the chicago dispLAcement ®

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

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

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

So I quit.

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

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

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

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

Voila!

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When it comes to fight or flight, I fall decidedly in the middle. I neither put up my dukes nor run like the wind; rather I just stand there like a chump and wait to see what comes next. This is exactly what happened the last time LA had a decent earthquake. I was at work and knew immediately that something was going down… like the building in which I was standing. Fascinated, I watched as the walls oscillated before my very eyes. Briefly looking to the exit, I considered if I should get the hell out of Dodge. Nah. I returned to my wall watching and was almost sad when that unsettling rolling motion beneath my feet came to an end.

So you have people like me, who are struck stupid during a disaster, and then you have those souls who immediately seize the opportunity to regale the rest of us with their impressive knowledge of all things catastrophic. Let’s get real, though. These individuals aren’t heroes. They don’t care about rescuing kittens from treetops or babies from burning buildings. They just want everyone to know that they saved Fluffy from impending doom. These are the same people who minus a crisis still force themselves into your perfectly safe and sound life whether you like it or not. It’s the grandma who comments on your choice of cereal while checking out at the grocery store. The strange man who critiques your reading material as you wait at the car wash. The weird dude who approaches an expectant mother to give pregnancy advice. I believe the official term for these people is “know-it-all.” Most times it’s also used in conjunction with the word “crazy.”

Such was the case last weekend when I was dropping off some papers for work. It was a Saturday, and although the office was technically closed, one coordinator was on hand to collect said paperwork. Though as I neared the entrance, I noticed a few people standing outside the door… A line? Great. Just great. Now I would have to wait before getting my Judy Greer triple-header on. (In order of awesomeness… 13 Going on 30, 27 Dresses and What Women Want.) It was only once I peered inside that my pity party came to a screeching halt. Lying on the floor was a young man. Eyes wide open and perfectly still, he stared at the ceiling and seemed to be unresponsive.

Someone was already on the line with 911, and shortly thereafter an ambulance and fire truck arrived. Impressive. Most impressive. I, on the other hand, was not. Because I have to make every situation about myself, I was mortified that numerous people – firemen, no less – were seeing me sans makeup. I had assumed this little drop-off would be just that and barely bothered brushing my hair before walking out the door. Now stranger after stranger were witness to my bare-naked face. Odd, they appeared to not notice; with a single focus they wheeled in the gurney and immediately got to work. The others and I looked on as they checked the man’s vital signs and asked for his name. He remained catatonic. That’s when some random chick decided to pipe up.

The paramedics had the situation under control; however, this woman decided that they could benefit from her medical expertise. Peering down at the young man, she began her diagnosis of the patient. “He’s breathing, but unresponsive.” Nice work, Dr. Grey. “I think he might be on drugs.” I agree that somebody was on drugs. “Or maybe someone did this to him.” Professor Plum with a candlestick in the library.

Seeing as the paramedics were unresponsive to her, she turned to the rest of us. “I don’t know, guys. There’s something wrong about this.” Obviously. “We don’t know who else is in this building. Maybe there’s somebody here who could hurt us.” I was convinced, but not that a homicidal maniac was about to end all of us; I wondered if perchance a straightjacket was in that ambulance. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this building. I think we should leave. We should all leave now.”

Inadvertently confirming her suspicions, the paramedics then prepared to exit the building. As efficient as they come, in a matter of minutes they wheeled out the patient and started toward the ambulance. The rest of us, a bit dazed and confused, followed them outside and watched as they left for the hospital. After checking his ID, turns out the poor guy was the coordinator with whom we were supposed to meet. That kind of put a damper on things.

Yet with the patient gone and no one left in the building, our self-appointed Sarah Connor would not stop spewing her unsolicited assertions. “You know, I always felt something was wrong here. Something’s not right about that building.” The last time I yelled at someone to shut up I was probably ten years old and my older sister was certainly saying something to deserve it. I could feel myself regressing once again. However, the half-dozen other individuals and I simply walked away from crazy know-it-all mid-sentence. Undeterred, she turned her attention to the approaching security guard on duty. I should have warned him, but as luck would have it, my flight instinct just happened to kick in at that very moment.

Epilogue: I inquired about the young man a few days later. He spent about six hours in the hospital and was later released into the care of his wife. They still don’t know what exactly happened. Nervous breakdown? Or perhaps he was forced into a catatonic state after becoming the victim of random chick’s ranting? My bet’s on the latter.

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Jury duty. Again.

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We finally broke for lunch. Freedom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really, but okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s still there.”

“Is he still wearing those crazy hats?”

“Yup.”

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

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

“He looks ridiculous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no Santa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

During this time of year, one might feel obligated to attend his or her company holiday party. If you are anything like me, this may be your response: “Why in the world would I want to spend any more time with these people than I already do? Plus I always get shafted during the white elephant exchange.”

Understood. Your reasons are completely valid. My advice? Don’t skip the festivities. Don’t deny yourself the opportunity to enjoy some free food, bad karaoke and (hopefully) an open bar. Just make sure that the office party you attend isn’t for your office; it’s much more fun that way.

Rewind to my first job in LA… I still remember how giddy I felt as I walked out of that fateful interview. Immediately I called my dad and exclaimed, “That’s where I want to work!” It was love at first sight. A few weeks later, I was sitting at my new desk and desperately trying to remember everyone’s name. I instantly bonded with my fellow coworkers; yet as the weeks and years went by, I realized as most adults do that my job had its highs and lows. What exactly was my job? Hmm… How to put this delicately? In a nutshell, I was the meanie. I was the one who yelled at you if you lost your parking pass. I was the one who told you that you didn’t have enough vacation days left for that trip home over Christmas. That kind of thing. As you might have guessed, I was super popular.

Also as you might have guessed, I like to write and that just wasn’t happening while I had this job. Of course 99.9% of people in Los Angeles have a “day job” while they work toward their dream of being an actor/director/big shot. It’s a hard line to walk. So eventually I decided that it was time for me to move on and tearfully said goodbye to my work family.

But whaddya know, they liked me! They really liked me! I had my doubts, but hugs never lie, and nothing beats showing up at the holiday party of a company you’ve quit and getting inundated with dozens of hugs.

And of course there’s the gossip.

This is the real reason why you should adopt a strict “only if I don’t work there anymore” policy when accepting an office party invitation. Even better is if you show up a few hours after the party has begun; by then most of your former coworkers have indulged in a drink or two or ten, and not only are so happy to see you, but also they almost immediately launch into all the good gossip. They know you, so they feel comfortable with you. Since you don’t work there anymore, you’re also a safe outlet. They don’t have to worry that come Monday morning you’ll tell all your coworkers that so-and-so did this-and-that with whats-his-face. It’s a win-win for everyone.

With one exception. If at the end of the evening you realize that you’re the only sober person left in the building, you have a choice to make. Either you silently slink out and say a quick prayer that your former coworkers get home safely despite their inebriated state, or you suck it up and offer them a ride. However, should you allow that holiday-induced “good will toward men” attitude to guide your actions, you just might end up with a half-dozen drunken holiday revelers stuffed into your compact backseat… and possibly someone in the trunk as well. Don’t ask me how I know this, but consider yourself warned.

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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.

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When I was little, I had difficulty discerning the library from church. Both institutions required its patrons to speak in hushed voices. Both housed books that you were told to respect; they weren’t toys or meant to function merely as a hard surface so you could doodle on the bulletin. Also, when visiting either place I knew instinctively that I was to be on my best behavior. Especially at the library.

No matter where I roamed among the endless racks of books, I could feel the bifocaled surveillance of the resident librarian. Without fail, this person was female, smelled vaguely of Chanel No. 5 and mothballs and seemed to have nothing better to do than shush any and all noises. Even rogue squeaky sneakers against a tiled floor were not exempt from the librarian’s scourge. Though sitting at what was called a help desk, she was never particularly helpful. Instead, I sensed that she took pleasure in charging me a late fee whenever I kept Ramona the Brave or Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle a day too long.

Apparently things haven’t changed much.

Last week I was at my local library and needed a space where I would be able to talk (in a hushed voice of course). Not wanting to disturb the other patrons, I headed to the help desk for some input as to where I should sit. Should have known better. I was still a good twenty feet away when I felt the icy glare from behind her horn-rimmed visage.

Me (super chipper): “Hi! I’m here to do some tutoring for a few hours. Where would be the best place to do that without disturbing anyone else?”

Her (annoyed): “At home.”

Me (nervous laugh): “Well, that’s not an option.”

Her (more annoyed): “We don’t have private rooms. If you can find an open table, I suggest you take it.”

Okay, seriously… Why are librarians so damn crabby all the time? Do they surround themselves with inanimate objects because they hate living, breathing people that much? Or perhaps having so little human contact has permanently stunted their social skills? Because I am totally confused as to why these chicks are so mean to everyone.

What could be better than working at a library? You can read anything you want, from Tolstoy’s War and Peace to Polizzi’s A Shore Thing – Snooki to you uncultured creatures who don’t keep up with The New York Times Best Seller list – and claim it as “research.” Or don’t pick up a book at all. Just surf US Weekly online and say you’re trying to help patrons navigate the world wide web. Plus, the library is quiet. Warm and cozy. And they have drinking fountains! (Have you noticed how quickly they’re disappearing from the American landscape?)

The only thing that could make the library better is if they gave away free stuff… Wait a minute! That’s right. You can check out whatever you want – books, CDs, DVDs – and you don’t have to pay for any of it! I bet librarians are exempt even from their own late fees.

Yet they always seem to be in a foul mood. So what am I missing? I realize that libraries aren’t exactly a top priority in terms of fund allocation, so it’s likely that most librarians are paid very little. Maybe some of them work only on a volunteer basis. In that case, I get it. However, their bummer attitude makes me reluctant to engage them or visit as often as I would like… So maybe that’s it. Maybe their Machiavellian plan is to discourage people from coming to the library so they can have all those wonderful books to themselves.

Genius.

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