the chicago dispLAcement ®

Nothing puts me in a good mood faster than hearing a great song on the radio. And when I hear a great song, I must blast it. And because LA has fabulous weather eleven months of the year, I must blast it with my windows down.

However, I do abide by the golden rule and never blare my radio while at a stop. All bets are off if I’m cruising down the 405, but at a light I instantly turn down whatever song to which I’m rocking out. I know most people don’t love Ke$ha the way I do. Yet not everyone follows my example. Many a time have I been trapped at a light and forced to suffer through someone’s fondness for Nickelback or Lil Wayne. When that happens, one has three options. One, you play it cool and do nothing. Two, you employ the passive-aggressive route and roll up your windows. Or three, you go the aggressive-aggressive route and turn up your radio to out-blast them. I usually do all of the above. At first I try to ignore them, but soon enough it’s clear that my tacit disapproval of their musical taste isn’t helping my situation. Upon having to suffer through yet another refrain of “How You Remind Me,” I finally crack and roll up my windows. But by then it’s too late; the song is firmly lodged in my head, and in an effort to banish said perversion from my mind, I dial up whatever tune is currently playing no matter how much I may hate it in comparison.

So the other day, I was driving along when the flow of traffic suddenly slowed to about ten miles per hour. Construction. Turning down “Party Rock Anthem” a notch to perform a quick mental ETA recalculation, I noticed a car ahead of me the next lane over. What caught my eye of this otherwise nondescript Honda Civic was the origin of its license plate: Maine. Hmm, don’t see that too often out here. Though because I have undiagnosed ADD, as soon as I noticed it, I forgot it again and turned my attention to inhaling my Shamrock Shake. All was right with the world when at some point it dawned on me that I was humming along to Adele… except that Adele wasn’t playing on my radio. I immediately looked around to see who in my vicinity was crying; obviously some fellow driver had to be going through a very painful breakup because as far as I was concerned that was the only reason why they would crank “Someone Like You.” Making a little more headway in my lane, I realized that Maineiac was the said offender. As I came side by side with this vehicle, I was shocked to find a dude driving it. (Yes, I assumed it was a chick.) That’s when Maineiac casually leaned his cobalt blue Adidas tracksuit clothed arm out the window and flicked a few ashes from his cigarette. Say what? A dude from Maine with a preference for Adele, Adidas tracksuits and Marlboro Golds? Who was this strange creature?

I was so intrigued by this odd mix of qualities that I almost rear-ended the car in front of me. Traffic had now come to a virtual stop, and we were rolling only inches at a time. Unbeknownst to me, the other lane was closed up ahead, so Maineiac decided that the best thing to do was brake, lean halfway out his window and give me the evil eye.

Full disclosure: I can let my road rage get the best of me from time to time. I admit that on more than one occasion I have denied some jerk from cutting in front of me, but really I’m just trying to make it a teachable moment for them. Apparently they forgot the old adage of no cuts, no butts, no coconuts. However, this was not one of those times. I wasn’t even given a chance to go Hulk Anna before Maineiac went ahead and did it for me. I quickly turned from curious to confused. Why was he being such a… well… douchebag? Can someone who blasts Adele and adorns himself in Adidas tracksuits even have the right to be a douchebag? I had no other choice but to let him in… and burst out laughing. He did not take kindly to my response and gave me a lovely one-fingered thank you in return. A minute later, we cleared the roadblock, and Maineiac went speeding off into the horizon.

So what’s the takeaway from this tale? I dunno. Nothing I suppose… Other than dudes from Maine who blast Adele and wear Adidas tracksuits and smoke Marlboros are douchebags. Just in case you ever run into one.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

As a kid, I always got excited for the first day of school. (Nerd alert!) As soon as I received that packet in the mail informing me of my new teacher and required materials, it was game on. First, the rush to pick up my Lisa Frank folders and pencils. Next, the selection of the perfect first-day-back-to-school outfit. Finally, the wait. As it turns out, it doesn’t take that long to grab a few pairs of jeans and some sweaters from Sears. I still had weeks to go before the day when those scholastic pearly gates would open once again. By the time I was less than twenty-four hours from that magnificent moment, I could barely lie still let alone sleep; therefore, in an ironic twist of fate, I usually fought to keep my eyes open the first day of school, as I was completely exhausted from weeks of expectation.

Still, it was awesome to have something to get that stoked about. Not so much anymore. Sure, there might be a season premiere or two that I anticipate each year, but usually I fall out of grace with said show around the third or fourth episode. Short attention span. And I can tell you right now that you will not see me getting in line days ahead of time this summer just to watch The Avengers on opening night. Oh, and Black Friday? Forget it. I would much rather extend my post-Thanksgiving food coma for as long as possible than drag my bloated self to the nearest Best Buy to get pepper-sprayed while wrestling for the last half-off HDTV in stock. But that’s just me.

With one exception.

Every year around this time, life gets a little more exciting. A little brighter. A little tastier. Why? Because it’s Shamrock Shake season, folks.

That’s right. I am an unabashed die-hard lover of the McDonald’s Shamrock Shake. Some might say, “It just tastes like mint.” Others, “Why would you eat anything that unholy shade of green?” Still others, “Gross.” But to me, it’s like drinking rainbows and sunbeams and smiles all at once.

It may have something to do with my childhood. Some peeps are sentimental about their Cabbage Patch Kids or original Star Wars figurines; I happen to have fond memories of the Shamrock Shake. If you haven’t heard, Chicago is pretty big into the whole St. Patrick’s Day thing. In fact, we love it so much that we turn our river green to celebrate it. That, combined with McDonald’s being headquartered in the nearby suburbs, and you have an annual marketing blitz that encourages sucking down as much of that green yumminess as your stomach can handle. I remember many a trip to Mickey D’s for a Shamrock Shake or ten during the limited time they were offered. It was glorious.

Which is why I go into Shamrock Shake shock whenever I hear that someone I know has never experienced one. How can this be? What kind of deprived childhood did you have? It’s like growing up without sunlight or water. Only recently did I then learn that McDonald’s didn’t always have the Shamrock Shake available at all its locations. It’s taken forty-two years for them to finally see the error of their ways; you’ll be relieved to know as I was that as of 2012 the sublime Shamrock Shake is available nationwide.

Yet just the other day I was informed once again that someone dear had not yet tasted the sheer wonder that is the Shamrock Shake. I informed said individual that whether he liked it or not, he would be having one that weekend with me. How exciting to actually witness somebody’s baptism into the Shamrock Shake world!

Alas, it was not meant to be. Upon seeing him a few days later, he casually mentioned that he had tried one… without me… and it wasn’t that good. What?! Blasphemy! I was visibly crushed. In an effort to temper my quickly deflating good mood, he then offered to try another. Not all was lost; I was convinced I could convert him yet… We got our shakes. I took a sip. He took a sip. I waited eagerly for his next words.

“It tastes good. Better than last time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s good.” Okay, not exactly the ringing endorsement I was hoping to hear, but I suppose not everyone can feel the Shamrock Shake spirit. Oh well, just means more neon green yumminess for me.

Image: africa / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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.

Image: vichie81 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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.

Image: farconville / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really, but okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

We can breathe a collective sigh of relief… The holidays are over.

Between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day, life as we know it becomes a smorgasbord of food, presents and parties. For a few blissful weeks we forget the diets, grudges and budgets to delight in delicious meals, time with loved ones and our plethora of new gifts and gadgets. At least that’s the way it usually starts out. However, this spirit of festivity typically warps into something less jolly once we begin to notice the expanding waistlines, inflated credit cards bills and the annoying way that our mother has to repeatedly ask if we’re taking our vitamins. I’m not ten years old anymore, Mom. Now go make me a sandwich.

But really I love my family. It might have taken moving two thousand miles away to realize that fact, but it’s true. When we get together, it’s always a good time. We eat. We laugh. We watch football. Does it get any better than that?

Sure, things can get a little tense from time to time. It’s the holidays after all, and we’re family after all. But it’s not religion or politics that tears us apart.

It’s games.

My cousins are big game people. I don’t mean that they like to shoot lions and rhinos; they merely like to kill their opponents in Scattergories and Trivial Pursuit. Their closet is filled with every game known to man; they don’t discriminate. Strategy games. Knowledge games. Spatial recognition games. If it has dice, cards or play pieces, my cousins have it.

The game playing always starts innocently enough. Usually we sit down with some yummy snacks, a little holiday music in the background and smiles all around. Yet within minutes, the mood begins to change. The jovial small talk shifts to an uneasy silence. With the exception of “Did you go already?” no one speaks.

That is until your own flesh and blood screws you over during their next turn.

“Shoot, I needed that!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Great, now I have nowhere to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, I might as well just quit. I can’t do anything anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

The season of goodwill toward men? Apparently not when you have twenty-five points riding on your connection from San Francisco to Miami. (Confused? Pick up Ticket to Ride, and you will know only too well what I’m talking about.) You may get a “sorry,” but we all know that your cousin isn’t really sorry. If she were sorry, she wouldn’t have just blocked your only route to Phoenix. You may share the same DNA, but that doesn’t mean your family won’t throw you under the train tracks. Literally.

Slightly more fun is when you’re the one doing the mass killing. Of course, you specifically asked to play TriBond because you rock the trivia games, but that doesn’t make it any less awkward when your little cousin is miserable because she can’t get out of the start circle. Still… Being a winner just feels so good. Not a chance are you going to throw the game.

But that’s just it. It’s just a game. A game that has enough power to sever familial ties built on years of love and understanding… Oh well, at least we have eleven months to repair the damage before the next round of devastation ensues.

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.

Image: africa / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck. May the Hug be with you.

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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