the chicago dispLAcement ®

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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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.

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.

Image: pixtawan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Maybe it’s our instant gratification generation or just my own shortcomings, but I cannot stand to wait. It’s like that Justin Timberlake flick I will never watch except maybe for Cillian Murphy; I can actually feel the minutes of my life ticking down whenever I’m forced wait in a dentist’s office or worse yet a traffic jam. So I try my best to avoid these situations. For one, I almost always take surface streets in LA. I’m like a shark; I have to keep moving. Sitting in traffic is a slow, painful death. Also painful? Waiting in line to get into a bar or club. A friend’s birthday is the only exception I will make and even then I will systematically analyze just how good of a friend she is and sometimes decide to leave anyway. And it goes without saying – but I’ll say it anyway – that I am loaded with enough reading material for a trip to Timbuktu when I’m only flying from LA to Chicago. Those people who just sit there and stare into space while waiting for the plane to land? What’s that about? How do you not bring anything?

But sometimes you’re forced to wait. For instance, while in line at a store. Sometimes you should have known better, like when peeps are doing the last minute holiday shopping – it’s coming up quick, folks! – and you’re the poor schmuck stuck in line with toilet paper and laundry detergent. Yet sometimes it’s not your fault. Sometimes it’s just about other people being morons.

So the other day I was in Staples. FYI: that place is overwhelming. I actually think it gives Target a run for its money in the “I walked in to buy two things and walked out with ten more ” category because who doesn’t need tropical-colored Post-its or gold Sharpies?

But I finally reined in my impulse shopping impulses and made my way to the one open checkout counter. Already making a purchase was an elderly-ish woman, probably about sixty tops, but who looked older from either too much sun during the day or too many whiskey sours at night. Either way, I immediately noticed that she was writing out a check to pay for her items. Who does that anymore? I haven’t paid via check for anything that wasn’t my rent in years. Certainly I have never used a check when shopping in an actual store.

Sidenote: I’ve been on the other side of that counter. Having worked retail in the past, here’s a golden nugget of knowledge… Salesclerks hate checks. They take forever to process and I’d say a good third of the time they bounce or are counterfeit. Why stores take them at all anymore is a mystery to me.

Anyway, not only do checks take forever to process, they take forever to write. This chick already had her pocketbook out when I came up to the counter. It took her a lifetime more to fill out the damn thing.

“What’s the date?”

“What’s the total?” This was asked twice and twice followed up with, “What’s the change again?”

“Wait, how much did that cost?” This was also asked twice as she pointed to her already bagged items, making the clerk take out the items in question and show them to her.

She also paused once to push her glasses up her nose and carefully analyze what she had just written.

OMG. I was dying. Dying. Granted, I wasn’t in a particular hurry, but just knowing that this perfect stranger was wasting precious moments of my life was enough to make me dig my nails into my hand just to get my mind off the other pain I was experiencing.

After at last handing the cashier her check, it was over. Oh, but it wasn’t! Even though her transaction was finished, she continued to stand there and rearranged everything in her purse. I actually had to give my items to the clerk through the small opening between her body and the register. She didn’t even notice.

Then finally I was out of there… I got into my car and immediately cranked the radio. As luck would have it my new favorite song was playing and suddenly everything was once again right with the world. I backed out and rolled about twenty feet to where the car ahead of me was sitting at a stop sign. I waited for them to move. They didn’t. I waited some more. They still didn’t. I then realized that the jackass in front of me was looking down at something in his lap. Not in the mood for wasting any more of my life, I pulled up beside the car. Looking over at the driver next to me, I realized that it was my buddy from Staples. From what I could tell, she was looking at the receipts in her pocketbook. In her car. While it was running. At a stop sign. With people behind her.

It’s called justifiable homicide.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It was my first Bears game and I was ready.

We arrived at Soldier Field just in time to watch the sun set over the skyline. The night was cool and clear. Perfect football weather. Dressed in head-to-toe navy and orange, I had also brought along a blanket decorated like a mini football field. Thought it added a nice touch. Even though we were undisputedly in the nosebleed section, and my poor father had to take more than one break while ascending the sixty or so stairs leading to our seats, we had a gorgeous view of the city and Navy Pier. It had all the beginnings of a wonderful evening.

Moments later, we saw them heading up the same set of stairs. Two gold and purple jerseys. Two gold and green jerseys. The Viking fans made sense; they were our opponents that night. But Green Bay? Why were they here? I anxiously watched as the foursome, already on the receiving end of multiple boos and other non-PG outcries, kept climbing those stairs… and kept getting closer and closer to us.

Sure enough, they turned in at our row. I silently prayed that they wouldn’t be sitting next to my dad and me. It was grade school all over again. Nobody wants the social outcast kid to share your seat on the bus. As mean as it may be, the brutal truth is that you’re tainted by association. That’s when one of the guys clad in an Aaron Rodgers jersey plopped himself down next to my dad, put his arm around him and declared, “You and I are gonna be best pals!”

Okay, they weren’t so bad. After all, they were from the Midwest. By and large we’re all pretty nice people. We got to talking with them, and I could quickly sense that Rodgers’ charm was working its magic on my father. They wouldn’t shut up.

Know who else wouldn’t shut up? The drunken douchebags sitting five rows behind us. Fueled by liquid courage, these guys were relentless in their onslaught of verbal insults:

“What are you doing here? Are you lost, Rodgerrrrrsssss???”

“Go back to Wissssconnnnsinnnn!!!”

“You suuuuuck!!!”

It was funny for about five minutes. Everyone loves to razz a rival, especially one with whom you have a storied history. Though by the third quarter, I wasn’t amused anymore. Not only were they yelling nonstop, but also they were doing a spectacular job of showing off that melodic Midwestern nasal accent. Finally I turned around and glared at them. For a moment they fell silent and blankly stared back at me; then one of them pointed to Rodgers and loudly whispered, “He sucks!” Thing is, I had to disagree. As much as I would like to pretend it’s not true, the Green Bay Packers are the current Super Bowl champions. By definition that pretty much means they don’t suck.

I actually began to feel bad for Rodgers. He was being quite the gentleman and didn’t so much as acknowledge the jerks behind us. I on the other hand kept turning around every few minutes, hoping that my icy stare might permanently silence them. It didn’t seem to be working.

I couldn’t take it anymore, and in a way, I blame the Bears. They were steamrolling the Vikings, so as the game was winding down to the fourth quarter, it was getting a tad boring. As demented as this sounds, had the game been closer, I would have been less prone to distraction. Yet all I could focus on were those morons and their incessant ranting. I wanted nothing more than to tell them to shut the hell up.

What stopped me? Okay, truth time… I didn’t want the crowd to think I was siding with a Green Bay fan. What if they thought we were friends or something? As nice as Rodgers and his pals were being to my dad and me, I couldn’t bear the idea of all those perfect strangers whom I would never see again for the rest my life thinking that I was defending a Packers fan. The horror. These were the same guys who nine months earlier had humiliated us in our own house and took away both the Halas Trophy and a shot at the Lombardi. For better or for worse, you stick by your fellow fans. Kind of like when your embarrassingly drunk friend pukes all over the ladies’ room, but you still make sure she gets home okay.

So I just sat there and silently fumed until finally the douchebag troop decided to leave early. Of course they continued with their obscenities while descending all sixty stairs, thus entertaining an entire section of fans that perhaps hadn’t been able to hear the show for the last several hours. As for my Green Bay and Viking pals, we continued to chat and laugh with them until the final seconds of the game ticked off the clock. They then graciously thanked my dad and me for being so nice to them, and we graciously thanked them for not holding us accountable for our socially stunted fans.

Perhaps there’s hope yet for a world where Bears and Cheeseheads can live together in harmony.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Icebreakers are the worst.

It never fails that whenever you find yourself among a group of strangers, at some point you’re forced to do the drill: name, origin, occupation.

Living in Los Angeles, this is pretty standard. Every week there’s a birthday party or networking event or random conversation in Trader Joe’s where I end up giving someone my thirty-second autobiography. The one-on-one’s not so bad, though. My new friend and I will inevitably swap “why I moved to LA” stories, praise the sunshine and complain about the traffic. It’s how we vagabonds bond LA style.

The group icebreaker is an entirely different story.

Rewind to last weekend. Once again I found myself at Pepperdine University, this time for a volunteer event. I participated last year as well, but apparently they wanted to shake things up a bit. The volunteers – fifty women in all – were told to go around the room and talk about themselves before the day’s activities were to begin.

Oh boy.

How do I put this delicately? When I was a kid, I broke my wrist. I broke it so badly that it was re-broken twice, once while I was fully conscious. I would have preferred a third re-break to this icebreaker.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not shy and I really do like people. But seriously… Fifty women talking about themselves? How is that ever a good idea? Yeah, we were there to be all charitable and stuff, but let’s get real, y’all. No matter how charitable we all may be don’t forget everyone’s favorite humanitarian project: themselves.

For the record, I’m not bashing just the womenfolk. Men love to brag, too. However, I will concede that at least men get right to the point. “I am the greatest!” I can respect that. Women on the other hand… We never shut up. Because we all consider ourselves ladies, we wouldn’t just blurt out, “I’m better than all of you!” However, we will nonchalantly tick off an endless list of activities and accomplishments that unequivocally prove that of course we’re better than you. Men go in for the kill with a single bullet to the temple whereas women prefer Chinese water torture.

The most excruciating part of this exercise in narcissism was the dream class segment. Aside from giving the requisite name, alma mater and job description, we were told to list what class we would teach if given the opportunity. Apparently women feel a pressing need to teach other women confidence; far and away it was the number one answer. Other popular responses:

Learning self-esteem. (Just another word for confidence.)

How to find your destiny.

Personal accounting.

Cooking.

Wine tasting.

I felt like we were at an Eat, Pray, Love conference. Then it was my turn… What class would I like to teach?

“Screwball comedies of the 1930s and 1940s.”

A few surprised murmurs went around the room. That’s right. I didn’t care about other people’s self-esteem. I didn’t care about their destinies either. I just wanted to talk about movies no one else has watched since FDR was in office.

I didn’t make any new friends that day. Was it something I said?

Image: africa / 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

Hi, folks! Please see below for the third and final installment of my “Top Ten” list. I loved every minute of this trip, even the wild Chicago weather (that almost made me miss the Cubs game!) and the fact that my voice was missing for two-thirds of my travels. I fell in love with the Midwest all over again and am already looking forward to my next trip home! And now to the list…

10. Having a lovely conversation with an old childhood friend hijacked by some random dude who wanted to know what it’s like to live in the Silicon Valley even though I said repeatedly that I don’t live there. Also, he wanted to know if it was really a valley made of silicon.

9. After many hours on the road, observing that people are jerks and never get out of the left lane even when everyone else is passing them by. The worst offenders? Middle-aged men driving red minivans. True story.

8. Seeing my first Amish horse and buggy “drive” by.

7. Not believing that I was actually eating dinner in West Virginia and asking my friend multiple times if it was really true.

6. Watching two rather (ahem) husky West Virginian boys purposely overflow their slurpees in order to lick off the excess from their cups and hands while a disgusted food court employee looked on in silence. That state is a hoot.

5. Watching a movie at the drive-in for the first time since I was a kid. Added bonus? Heat lightning storm during Super 8.

4. Driving through a mountain. Like right through the middle of it. Having been born and raised in the (flat) Midwest, this was both exciting and a tiny bit (a lot) terrifying.

3. Attending the wedding of two loved ones. Cue the waterworks once again.

2. Driving straight through from Pennsylvania to Illinois in one day. This is actually the opposite of a highlight, but I refuse to let it go unnoted.

And…

1. Once again, the best bits of this trip were the amazing people visited along the way. Much love and many thanks to Laura, Kylie, the Deneens, the Hoffmeisters, Carla, Rebecca, Vesna and Pablo for making the tail end of my trip so memorable!

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net