the chicago dispLAcement ®

Hell froze over a few months ago when my father decided to start texting. Though millions of people around the world have been texting, Tweeting, Facebooking and Skyping at each other for years, my dad doesn’t even have an email account. He trusts only three modes of communication: snail mail, the telephone, as in the kind that’s plugged into a wall, and talking to someone face-to-face.

A simple man with simple tastes.

However, my sister and I did manage to convince him a few years back that it was time to get a cell phone. He warily gave in, but as it turns out, now calls more often from his cell than landline. As he puts it, “Well, I got over 800 units on this thing that I need to use by next March, and I don’t talk to anyone but you and your sister.” However, his tolerance of cell phones is fairly limited to just his own.

My sister is notorious for not ever picking up the phone, regardless of whether it’s her cell or houseline. Because she is just as notorious for being a homebody, I can’t count the number of times I’ve left her a message that goes a little something like this: “Mila? Hey! Are you there? Mila? Mi-la. I know you’re there… Are you not there? Okay, I just wanted to…” That’s when puts me out of my misery and finally picks up the damn phone. But whenever I’m with my father and he tries to call my sister, I can see the cartoon-like smoke coming out of his ears when it goes to voicemail, which it always does. I think he finds it insulting that my sister won’t pick up even for him, although she can’t know it’s him until he leaves her a message. (My sister may or may not have caller ID. Regardless, I’d bet good money that she never cares to check it. She’s fairly unprejudiced like that.)

My father gets just as angry with me whenever we’re on the phone and the call drops. Inevitably, it is my fault. When I call him back, I am usually greeted with a “what was that all about?” I then apologize for my inferior iPhone capabilities, to which he replies, “My phone never drops calls.”

Given our family’s cell phone dramatics, I suppose I shouldn’t have been that surprised when my dad made the leap to text messaging. However, it felt like I had witnessed a fish walk onto land, sprout wings, and fly into the air; a few evolutionary steps had been skipped. My dad still doesn’t own a computer. Yet one day he happened to mention being bored, which I guess is normal when you’re retired. An hour later I was the recipient of his very first text message.

He’s been a texting machine ever since.

We still chat about the same subjects – sports and the weather – except now I get little notes from him ala “I’m about to watch the Cubs lose their eighth in a row” or “I hear there’s a storm coming through, so be careful.” While I appreciate these updates, I’m beginning to feel a bit slighted by my father. Is there a reason why he can’t pick up the phone every once in a while to say hello?

Granted, my dad still worries that I’m somehow accruing additional cell phone charges if we’re on the line for more than ten minutes. We’ll be in the middle of a conversation when all of a sudden I hear him say, “Well, I don’t wanna use up all your minutes.” Though I have told him multiple times that my phone plan allows me to talk to him whenever I want, he still deems it necessary to wrap up our chat fairly quickly, which leads me to believe a different theory as to why my father no longer wants to speak to his baby daughter.

I can talk a lot.

Though in the past I’ve said that my dad and I share great communication skills, in retrospect I’m realizing that perhaps we’ve been having rather one-sided conversations. Because he’s my dad, I feel comfortable espousing my views to him on pretty much anything and everything. While I may feel remorseful when making my friends suffer through one of my tangents, I don’t feel those pangs of guilt with my father. After all, he’s my dad. Isn’t it his job to put up with me? No questions asked? Which, by the way, is exactly what happens. I don’t give him the chance to ask questions even if he wanted to, but the moment I take a breath before resuming my tirade, that’s when I hear, “Well, I don’t wanna use up all your minutes.”

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I will be calling you on Sunday whether you like it or not.

Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Some childhood memories stick for obvious reasons. Birthdays, holidays, graduations… Those special moments immediately get filed away into one’s consciousness. But then you have those random recollections that don’t fit any clear-cut category of meaningfulness. Like the time I accidentally referred to my friend’s baby sister as “it” instead of “her” and was given an impromptu grammar lesson by their eavesdropping mother. Or when I was “treated” to shopping spree by another friend’s mom, but was later interrogated as to whether or not my father would reimburse her for my new outfit. That was weird. Then there’s the time my sixth grade class was introduced to Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” I remember this for two distinct reasons: one, because my teacher seemed to become increasingly distraught as the song retold the tragic events of November 10, 1975, and two, because of the silence that took hold of my classmates as we too were drawn into this tale of thirty sailors succumbing to Lake Superior.

I would venture that anyone who grew up within a fifty-mile radius of the Great Lakes knows the story of the Edmund Fitzgerald. If you live within a fifty-mile radius of Chicago, then you might also know the story of the Eastland. This ship never even made it to the lake. It overturned while still docked in the Chicago River and took with it more than eight hundred lives.

The sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald. The sinking of the Eastland. The sinking of the Lusitania. Oh, and that Titanic boat. There’s a trend here. Now I’m sure that as a whole ships are extremely safe vessels on which to travel, but every single thing I know about them conclusively proves that they can’t be trusted. Should you argue that those incidents happened long before you or I were born, I have two words for you – Costa Concordia. Boom. Two months ago. Then her sister ship lost power in the pirate-infested waters of the Indian Ocean a month later. Boom x2.

However, I wasn’t actually aware of this (warranted) ship animosity until I was on one. Though I’ve been on many a speedboat throughout my life, I have never taken a cruise. Never met a captain. Never boarded anything resembling a luxury liner. Until last weekend.

Though an official resident of southern California for the last several years, I am shamefully lazy when it comes to exploring all the awesome things this area has to offer. The Queen Mary is one of those things. Permanently docked in Long Beach, I have gazed numerous times upon this ship turned hotel and event venue but have never experienced her grandeur myself. Now I would partake in her splendor on St. Patrick’s Day as hundreds of fellow passengers would partake in pints of green beer. A mass of drunken people on a huge boat with minimal supervision? Sounded like a swell time.

Though as we were dropped off in front of the ship, I immediately felt queasy. Strange… I never once suffered seasickness while on vessels a fraction the size of this behemoth. Technically, it wasn’t even moving. Technically, I wasn’t even on it yet. That’s when “My Heart Will Go On” began playing in my head.

Freakin’ James Cameron.

If I had any chance of shaking my shipism, Cameron ruined it with his monster-piece. Sure, I was a schmuck like everyone else when it first bowed in theatres and wept like a baby as Rose promised a frozen solid Jack that she would never let go… and then let him go to the depths of the icy ocean. But then I wiped my eyes, blew my nose and was done with it. Never saw the film again, and I don’t need to. Apparently along with every awkward parental encounter of my youth I have committed this movie to memory as I kept replaying it while trying to enjoy my St. Patrick’s Day onboard the Queen Mary. When we listened to the band playing Irish jigs, I imagined Jack and Rose gettin’ down with the blue-collar folks in Titanic’s basement. When we ventured into the captain’s quarters, I imagined the look on Edward Smith’s face as he realized that the ship was going down. Even when we were just moseying around the different levels, going up and down the interior staircase, I imagined the goofy look on Jack’s face when he met Rose for their first-class dinner.

So went the evening until we finally exited the Queen Mary safe, sound and relatively dry. (It just happened to be one of the ten days of the year that it rains in SoCal.) I suppose in comparison to how Titanic ended, we made out pretty okay. Maybe ships aren’t so bad after all as long as you never leave the shore.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I’m what you would call a worrier. I worry about everything: money, career, family, friends, love. I even worry about worrying.

Last week I woke up late for a flight and worried all the way to the airport. Mind you, I had already checked in online and still got to LAX ninety minutes before my flight’s scheduled departure time. At first I worried that I wouldn’t find a spot at the airport garage. I did. Then I worried that our shuttle would wait forever before leaving. We took off less than five minutes after I boarded. Then I worried I wouldn’t have enough time to go through security and get my Starbucks. I had my iced venti nine-pump easy-ice chai latte in hand within fifteen minutes. Then I worried that I wouldn’t get a good seat on the plane or be able to sit next to my friend. I scored the aisle and Sarah was seated next to me moments later.

Needless to say, I worry a lot about nothing worth worrying about.

“Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.”  ~ Leo Buscaglia

“If you want to test your memory, try to recall what you were worrying about one year ago today.”  ~ E. Joseph Cossman

“Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere.”  ~ Glenn Turner

Yeah, I get it. I see these handy dandy quotes all the time, but they never do me much good. I might stop worrying while I’m reading them, but then it’s out of sight, out of mind. Plus my mind is already too full of worrying.

So while in Chicago last weekend I had the chance to grab lunch with my father. Though he’s lived in the Chicagoland area his entire life, my dad doesn’t venture often into the city, and for those of you in the know, the ‘burbs are a far cry from the Loop.

To make it easier on him, I chose a restaurant just a block down from the hotel at which I was staying in Printer’s Row. Not a super busy neighborhood, and as luck would have it, we found a parking spot just twenty feet from the restaurant entrance. Doesn’t get any better than that. I checked the signs to make sure we were clear of street cleaning or zoning restrictions. All good. I then paid for two hours of parking and made sure our receipt was clearly displayed on the dashboard. All good. We proceeded inside to eat.

After grabbing a table and putting in our order, my dad and I began to discuss our usual topics: the weather and sports. That’s when mid-sentence he got up from the table and walked over to the front window of the restaurant. I watched in confusion as he casually peeked outside. Without saying a word, he then came back to the table and jumped right back into his summary of last’s week precipitation totals. I didn’t understand what had happened, but just chalked it up to my dad wanting to take in the beautiful Chicago scenery.

Five minutes later, he did it again. In the middle of my dissertation on why the Cubs need Theo Epstein, my dad got up from the table and once more looked out the front window. This time I had to know.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Just checking the car.”

“Checking the car for what?”

“Wanna make sure it’s not getting towed.”

I then experienced what Oprah calls an “Aha!” moment. There was absolutely no reason why my dad should have been worried. We were parking legally. We had paid the meter. Nothing was wrong. Yet my father could not stop worrying about his precious Ford Focus.

That’s when I began to worry… Whether we like it or not, we really do become our parents.

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I haven’t been shy about the love affair I have with my alma mater. In fact I adore it so much that I finagled my way onto the National Alumni Board over the summer. This from a girl who spent the first thirteen years of her education at the same school but never once thought of running for class office.

So last weekend all of us board members were flown into Chicago for Alumni Weekend. I was very excited and ready to proudly represent my school as an ambassador. I even thought that perhaps I could impart my “real world” wisdom to new alums in need of guidance and support.

Then I regressed back into college mode.

First, the living arrangements. I was going to be sharing a hotel room with one of my good friends. It was totally awesome. Just like being in a dorm again. We talked. We laughed. We watched Mr. Mom and ate Ben & Jerry’s. The only thing that had really changed this time was that someone else was making my bed each morning and I didn’t have to wear flip-flops while taking a shower.

Second, the bad eating habits. If I wasn’t in class during college, you could most likely find me at Taco Bell or McDonald’s. Sadly I’ve never had a fast metabolism and weighed a good thirty pounds more than I do now. Though I have since become smarter about my meal choices, all that went out the window the moment I was back on campus. Both fruit and pastries were offered during our first breakfast meeting; I completely ignored the berries and melon and grabbed two cheese danishes instead. At lunch I had maybe one bite of my apple but made sure my bag of potato chips was completely finished off. In fact, ninety percent of what I ate over the weekend consisted of very tasty but very bad for you carbohydrates like coffee cake, pasta, French fries, hash browns and grits. No wonder my pants have been feeling snug all week.

Third, the late nights and early mornings. For the record, I’m a champion sleeper. I can doze off at 8pm and still sleep in until noon the next day. Though given my roommate situation, most evenings were spent chatting for hours on end before finally passing out from exhaustion. And forget sleeping in until noon. We were expected on campus at 8am both Friday and Saturday. One of those early morning dates was with a 5K run around the lake. Did I mention that it was raining most of the weekend? I had forgotten that Chicagoans don’t pay much attention to inclement weather. I doubt they even consider rain in that category at all. Needless to say, the run was not cancelled. Yet the exhilaration of racing past Soldier Field as a rainbow gleamed overhead was well worth my soaked-to-the-bone attire. It also guaranteed that I would stay bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the rest of the day despite sleep deprivation. P.S. I naively allowed myself to believe that rainbow signaled a win for my beloved Bears against the Packers the next day. Stupid rainbow.

Fourth, the awesome friendships. I must admit that I was a tad nervous to meet my fellow board members. Relatively speaking I was a newbie; many of my peers had been active alumni members for years. It was just like the first day of class all over again. My stomach was swimming with anxiety and excitement. Of course everyone was great and after just a few hours it felt like I had known them for years. Once it was time to fly back to LA, I knew I had made life-long friendships with some really amazing people. If I had more time, I would have made everyone a mixed CD.

Lastly, the excitement that you just might be doing something worthwhile with your life. At the risk of sounding like Pollyanna, I really loved this weekend because it felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. I can remember experiencing the same thrill after watching a really amazing movie in class and imagining someday I would make a film that could have the same effect on others. Though it went by much too fast, last weekend restored my faith that everyone can make a difference. We still have a long way to go, but just like that first day of school, you have to start somewhere.

There was only one thing that truly bummed me out about last weekend… Not once did I get carded. I may still feel like a college student at times, but apparently I no longer look like one.

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The Heartland. America’s Breadbasket… The Flyover Zone.

Many a time have these nicknames been used to describe the land where I was born and raised. Yet since moving to Los Angeles, it’s the last (and somewhat insulting) one that I’ve heard most often, sometimes substituted with the less catchy, “The Midwest? Why would anyone wanna live there?”

Okay, I get it. The winters are horrible. The landscape is flat and uninspiring. We don’t have Broadway or the Walk of Fame, and we’re still behind the eight ball when it comes to twenty-four hour Starbucks or not staring at interracial couples. However, I take issue with the oft-expressed notion that Midwesterners are slothful and stupid in comparison to our coastal cousins. Say what you will about the wild weather fluctuations or miles upon miles of painfully boring cornfields, but please don’t hate on us Middle Americans!

Midwesterners are fat and lazy. I’ll concede that a glance around any Midwestern mall will quickly confirm that its patrons could stand to lose a pound or two or twenty. Here’s the deal, though. When it’s ten below zero and shards of ice are tearing through your exposed cheeks at thirty miles per hour, that Zumba class can wait another day. Moreover, just like seals and walruses need their blubber during the winter, so do Midwesterners. You simply cannot survive otherwise. Second, why waste all that time working out when you can spend it with your friends and family? That’s the real reason why Midwesterners are overweight. Life is short, and we understand that instead of sweating that precious time away in a gym, you should spend it with those you love. And what’s the best way to pass the time with those you love? By eating, of course. Eating deep-dish pizza. Eating Italian beef sandwiches. Eating Chicago style hot dogs. Mmm… Is it dinnertime yet?

Midwesterners are dumb. First of all, it would be dumb not to partake in some of the most delicious foods that Middle America has to offer: Giordano’s, Portillo’s, Eli’s. Plus, have you ever experienced food coma before? Exactly. So cut us some slack. You try debating whether Bashar al-Assad should step down after finishing off a Lou Malnati’s pizza. Second, Midwesterners really are just as educated as anyone living on either coast.* The difference is that we don’t have to prove how smart we are to anyone within earshot. No need to drop into every conversation our Harvard MBA or Yale PhD to ensure that everyone is aware of our superior IQs. Plus, let’s get real… Quasiparticles? Keynesianism? Phenomenology?  Bor-ring. Instead, what about that last episode of The Bachelorette! Can you believe Ashley still isn’t over Bentley? What a fool!

Midwesterners are boring. Everyone touts NYC, DC, LA or San Fran** as the American hubs of culture and entertainment. Fair enough. The coasts do indeed have their many hot spots and exciting diversions. At what price, though? Sure, I do mean this quite literally as one can easily throw down hundreds of dollars on a Tony award-winning musical or meal at some hoighty toighty restaurant. But does that translate into a more enjoyable evening with friends and family? Midwesterners don’t think so. White Castle will do quite nicely, thank you very much, because it’s not the fine dining or entertainment that matter; it’s the company. Famous and fancy are fun, but not necessary to have quality time with loved ones. Even if we did somehow finagle a table at Masa, I guarantee that once the shock of the exorbitantly priced menu wore off, the conversation would then turn to, “So how’s your mom?” And quite frankly, that conversation can be had at Benihana for a fraction of the cost.

Midwesterners are really nice. Okay, this one is 100% true. No one can beat Midwesterners when it comes to politeness. During my travels home a few weeks ago, I heard more pleases and thank yous than I had in years, not to mention doors being opened for me almost everywhere I went and frequent smiles from those passed on the street. Multiple conversations were had with perfect strangers. Unexpired parking passes were handed off by those leaving their spots early. I was almost even forced into using some lady’s Rite Aid discount card on a purchase already under five dollars. That’s just how Midwesterners roll.

So the next time you visit America’s Heartland, please see beyond the stereotypes. If anything, think about it this way… There’s more of us to love! And while you subtly mention how you rubbed elbows with Kanye at some Hollywood club last week, we’ll be nodding politely while heading over to Dairy Queen for a blizzard… Our treat.

* Should you actually want to see the statistics proving my point, please send a written request postmarked no later than June 23^rd, 2011, and I will get back to you within six to eight weeks, schedule permitting.

** I’m too lazy to write out these cities’ names because, well, I’m a Midwesterner.

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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

Hi, folks! I’m traveling through the Midwest for a few weeks and therefore foregoing my usual posts. Instead please enjoy these “Top Ten” highlights from my trip so far…

10. The rental car guy booing me after I told him I live in LA.

9. My father bogarting the ice cream that our waitress gave to my eight-year-old nephew for his birthday.

8. The playing of “Taps” before the Soldier Field 10. Cue the waterworks.

7. Getting high-fived on mile nine by a little girl encouraging me to keep going.

6. “Cubs win! Cubs win!” Also, realizing that at any given time eighty percent of Chicago residents are wearing Cubbie paraphernalia.

5. Paying $3.85 per gallon for gas. Now considering relocation to Michigan.

4. Kayaking the Rogue River (and tipping over into it).

3. Remembering how crazy Chicago weather is! Came into town on a Thursday… Forty degrees. That Monday… Ninety degrees. And thunderstorms so insane that even my own father – born and raised in Chitown – instructed me to pull off the road.

2. Remembering how crazy friendly Midwestern peeps are! Many smiles, multiple conversations with complete strangers and even a handshake from some random dude in a coffee shop.

And…

1. Seeing my wonderful friends and family… Much love and many thanks to my parents, Mila, Gabriel, Sue, Steph and Phi, Mrs. Wong, Susan, Ana, Treneka, Jenni and Heather for an amazing first week!

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Vacations are the best, right? Nothing beats the pure joy felt as you cheerily wave goodbye to your jealous coworkers and walk out the door of your soul-sucking job to experience if even for a few days what it’s like to be an actual human being once again.

Though I’m a city gal in most regards, my favorite destinations are those that take me away from the smog and congestion of LA. I love getting my Thoreau on in the great outdoors, and it’s during these trips that I typically have some grand epiphany about my life and what’s been missing from it. Quite the “Aha!” moment was had earlier this year upon visiting Yosemite for the very first time. The internal dialogue went as follows: “I love nature! This… this is what life is all about! I’m going to come here every year! And I’m going to hike El Capitan next spring. In fact, I’m going to hike it every spring. Every single spring!”

Hand in hand with these life-changing revelations is my newfound scornful eye of modern society. Suddenly I have an urge to read all those issues of National Geographic collecting dust on my bookshelves. I drive through the city bemoaning the once pristine land that has been sacrificed to the strip mall and office tower gods. A single tear falls from my eye upon hearing that a half-dozen area beaches have been closed due to some unfortunate industrial waste spill off the Pacific coast.

But eventually those tree-hugging warm fuzzies begin to fade away. Life resumes its former shape and my Leslie Knope enthusiasm gives way to Ron Swanson cynicism. Nature is still cool, but only when it doesn’t get in the way of my life.

I like to run, and because I consider myself a nature-loving child of the earth, I choose to run outside. You will never find me in some soulless gym surrounded by exercise zombies going nowhere on their treadmills and elliptical machines. Give me the fresh air! Give me the many purple and yellow blooms that speckle the neighborhood trees! Give me the white puffy clouds that look like white puffy kittens and puppies! It’s all so beautiful and magical and wonderful… until I have a run-in with one of the many creatures that also loves the great outdoors. What was initially a leisurely jog turns into an impromptu hurdles race or all-out sprint upon encountering the numerous raccoons, possums and skunks that are my neighbors. Have you ever seen one of those things up close and personal? They are some scary mofos. I’ve seen raccoons as big as baby horses. And the possums? Not all play dead. Sometimes they prefer to chase you.

Nature also gets on my nerves when, instead of an alarm clock, I’m woken up by a sneezing fit. Perhaps Chicago has its minus zero wind chills and multiple feet of snow, but at least I never suffered months of raging allergies because of them. Los Angeles on the other hand… Not cool. Not cool at all. Those precious little flowers I love so much when running? They’re not quite as appealing when I’m trying to write but am distracted by the tears and mucus clouding up my vision and ruining my keyboard.

So there you have it. I hate nature… No, not really. I just wish it wouldn’t hiss at me. Or give me rabies. Or force me to stick tissues up my nose because I’m lazy and don’t want to blow it every five minutes. Is that too much to ask?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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We live in a country divided on a number of issues: gay marriage, abortion, jeggings. However, I’ve noticed that there is one thing the American people can agree upon: how much air travel sucks. Yes, we all love to hate flying the friendly skies.

Which apparently has become a little too friendly for some folks. This whole brouhaha with the new security measures fascinates me. I get why travelers are upset. People don’t want their junk x-rayed and/or handled by a disgruntled guard who got up at 3am that morning for a paycheck. What do I think? Meh. I don’t really care. In fact, I’m very curious about that x-ray scanner. What exactly can you see? Everything? Cool. Then there’s the pat down if you opt out of the x-ray… I kind of want to see what that’s like, too. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) I think it would be funny. For me at least. I mean, come on, do you really think those poor people thought to themselves, “I really love my job!” upon reading the memo for the new pat down procedure? I doubt security guard Rhonda would be pleased by my chuckling as she frisks me, but that’s exactly what I would be doing. Plus, if it at all lessens the chance of my plane blowing up as I leisurely sip my watered down airplane coffee, then that’s an added bonus.

But I mostly agree with the general consensus. Delays are a pain. Those baggage fees are bogus. And I’m pretty sure all the airlines have doctored their scales so that your bag somehow doubles in weight during check in. Which, guess what? Now requires you to pay an extra hundred dollars. Each way.

I feel terrible for the flight attendants, though. If it weren’t for the enforced security measures, there would be a lot more dead travelers upon landing. I wouldn’t blame the attendants for packin’ either. People are on their worst behavior when flying. Once we pass through those terminal doors, it’s like we’ve regressed back to preschool except with more temper tantrums. Nothing pleases us. Nothing can make us happy. You only serve Coke on this flight? I wanted Pepsi. We’re delayed by bad weather? How can that be? I’m only flying into O’Hare in December. I love people watching at the airport, but it’s bittersweet. On the one hand, hilarious. On the other, I weep for our country.

Case in point… Like many of you, I too was traveling over the holidays. Our flight had been delayed three hours – due to bad California weather! – but the entire crew was rolling like clockwork once okayed to depart. I was stoked not only because we were finally leaving, but also I was about to score an entire row to myself. Until he shows up. You know those people who are always breathing hard not because they’re two hundred pounds overweight, but because they’re just that mad all the time? He was one of those guys. Crabby McCrabison. I had the aisle seat; he takes the window. “Okay,” I think to myself, “It’s only an hour flight.” He’s deep in conversation with someone via cell phone; apparently a great injustice has been done to him. Because I can’t not listen, I learn that he didn’t hear any of the twenty or so announcements regarding our delay, nor did he think to check the monitors stationed all throughout the terminal. He almost missed the flight. Of course this is the airline’s fault. To quote: “I went up to the counter and yelled, ‘When in the hell did you make those announcements because I didn’t hear a damn thing!’” Charming.

He finally shuts off his phone, which is lucky for him, since I will go postal on those peeps (I’m talking to you, Josh Duhamel!) who keep their phones on despite the dozen requests to turn them off prior to takeoff. I don’t care if you need to discuss last night’s “Biggest Loser.” Shut it off. But then this guy begins to mess with my head; he takes his carryon, already stowed under the middle seat, and moves it to the empty space in front of him. I look over in surprise. He chirps, “So you can have more leg room!” Come on, dude. Don’t be nice to me. I already made up my mind about you.

Though a short flight, we still get our freebie drinks. I notice that my rowmate says neither please nor thank you upon ordering and receiving his coffee. Okay, he’s back on my list. FYI… If you’re exiting a door that a brown-haired, blue-eyed gal is holding open, and you don’t say thank you, you will most certainly hear an irritated, “You’re welcome!” shouted at you because that gal is probably me.

Anyway, I am content that the evidence against this guy outweighs the good. One nice gesture on my behalf does not make up for his jerky behavior toward the flight attendants. Especially Lynda. Lynda sings! How can you be mean to a singing flight attendant? Check her out! My rowmate refuses to clap for her.

We land at last. I make a call to my family. The poor foursome has been waiting at the airport for hours. Apparently eavesdropping is something my rowmate and I have in common because as we deboard he asks, “So you’re the last one into town?” I tersely reply, “Yes. They’ve been waiting all afternoon.” His response? “Well, I’m sure they don’t mind. Now they get to see you!” Damn you, McCrabison! As I begrudgingly say thank you, he hits right where it hurts. “Have a wonderful time with your family! Happy holidays!”

People confuse me.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net