk in. It’s one of those fancy schmancy places where you get buzzed in. There’s even a very intimidating front desk dude who’s ready to pounce should you try to slip by with another resident. I rang S seven times. No answer.

Déjà vu.

About four years ago, the very same thing happened. I was again staying with S (that’s why I can’t be mad; she hosts me every time I come into town) and on one particular night, I found out the hard way that she is a crazy deep sleeper. That time, I managed to get into her building (different place) with some unsuspecting (or not caring if I was a serial killer) resident, but still couldn’t get inside her apartment. She had a studio, and though I could hear her phone ringing through the door each time I called – I could even hear her shifting in her sleep! – that girl would not wake up. I fear for her future children should there be a house fire or alien abduction. She was out cold. Given that I had come back to her place after midnight and perhaps deserved this taste of hell, I couldn’t pound on her door without waking the neighbors and causing a commotion. Thankfully, she finally woke up around 2am and found me in the fetal position in the hallway.

Fast-forward to last month. When S didn’t pick up on the fourth call, I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. At this point, it was once again the midnight hour, and I had a decision to make. Should I appeal to the better nature of the front desk dude to let me in, and even if he did take pity on me, then what? Once more pathetically wait in her hallway until she woke up? Plus, I had to use the bathroom again.

It’s an odd feeling to feel homeless in your own hometown. I went through my options… Should I call my family? The last thing I wanted to do was drive my ass out to the suburbs. Moreover, they were just as bad as S if not worse. My sister screens her calls in the middle of the day; no way was she going to pick up at midnight. And my parents still occasionally employ the tried and true tactic of unplugging the phone when they don’t care to be bothered. Given that they’re retired and really the only people calling are their daughters, I’m a tad offended but anyway… Even if I crashed with one of them, I would have to battle Ike traffic the next morning to ensure entry to S’s apartment before she left for work. No thank you.

So it came down to my friends in the city. Truth is, I could have called any of a dozen people and would have received an immediate “Sure, come on over!” Though exhausted by a day of fun and annoyed by this unexpected exile, I smiled. I haven’t been a resident of Chicago for more than six years, but realized that I would always have a home here. Not because of that brownstone I’ll one day have within walking distance of Wrigley (fingers crossed!), but because of the people I love.

It was late, though. All my friends are day job people whom I assumed were already sleeping. Except D. Given that I had left her merely twenty minutes ago, I figured she might still be awake. Plus, D’s another amazing friend who thinks only of others no matter the inconvenience to her. She’s like Jack in Titanic and would happily give up that life-saving piece of wood to some ungrateful rich chick only to freeze in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That’s just the kind of person she is. She’s also really good about answering her phone: “Sure, come on over!” When I arrived fifteen minutes later, already laid out on the couch were blankets, pillows and pajamas, including a Blackhawks tank top. It’s true; home is where the heart is.

Epilogue: At 2:30am, my phone rang. A frantic and still groggy S was calling: “Where are you? I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! Where are you? Are you on the street? Are you in your car? I’m so sorry!” I wasn’t mad, but allowed her to apologize a few dozen more times before going back to bed.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Casablanca. Lawrence of Arabia. The Godfather. Cinematic classics, right? All Oscar winners. All important enough to be preserved by the National Film Registry. Usually get solid props on whatever “Top 100” list is released every few months. I get it. They’re decent films. I’ve got no qualms with them.

I don’t love any of them either. Sure, I respect them. There’s no denying the amazing acting, excellent camera work and compelling storylines, but an Oscar-worthy performance isn’t going to comfort me when I’m down and out with a cold. A well-shot film won’t see me through a bad day. Even if it’s not a bad day – maybe I just need a little background noise during a Saturday afternoon of cleaning and doing laundry – On the Waterfront won’t be the film I’m reaching for.

The Goonies. Footloose. Anything by John Hughes. These are the movies I love. The DVDs I would grab if fleeing a house fire. Perhaps none of them have a “Best Picture” stamp of approval, but who really cares? When I’m hating everything about the world, all I have to do is watch ten minutes of This Is Spinal Tap to make me feel human again. If asked to choose between Citizen Kane and Strange Brew, I would promptly reply, “Hand me a beer, eh?”

Yet while my devotion to Girls Just Want to Have Fun and Better Off Dead remains resolute, I have never been able to muster that same nostalgic love for one particular film, E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, the very first movie I ever saw in a theatre. Long story short, it was a horrifyingly traumatic experience. E.T. completely freaked me out; I refused to even look at the screen. I just sat in my dad’s lap, my little arms strangling his neck while staring at the projection window the entire time. Especially terrifying was that opening scene in the forest. I can’t really tell you anything else about it since I wasn’t actually watching the movie, but it was hella scary. I remember that much.

Multiple times my dad tried to undo my death grip and convince me that E.T. was really a good guy. No need to be afraid. He was just a pudgy alien who loved little kids (just like me!) and liked to kick back with a Coors every once in a while. Regardless, something about those huge bug eyes, spindly fingers and extendable neck totally creeped me out.

For years afterwards I had an E.T. complex. He was such a little dude that hypothetically speaking, he could be anywhere in our house. Upon entering the bathroom, I automatically would pull back the shower curtain. Just in case. Upon entering the living room, I would look behind the chairs. Just in case. I sometimes even checked under the bed. (This complex was probably somewhat complicated by the clown in Poltergeist as well; yet another film my father let me watch way too young. Thanks, Dad. A special shout-out also goes to Mr. Spielberg.) Needless to say, I never watched E.T. again.

So a few weeks ago, my friends tell me about some screenings around town featuring some of my favorite flicks: Back to the Future, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off… and E.T. “Okay,” I thought, “this is a good thing. I’m an adult now. I’ll be with my friends. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

The evening started out iffy. Within moments of the opening credits, I involuntarily grabbed my friend’s arm. Hard. But now that a few decades have gone by, I can conclusively say that the forest scene is scary. The music. The shadows. That weird creature fleeing from those ominous-looking strangers. Little kid or not, that part of the movie is freaky. However, I’m happy to report that I successfully restrained myself from climbing into my friend’s lap.

As the movie progressed, my emotions eventually evolved from fear to happiness to full-on waterworks. Holy cow. Maybe that’s why I hated E.T. so much as a kid. It’s so sad when he gets sick. I couldn’t take it when I saw him lying in that stream. Poor little guy. And when the mom leaves him all alone in the bathroom? You’re a monster if you didn’t shed at least a few tears when he reached out for Elliot.

*SPOILER ALERT* But has anyone really not seen this movie yet? Anyway. The worst is the goodbye scene. I once read that Spielberg shot the film in chronological order to evoke authentic responses at the end from the child actors. Knowing this only made me cry harder. So sad! (Though I was somewhat distracted by the number of times they felt the need to show Dee Wallace kneeling and then standing up again during that sequence. What was that about?)

Okay, so I’m officially an E.T. fan, which means that I now love every single movie ever made during the 1980s. (Notable exception: Never Cry Wolf.) However, can’t say that I’ll ever buy the DVD. Or watch that movie alone. E.T. may be cute and cuddly, but he can easily hide in several of my closets. Not about to take that chance.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Remember summer camp?

That knot of excitement forming in your stomach as you arrive with nothing but a suitcase and guilty reminder from Mom to write home every week. Plus the mildly overwhelming fear of being a stranger in a strange place. Will you make friends? Will you get homesick? Will you finally get that first kiss you’d been waiting for your whole life?

Then everything begins to settle down a bit. After a few weeks, you feel good about your situation in life. You’ve made friends. Your weekly care packages are the envy of your troop, and you’re pretty sure that cute blonde the next cabin over has been eyeing you in the mess hall.

Yet before you know it, days have turned into weeks have turned into an entire summer gone by. Time to go back to your real life: overly protective parents, another school year’s worth of homework and shiny new braces. It’s bittersweet, but you always knew this day was coming. Life goes on. So in between packing up the bathing suit and collecting phone numbers, you tearfully hug your new BFFs and promise to keep in touch always. Some of them you will. Some not. Some perhaps you’ll see again next summer. It’s a small world after all.

That pretty much sums it up, right? Summer camp… and living in Los Angeles. Last weekend, as I was saying goodbye to yet another friend that I’ve met here, I became acutely aware of how similar life in this city is to the camp experience.

Of course this comparison applies only to us non-LA natives, but that’s most of the people I know. And just like summer camp, everyone who moved here had an immediate visceral reaction to this place. Either they loved it and never wanted to leave, or they hated it and were ready to turn the car around. Not much gray area. But just like camp, you acclimate after a while. Acquaintances become friends. You get a job that distracts from thoughts of home. Things aren’t quite so bad anymore. Likewise, for those of us who initially jelled with this town, you realize that palm trees and sunshine can’t make up for certain creature comforts. Begrudgingly you admit that you do miss your family. You miss being there for birthdays and holiday BBQs. Sometimes you miss even the snow.

Though life does go on, it may not go on forever in LA. Anyone you meet here, you can almost see the question mark dangling over his head. Will they stay or will they go? At times it’s a matter only of when, not if. You learn to emotionally prepare yourself for hearing those all-to-familiar words: “I’m outta here.” The reasons for your friends leaving are just as varied as why they came here in the first place. Maybe they just don’t like Los Angeles. Too many palm trees. Too much sunshine. Maybe they got married and would rather not raise their children within a ten-mile radius of Charlie Sheen. Or maybe they just need to give their worn-out bank account a break for a bit. Whatever the reason, I’m not surprised anymore when someone tells me that her time in LA is up.

It’s bittersweet, especially since I have yet to throw up my hands and yell “finally!” upon hearing of someone’s exodus from this town. Most always I’m saddened because he or she is truly a wonderful human being, and the city that gets to have them next is a lucky city indeed. Of course we’ll always have phone tag and tweeting, but it’s just not the same. Yet when I’m feeling nostalgic for the good ole days, I can still reminisce about when we would tell ghost stories around the fire pit while roasting marshmallows… and drinking Coronas. Camp was awesome.

Image: renjith krishnan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It’s been a rough couple of days, hasn’t it? I don’t know about you, but lately my mind has been preoccupied with thoughts of earthquake kits, tsunami warnings and radiation clouds floating across the Pacific. Yet of course this anxiety pales in comparison to the real suffering of those who have actually been affected by the events of last week. I still have my home. My family. My life.

It got me to thinking how much easier it all was as a child. Being a kid was great, wasn’t it? Cartoons, naps and snacks. Sounds pretty nice right about now. Not to say that I didn’t grow up during some rather stressful times. I remember hearing “Cold War” and “communism” thrown around quite a bit. I knew that the man with the funny-looking birthmark on his head was supposedly a bad guy. Like Reagan, I wanted him to tear down that wall. Really, though, I had no idea what any of that meant. As a kid, my biggest fear was my giraffe.

He wasn’t a real giraffe. Had that been the case, this would be an entirely different story. A real giraffe would have been sweet. But no… This was a stuffed giraffe. A ginormous stuffed giraffe that scared the hell out of me. This monstrosity towered over my four-year-old frame; I swear he was the size of a real flesh and blood giraffe. (Okay, not really, but for sure a baby one.) I don’t remember how this thing came into my life. I have no recollection of receiving him as a gift; one day he was just there, and I hated him from the moment I laid eyes on him.

I refused to play with the giraffe. I refused to even give him a name. He was like Voldemort, “He Who Must Not Be Named,” and in my opinion just as evil. I tried to get him as far away from me as possible, so I stuffed him into a corner of my bedroom and attempted to hide him with other toys. Didn’t help much. I could feel him watching me as I played with my Barbies.

I never told my family of this fear. On some level I knew it was a tad irrational. Why should I be afraid of him? He was a big, cuddly giraffe. Plus, I had already tried to communicate my uneasiness regarding some rather creepy toys and was politely brushed off. That time it was my Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. They totally freaked me out, too. You know that speech Quint gives in Jaws? “He’s got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll’s eyes.” He was talking about Raggedy Ann and Andy.

As those concerns – fairly reasonable ones I’d say – fell on deaf ears, I knew that any whimper made about a cute giraffe would be quickly dismissed by my parents. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad, though. In the middle of the day, when the sun was shining and the birds were chirping, the giraffe wasn’t so totally scary. I could almost forget that he was there. But at night… That’s when my worst fears about that beast would manifest themselves into terrible nightmares.

I was one of those kids who ran straight to her parents after a bad dream. It was second nature. No way was I going to stay in my room with the thing that just attacked me in my subconscious, and this giraffe was the star of many, many nightmares. Thing is, my house at that time was shaped like a giant “U” with my room at one end of it and my parents’ bedroom at the other end. So upon waking from my dream, I had to run like the wind through the entire house (in the dark!) to get to the safety of my parents’ bed. Didn’t matter. The protection and comfort of their bedroom was well worth the risk of possible death from whatever other creatures lurked in our home. The giraffe was just that scary.

I recall one time when, after having endured the usual bad dream, I booked it to my parents’ room. However, my father wasn’t having it that night and somehow convinced me to go back to sleep. I remember his hand gently guiding me through my bedroom’s doorway with a reassuring, “Nighty night.” I entered the quiet darkness. My bed was five, maybe six, steps away. Against my better judgment, I turned to look at the monster on the other side of the room… And that’s when he attacked. I stood there, immobilized with fear, as he galloped full-speed and tackled me to the ground… I woke up punching my pillow. I kid you not folks. It was freaking Inception. A dream within a dream. That’s how bad my neurosis was with this thing.

Then one day he was gone. I don’t know where he went; he just disappeared. I don’t know if the dark circles under my eyes finally evoked some much overdue compassion from my parents, or if the giraffe himself decided that he was bored and wanted to go creep out some other little girl. Whatever it was, just as mysteriously as he came into my life, the giraffe exited the same way.

I’m not afraid of my dreams anymore; it’s the waking nightmares that aren’t so easy to shake. Like I said, it was so much easier as a kid… Though I don’t miss that damn giraffe one bit. Or Raggedy Ann and Andy. Or clowns. Don’t even get me started on clowns.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net