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This is my only nephew, and I feel obligated to go. But I also feel hurt that my nephew is ignoring my e-mails and only calls me once a year.
I know he is busy and has a fiancé and job, etc. But I have a life too and still contact my loved ones.
I can try my hardest and make sacrifices to go to his wedding.
Should I attend?
––CONFUSED AUNT
SYA SAYS:
You can’t afford it, he never calls you and he never returns your e-mails. What are you “confused” about?
If you feel really guilty, you can send him a card that he’ll ignore. (Just to be a bitch, you should put a time-sensitive gift card in there so it expires before he gets to it.)
DEAR ELLIE: My boyfriend of two years met me when I was in the process of leaving my fiance. We spent every day together. When he told me -- after the fact -- that he'd been a virgin, I was shocked. I'd already confided some details about my sexual past (four previous boyfriends) and wish I hadn't.
He's extremely sensitive about my other partners. He doesn't think that he can get over "my past" and during our worst fights, asks me how I could have "given it up to so many people." He's from a traditional, strict family. Mine is liberal.
We discuss breaking up because of this; he's reluctant to go to counseling. Is there any other solution?
--DESPERATE
SYA SAYS:
Golly, if there is, I can’t think of it. He waits until you’ve given him details about your previous relationships, shares none of his own history until after he’s had sex with you, he has sex with you, and now he’s having trouble getting past it?
Dump the douche. Frankly, you don’t want to marry into a family like his. As soon as you hit a rough patch, his mother will be right there reminding him that you weren’t a virgin when you were married—and you know damned well he’s not gonna tell her that he bumped nasties with you before the Happy Day.
But he did—and as you’re showing him the door, you might wanna remind him that now he’s damaged goods too, at least according to his Good Christian Family.
Oh, and one more thing: tell him he was lousy in bed.
DEAR ELLIE: I'm a widow, 60, and I joined classmates.com. An old boyfriend e-mailed and I responded with a summary of my life. He did the same, and indicated he'd like to continue contact. I said, "But YOU'RE MARRIED!" Ellie, I don't mess with married men.
I could choose to ignore his second e-mail, but I'd appreciate some guidelines. I'd hate to ruin or add stress to his marriage.
--TECHNOLOGY ETIQUETTE
SYA SAYS:
He said he’d like to “continue contact,” not “sniff your drawers.” Why do people even join classmates.com if they don’t want to reconnect with, you know, classmates? What’s the big deal? Or are you just getting a big kick out of playing Nell Fenwick and holding yourself up as some sort of unattainable paragon? A word to the wise, sweetie: no man wants to pick up your dropped handkerchief when it smells like mothballs.
Get over yourself.
DEAR ABBY: My husband and I have decided to sell our house and move south. We plan to purchase a mobile home. I asked our adult children what they thought of our decision.
One son made a quick trip home. Most of what he had to say pertained to issues from the past. One remark stung: He said that my husband and I had not showered or used deodorant on the day of my mother's funeral. True, we didn't shower that morning, but we had the night before. Because we depend on well water and had three extra people in the house, we wouldn't have had enough for all five of us to get a warm shower. We did use deodorant and cologne, and my husband put on aftershave.
We were crushed by our son's comment. I no longer wish to be an overnight guest in his home because I know they will be watching my every move. I would be preoccupied with worry about whether I have body odor. I love my son and our daughter-in-law, but the thought of being around them now makes me uncomfortable.
--NOT A SMELLY MOTHER
SYA SAYS:
Did you actually raise that alligator?? What the hell does showering have to do with your selling the house and buying a trailer down South? I would have pressed Sonny Boy on this point, and then mentioned that since you won’t be seeing him anymore after you move, the petty little prick won’t need to worry about your hygiene habits.
DEAR MISS MANNERS: My sister, early 60s, and a good friend, early 50s, recently suffered painful divorces from men they now abhor. My sister was married for 40 years and my friend for 15.
I spent a lot of time with these people and have many experiences. I am totally stumped how to avoid going into a minefield that I don't see every time I talk to them.
I have gotten many photos of my sister's first grandchild, and we've all played the who-does-he-look-like game. Apparently, I said the baby has an "attitude" like the ex-husband, Grandpa (a philanderer, etc.). Because the baby is 4 months old, it seems ridiculous that my sister would be upset that I was ascribing her ex-husband's negative personality traits to the baby. But she said I really hurt her feelings. Of course, I apologized and said that wasn't what I meant (obviously).
My friend thought she was married to a man who never divorced his second wife. They were "married" in a small ceremony, but he never filed their marriage license with the county. I understand she now refuses to refer to her relationship as a "marriage."
OK, but this sensitive feeling around words (relationship or marriage, this man was very sick), leaves me anxious about what, how and when to say things.
Do I just pretend, as these people do, that the past doesn't exist? I understand why they don't want to go there, but the past is where many of our experiences are. There were good times. I feel anxious about what and how to say things, and it is changing my relationship with these people in a negative way.
I never warmed to my friend's "husband," but I really loved my ex-brother-in-law. I still consider him family and hate the rigidity my sister is imposing on him when she is around. She battled twice with anorexia through her divorce, which took 10 years. And I am pretty certain she'll go into old age with this big dead zone called her 40 years with her ex-husband.
Do you have any wisdom regarding an attitude I can cultivate, inside my head, that will improve my time with these people whom I love a lot?
--CLUELESS CLARA
SYA SAYS:
“Apparently” you said the baby has an attitude like Grandpa’s? “Apparently?” You can’t remember? You don’t remember if you said a 4-month-old baby behaves like the man that his grandmother recently divorced, and might reasonably want NOT to be compared to her new grandson? Forgot all about it, did you?
Let me guess: you weren’t the valedictorian of your class, were you?
There’s no easy solution or procedure that will help you sidestep these sticky situations. There’s no need to “cultivate an attitude” about dealing with loved ones. You’ll just have to (*sigh, grumble*) think about other people’s feelings before you open your huge piehole. Oh, the horror.
Oh, and it’s all nice and good that you apologized to your sister, but tacking on that “obviously” at the end sort of defeats the purpose, don’t you think? When people are in a sensitive place, they can’t be expected to view your rather eccentric (read: shitty) sense of humor with cool, detached logic the way you seem to think you do, Cerebra.
Maybe you just shouldn’t speak at all. Believe me, the world will not miss the tinkling bell of your voice.
Shove it, Frog-Lips. Oh, and those glasses? Not cute anymore. They don't make you look smart, either--I don't care what Todd tells you.
Fondest regards,
Aaron
P.S. Please comb your fucking hair.
Saturday morning I drove home to see my family. I got to spend time with my dad and stepmother (and watched Copycat on DVD--oh, goody--I just love slasher movies during a family visit).
First, my aunt uses a fingerful of peanut butter to bribe her dog, J.R., to take his heartworm pill. It works (it always does, which is why he has his own special jar of peanut butter in her cupboard), and he licks the roof of his mouth for a minute or two to get all the yummy peanut butter off! Which leads to a mildly bawdy conversation about long tongues and their uses (not explicit, never fear--more PG than R-rated). Somewhere, however, my mom is smiling down on us--she's corrupted us well!
On the drive home yesterday, I took just a little bit of video out the window when I got about 20 miles north of town (just a few miles south of the I-80 exit in North Central Illinois).
Sorry about the dirty windshield--but I'd parked under a tree:
(That's Blondie's No Exit CD playing in the background.)
To answer first questions first, we're back. And it was amazing. And they loved The Joans. Seriously, I think it's the most amazing out-of-town reception we've ever gotten (granted, our out-of-town experience has been pretty limited, but...)
I took lots of video, most of it pretty pedestrian and inane and "sight-seeish," and the camera work is wobbly at times (since I'm walking and recording at the same time), but this will let you see what I saw AS I saw it--for the first time!
This first part will focus on the journey to, and arrival in, San Francisco. That's because my computer has been very slow to upload the videos. Seriously, only half of them made it up in six hours. My work computer is much faster, so I'll upload the rest tomorrow while I catch up on my work (the joys of multi-tasking!).
I'll post video of The Joan's performance tomorrow (don't get too excited--it's a small video camera with non-professional sound--but you can still see folks having fun! And of course we look lovely...)
So on with part one...!
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This is Saturday morning, after Taylor and I have arrived at the airport. We shared a taxi from his house since it turned out we were on the same flight. I was nervous about flying after so many years, so Taylor very kindly gave me one of his thorazapan dexatrim Clorox mother's little helpers. It did calm me down, but didn't knock me out. We have about half an hour before boarding the plane, so I figured I'd give our little journey intro:
Finally, about 9:55, we're boarded. Taylor is seven rows ahead of me, so I can't throw anything at him--so I decide to shoot video out the window instead. Sigh.
This one was taken about an hour into the flight. The flight attendants were very nice and the male one even gave me two of those little bottles of wine for the price of one. I was VERY mellow for this flight.
I'm not sure where we are at this point, but there are lots of hills, so it's probably close to some mountains. I calculate that we're about 1,000 miles from Chicago, but my math sucks--once again, I forget that it's about 500 miles per hour. So this is most likely Nebraska or Kansas. What I do know is that I'm sitting right next to the engine. Yes, that's right. Right next to it:
What if it just, you know, fell off...?
This is some other hilly place. I don't know where it is. But it was sort of pretty, and I bothered taking video of it, so it must be significant. Here:
Finally, about 12:30, we land in San Francisco, and we're waiting for our shuttle. Here's a view of the airport from outside of the terminal:
And then, after a half-hour shuttle ride, we arrive at our hotel, The Mark Twain. It's a nice place, and although I don't have any video of the outside, here's a brief glimpse of the lobby (and listen as I have trouble getting the camera to shut off when I want it to):
After I unpack, I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood, specifically Market Street. It's got a really gritty urban feel in this portion (which is called the Tenderloin)--there are lots of adult bookstores and liquor stores, and many homeless people and (it appeared) drug addicts on the streets. Somehow, though, it was still pretty. The streets are very wide, and there were always cable cars running (except, it seemed, while I was shooting this video!):
Market Street
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Hope you enjoyed Part 1! Tomorrow, Part 2: Aaron climbs the hills and walks to China Town! And don't miss Sunday, when The Joans take Folsom Street! Also some bonus footage of The English Beat and even a little chat from Berlin...
On Saturday, I joined the Season of Concern team, headed by the lovely Stephen, for the 2008 Chicago AIDS Walk and Run. It was a great event, a great time and we raised a shitload of money, thanks contributions from the "Wicked" and "Jersey Boy" casts--over $17,000! I brought along my trusty and compact Flip video camera to document the occasion. The following wobbly video chronicles our adventure:
Here, we're gathered in front of the Merle Reskin Theatre at DePaul University's downtown campus, waiting for Michael, the SOC board member who had our team T-shirts. (I keep calling the venue the Merle NORMAN theatre, which of course is incorrect.) A nice view of the outside of the Chicago Hilton and Towers, which is across the street and a sweep of our team members:
9:38AM and we're ready to roll. Here we are walking along Balbo over the bridge to Columbus drive where the race starts. A good shot of teammate Karen, who must have wondered who was in the little box I was speaking into.
10:00AM. The runners have just hit the start line and are starting their trek. as we wait our turn. That's a lotta runners!
10:10AM. And we're off! Here we are crossing the start line and getting on our way down Columbus drive toward the museums. Nice shots of Grant Park and a few skyscrapers. Stephen sings and the brass band plays (but not the same song).
10:40-ish AM. We're a half hour in and approaching the one-mile marker. Stephen shows us the last few contribution checks, which he'd just picked up from the office before the walk, and put us over the goal. Well over, even though not everybody thought he would reach his goal. (It's OK, because the person who didn't think so will be thrilled that they weren't right!)
11:00ish AM. We're at about the 1.5 mile marker--passing the museum campus (which is on the right) and the marina. Sorry for the wobbly video--I was walking! I tried to avoid the "Blair Witch" effect to no avail...
11:20AM. We're now at about the two-mile mark, just passing the Chicago Yacht Club. Near Madison and Lake Shore Drive. The red CMA building is visible in the distance. I expound on the virtues of chihuahuas as we pass the ROTC team and get water.
11:45AM. One more view of the museum campus as we reach the 2.5 mile mark. We also pass Brad, That Juggling Guy and get a brief glimpse of him. Note the hideous plaid outfit. The stuff nightmares are made of!
Museum Campus - One More Time!
12:25PM-ish. We made it! We cross the finish line to thunderous applause, brass band music and more water. Thank God for the water. After this, we headed to the hot dog tent for our free weenies.
So there it is! Thanks for coming on the journey with me, and I apologize again for the shaky camera work. I had lots of fun doing this walk. It was my first time doing this particular walk, and I recommend it for anyone who lives in Chicago and is looking for something fun to do on a Saturday morning in September. Thanks again to everyone who sponsored me--we raised $17,000, y'all. $17,000. You're the greatest!
In which I answer other columnists' mail...it ain't a living...but it's a diversion!
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DEAR AMY: I am responding to "Lesson for Life," who reiterates the irrational idea that we "choose" our feelings.
The fact is we cannot "choose" our feelings. In terms of neuropsychology, one "feels" quite intensely long (in terms of milliseconds) before the cognitive ability to "choose" kicks in.
It gets tedious reading this nonsense psycho-babble.
Once you've heard a parent speaking to a 2-year-old about making better "choices" for the umpteenth time, you will probably "feel" as I do.
––CHOOSING TO RESPOND
SYA SAYS:
If you hate “tedious psychobabble” so much, why did you fill your second paragraph with it?
But actually, I, too, get tired of these hippy-dippy-tambourine-bashing parents trying to use “reason” on out-of-control toddlers. They don’t have the capacity to reason, and it doesn’t stop them from screaming and annoying the shit out of the rest of us. But since child services will now swoop in with forms and self-righteous social workers the moment someone gives their kid a single swat on the ass (like WE got when WE misbehaved), or yells “NO!!,” they’ve been reduced to this child psychology shit.
I’m afraid we’ll have to learn to ignore it, as well as the screaming, spoiled kids. Just make sure you’re well-armed when they become adults.
Here’s another one the columnist was too soft on:
DEAR AMY: I love my stepmother, "Hannah." Unfortunately, she is petty, judgmental, cold and stubborn, and I'm sick of her. I see my father regularly, but I only see Hannah for any length of time during happy family occasions, during which she assumes and insinuates things about me and my private life.
Hannah thinks I watch too much TV, don't get out enough and don't act like a normal teenage girl. She very much resents my mother for no good reason, and I'm sick of her assumptions that I have no life.
These remarks make me feel very defensive, but I don't want to bring happy occasions down by slapping her with a much-deserved, "What do you mean by that?"
Hannah will say something, and from that point on, she's in my head like the "Small World" song. I'm not going to put my father in the middle by asking him to talk to her, and I won't let my mother defend me either. This is strictly between us. I need to do something.
--SHE’S IN MY HEAD
SYA SAYS:
The first thing you need to do is explain to me why you “love” this woman. She sounds like a real iron-box, and if that’s the kind of thing that turns your Daddio on, fine, but there’s no reason you should have to suffer.
It sounds like your father is pussy-whipped. There--that’s right, I said it. She probably rules the roost, perhaps threatening to withhold sex, hide his clean socks, or pursue any myriad of life-disrupting tactics that keep him at heel, so he daren’t stand up for himself or even you. I appreciate your not wanting to put him in the middle, but he landed there all by his lonesome when he married a woman who’s NOT the mother of his child and a conflict arose. Tough shit--sucks to be him today.
Tell him you need him to stand by you and explain to Hardass Hannah that she’s out of line. If she wants to be a parent figure, that’s great—I don’t think kids can have too many role models. But someone who only wants to criticize is NOT a parent--it’s a boss. Maybe you should start filling out a time card whenever you visit and billing her for each hour you have to spend in her company.
Failing that, you could try letting a different song get stuck in your head when she starts in. I suggest “Fat-Bottomed Girls” by Queen.
DEAR ELLIE: My daughter's pregnant, yet wants to leave her husband after the baby's born, because he's lazy. What can we do?
--DISTURBED
SYA SAYS:
I’d tell her to go for it. If he’s as lazy as you say, he’s unlikely to run after her. And even if he does, she’s probably faster (unless she’s had a Caesarean).
DEAR MARGO: When I married "Phil" two years ago, I was in heaven. It was the culmination of several wonderful years of living together. But at the time we were married, my husband was unemployed. He'd had a not-so-rewarding experience in his last position and wanted to take some time to reevaluate his path in life and his spiritual purpose. Being the supportive wife and knowing he had substantial savings, I said fine, take the time you need.
Now, two and a half years later, the savings are gone and there is no motivation on Phil's part to get a job. He says he cannot spend his life being "miserable" in a 9-to-5 job seeing how disappointed I am in my current job, and he feels "something big" is coming up spiritually. Now my savings, the money I had put away for a house, has dwindled by the thousands in an effort to maintain some semblance of the life we once enjoyed. Phil meditates all morning, then walks around town or goes to lunch with his friends while I work to pay the bills. I have no sex drive anymore, which is taking another toll on our relationship.
He says that if I feel that disappointed in him I should divorce him, but wishes I would stick with him through this "tough time." I feel that he is not fulfilling his obligations as a husband, either financially or emotionally. I feel more depressed and alone than ever before, but do I have the right to tell Phil to give up his spiritual quest because I don't have the money to support him anymore?
--DIRECTIONLESS
SYA SAYS:
Oh, I’ll just bet “he wishes you’ll stick with him through this ‘tough time,’” especially as it seems to be tougher for you than it is for him.
“Spiritual quest?” Puh-leeze. It shouldn’t take his body over two years to find a job that at least pays some bills while his head is off with its own little Sherpa on some inner journey. He could work at the post office, for Christ’s sakes.
Tell this lazy dumbshit to get off his chakra and start chipping in, or you’ll leave him stranded in the Gobi. If you don’t want to divorce him, then you need to start scaling back on this “lifestyle” you currently enjoy if it’s putting a strain on your savings. There’s no need to strive for Mr. Topper’s lifestyle on Ralph Kramden’s salary. Chances are, your Dalai Lama’s used to a few luxuries and once he starts doing without, let’s see how “spiritual” he is. I’m sure you’ll find it’s a different story once he drinks generic coffee for a few days.
DEAR ABBY: What is the word on men wearing baseball caps into a fairly nice restaurant and not taking them off? I think it is rude, and ruder still for them -- and women are guilty of this too -- to dress like they just finished mowing the lawn. How do you feel about this?
--DRESSED UP IN NORTH CAROLINA
WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED:
Frankly, I don’t care either way about it, and if you had a life, you wouldn’t either.
I personally wouldn’t dress sloppily to go to a nice restaurant, and I think people who do don’t have much self-respect. But I would hardly call it “rude.” "Rude” would be the man coming over and spitting in your dinner. As it stands, it’s pretty tacky, but not really any of your business. Mind your own beeswax and focus on the person you came with (assuming you could find anyone to put up with you) and admire each other’s pretty clothes. Ignore the people whose appearance offends you. I can assure you they’re doing the same to you.
DEAR MARGO: My husband of four years, "Ralph," served in the Air Force before we met. He received an injury to his leg and was deemed permanently unfit for combat. The first morning we spent in our new house, he put several pictures of another airman on our mantle and he never took them off. He won't tell me who the guy is, and he never tells me anything about his years in the Air Force. I can understand the PTSD and the fear of loud noises, but I can't handle the secrecy. I once tried to put up Christmas decorations on the mantle, and he became so angry he knocked me to the ground. I love this man and want to stay with him, but I keep feeling that the mystery man is more important to him than I am. What do I do?
--- WONDERING WHO THE HECK IS THIS GUY?
WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED:
Let me get this straight: he has pictures of another man on your shared mantle and won’t tell you who he is? Creepy. Especially since he’s chosen to keep them in the space that you share. Yes, that’s right—share. That means that the space is yours, too, and you’re entitled to know who it is. If this is someone from his past he doesn’t want brought up, why does he scatter his pictures all over the pace? To me, this sounds like his way of baiting and withdrawing. It’s a childish game and a sick power play.
My thoughts are that there are two possibilities: either this guy’s a big old closet case and having these pictures around is his way of rubbing your face in it and demonstrating his resentment without having the cojones to actually speak up; or the man in the photo is an Air Force buddy who was killed. Either way, he at least owes you the courtesy of a brief answer if you ask, since he practically shoved the pictures under your nose. Even if it’s just to say he’s a friend who was killed and he doesn’t want to talk about it again, at least then you’d know your boundaries.
But then there’s the whole issue of his knocking you down. So scratch all that stuff I just said—he’s a big freak. Divorce his ass and “accidentally” break the pictures on your way out the door. But first, kick him square in the balls. Hard. See how he likes it.
DEAR AMY: What is a tactful way of asking siblings for help in taking care of elderly parents?
My brother lives in Texas, my sister is in Nevada and my parents are in Wyoming. I live the closest to our folks, about 50 miles away.
I try to see my parents about once a week, which uses a tank of gas and a day of my time. I don't mind driving to visit them—we go special places together, and I try to make sure they are well.
I would at least like for my siblings to give me gas money because it takes a lot of money for fuel these days.
My siblings are way better off financially than I am; I live on Social Security.
I hinted to them once that because I live close to our parents my siblings "owe me big-time," but they didn't take the hint.
—OUT OF GAS
WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED:
Of course they didn’t take the hint. People never do, especially when they know it’s being dropped to them and they don’t want it. Anyway, your hint about their “owing you big-time” is just annoying and nebulous. They don’t “owe you big-time” because you live closer. They “owe you big-time” because you’re taking care of your parents while they’re not around, so in essence, you’re doing the job of three people. So to answer your question about a tactful way of asking for help, try a new tactic:
“Excuse me, Rockefeller! I hate to bother you, but while you’re out there living the high life and shitting nickels, I’ve been schlepping back and forth every week to make sure your future inheritance isn’t lying on the floor turning blue, depriving you of another day’s compound interest. I’ve asked for help before, but you didn’t seem to get the message. Let me ask another way: you wanna kick in a little gas money to help me out here, or shall I sell their house and ship them out there to live with you?”
Always go for the double-choice question—never the open-ended essay. It leaves them too many options.
DEAR ELLIE: My father-in-law is a tough, stubborn man who talks to my wife like she's still a child -- barking orders, dismissing her ideas. She's depressed after every visit but still wants to see her mom.
-- WHAT TO DO?
WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED:
Household accidents are alarmingly common among older folks. Why, he could fall off a ladder while changing a light bulb, or slip on some urine in the bathroom and crack his head against the sink. The next time you visit, unscrew the light bulbs and pee on the floor. Then she can visit her mother in peace. They’ll probably even have a good laugh about Daddy Buttertoes.
DEAR ELLIE: I've always been treated differently from my three siblings, though my parents deny this. They'd knowingly miss important events (graduations, sports events) and yell at me more. I was always a straight-A student, never got into trouble; my siblings have partied more than me, been in trouble with the law, been unemployed, I was the first to get a part-time job at 16 -- so financial support was stopped. I'm now 27 and about to get married.
My parents tried everything to stop our dating. I understand their problems with his being of a different religion, but they've treated us both so poorly I've started speaking out. (For years, he was forced to hide in the basement when relatives came over so they wouldn't know I was dating him). We've been together for seven years .
They say they love him and welcome him as part of the family, but I still get grilled on where I'm going, why I have to be out so long, even when I'm with his parents.
I'm the only sibling who's had to go through this. I'm ready to stop talking to parents and siblings after the wedding. Should I give up, and look forward to my new life?
--FED UP
WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED:
Why wait? Stop talking to them now. It’s unthinkable that a 27-year-old (who’s engaged to be married) should be held to a curfew like some teenager. That’s bullshit. And incidentally, you don’t owe your parents any information about where you’ve been/how long you’ll be out when you’re with the fiancé. Try taking a home movie in the bedroom sometime and giving it to them the next time they ask. I’ll bet you they keep their gobs shut when the Kitty Cat of Curiosity starts purring around the saucer again.
In answer to your last question, yes, forget about them and enjoy your new life. Just make sure it’s an independent one that doesn’t require any participation or assistance from them, because they’ve proven that they’re not reliable.
In fact, why even invite them to the wedding? They never attended your special events in high school, when it mattered, and cut off their financial support when you were 16, so what makes you think they’d even show up for an important life event now?
The good news is, should you change your mind and decide to invite your parents and siblings, they could all take one car, since I’m sure these losers still live at home. Think how environmentally-friendly it can be!
DEAR ABBY: I am 26 and lived with "Mackie" for three years. Although we were not legally married, I referred to him as "my husband."
We have now split up. I refer to this as "the divorce," and the time we were together as "when we were married." My conservative mother seems to understand why I do this. However, others choose to correct me -- rather rudely.
My question is, what would you call this? And what do I say to those who feel the need to tell me how I should attribute an event in my life?
--SINGLE NOW, IN MISSISSIPPI
WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED:
Of course your conservative mother was happy to indulge you in referring to the breakup as a “divorce.” It probably galled her no end that her daughter was living with a man in sin, and this terminology helps her because she can maintain her fantasy that you were married. Besides, she’s probably happy as a pig in shit that it’s over now, so she’ll call it whatever you want.
When and if you begin another live-in relationship (after a suitable period of time, of course), be prepared for her to stick her nose in and constantly drop snide reminders about “what happened the last time you co-habited without benefit of marriage,” or some such terms.
As far as the friends who correct you rudely, tell them it was your relationship and you can call it what you want. Since it didn’t even cost them a waffle iron or a wedding shower, they can shove it up their ass. You gave them a bargain.
DEAR AMY: I feel as if I've been used. My fiance told me to move out of the house we co-own. She went back to dating the same guy with whom she cheated on me. I moved, but I'm still supporting her by paying the house taxes, insurance, etc.
I've invested thousands of dollars into the house for renovations and expansion. I can tell she really doesn't want me around the house, and she keeps turning down my offer to help her maintain it, but she gladly accepts my monetary support.
Meanwhile, the guy she cheated on me with has the run of the house.
I'd like to continue co-owning the house as an investment, but it is difficult, knowing that she doesn't want me around and that her boyfriend stays with her in "our house."
Should I try to negotiate a buyout from her, or should I just hang onto my share of the house for a while?
--RAY
WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED:
You feel like you’ve been used? Why, whatever gave you that impression?!
Jesus, dude. If you co-own the house, and she didn’t want to be together anymore, you should have made her move out: as the travel-itchy partner, the onus should be on her to change the living arrangement she’s unhappy with.
You should move all your shit back into the house and tell her and her rent-boy that if they don’t like it, they can go hit the bricks and move into his one-room studio with the hot plate and the hissing radiator.
Alternately, you can check your insurance policy and make sure it’s covered for the market value at the time of purchase. Then wait until they’re out of the house and torch the fucker. Chances are, your settlement will make a more-than-generous down payment on a new place—footloose and fiancé-free.
DEAR MISS MANNERS: As a server in a coffee shop, I am constantly greeting customers, and I make a genuine effort to be kind and polite to everyone. I greet most customers by asking how they are or how their day is going. Nine out of 10 responses begin with the phrase, "I'll have ..."
How do you suggest I respond to an answer of a question I did not ask?
It truly hurts my feelings to be ignored while attempting human interaction apart from the usual impersonal (and often required or even prerecorded) greeting at other quick-service restaurants. I realize it is probably not my place, but I am tired of biting my tongue and feeling less than worthy of a response or even recognition as a human being and not a drink-making machine. Please let me know a polite response.
--JAVA JIVER
WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED:
I agree that people are abrupt and rude nowadays, but you mustn’t take it personally. Remember, these people haven’t had their coffee yet, so they’re probably suffering withdrawal. If you work for one of the Big Coffee chains, you’re probably also inundated with pretentious poseurs who can’t wait to get back outside and try to impress people by standing next to the BMW they’ve rented for the day. So of course they’re in a hurry and have no time for human interaction.
Next time, wait until they turn their head for a second, then spit in their drink.
No, really, the pleasure was all mine.
John Lennon had his "lost weekend," and now I've had mine!
Well, not quite, but after all the times I've been <em>told</em> to "get lost," this occasional brought me close!
A tolerable time was had by most at "Aaron's Big One," my first annual birthday bash, on Friday night at The Spot in Uptown. Lots of folks had scheduling conflicts, or had to come late, but since my drinks were on the house until 10:00, if you weren't there, I probably imagined you were. So cheers!
Here are a few photo highlights from the evening (courtesy of David Cerda, who had the camera):
Me with my friend Cheryl Snodgrass, who, besides being a partner in The Spot, is also a supertalented actress and director, who most recently directed "Die! Mommie Die!" for Hell in a Handbag at the Bailiwick. She was first seen by Handbag audiences in 2006's "Caged Dames" as Bigger Lorraine Delvecchio, and showed off her marvelous pipes again as eccentric ornithologist Mrs. Bundy in 2007's "The Birds."
L. to R.: Stephen Rader, Derek Czaplewski, David Cerda (a/k/a Davy Joans) and Ed Jones (a/k/a Ed Joans as Carol Ann). David and Ed had just come from seeing Blondie at Lincoln Park Zoo (where it's reported they've taken up residence next to the McCormick Meerkat Enclosure) and, alas, were apparently unsucessful in dragging Debbie Harry to the party. Unless she was the one dancing on the bar. But no, I think that was a lawyer...
Brian, Cheryl's business partner, who kindly kept us supplied with chicken strips and mini tacos during our revelries, mugs in behind David and Ed. Sorry bois, he's straight AND married...
The moment I know all of you have waited for--and the opportunity you've all dreamed of! Don't tell me you haven't! I didn't feel a thing the next day...
David captured photos of the bar-dancing lawyer, but I won't subject you to those. I was quite frightened that she would step on my drink! And then sue me for getting her shoes wet...
Besides those picture above, we also had Gary Airedale of the Flesh Hungry Dog Show, fellow handbagger Annie and her boyfriend Jarod, Richard "Madge Weinstein" Bluestein, and Steve Hickson of A Reasonable Facsimile Theatre Co. and his boyfriend Paul.
Despite the "no presents" edict, I did get a few treasures from my well-wishers: a DVD datadisc of music from Gary and a copy of David Sedaris' new book "When You Are Engulfed In Flames" from Stephen.
Thanks to all for your well wishes...I'm looking forward to a good decade (hell, it can't be any worse than the LAST one ;-)), and am grateful for all the Omega oil which has kept me from looking as old as my five years of heavy alcohol consumption dictates that I should by now...
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The Joans head into the studio on Sunday, July 6 to begin recording our first CD. I'm excited...
I wanted to thank everyone for their support and friendship during the past week since my mom passed away...as I mentioned, I was with her at the end and her passing was very quiet and peaceful.
I'm back in Chicago now, and thought I'd share her obituary and some pictures that I've always found comfort in.
This is the obituary that ran in the area newspapers.
It was slightly edited from what I wrote for them, but they got the gist of it:
This picture was always my favorite one of Mom and me. It was taken in 1997, about two months after I'd moved here:
She'd just turned 50 about two weeks before, and I remember thinking that she didn't look anywhere near it. (And yes, I know, I had more hair then. So what? Shut up!)
The next one was taken not long after that. My aunt Teri was in town (she's in the green shirt), visiting from Louisiana, where she'd recently moved.
I couldn't get down there, because it was short notice, but Mom gave me a copy of the photo:
My uncle Jim (mom's brother) is on the top left, and my aunt Fay, whom I've mentioned here before, is on the top row, second from the right. They still pretty much look like that. The rest of the family has changed somewhat (mostly because lots of them are kids, and they've grown up!).
We got lots of really nice floral tributes, including this really gorgeous one from The Joans:
I brought them home with me. They survived a three-hour car ride, and I gave them a drink of water when I got here. The lighting isn't the greatest, unfortunately, but you can see what a nice job our local florist did.
The local funeral home, Weber Hurd, has an online guest book where friends can send messages to the family of the deceased. There were quite a few really nice messages when we looked at it over the last few days.
There was also this one, located at the top:
Aunt Fay got to watch the steam pour out of my ears when I read the third sentence: "Sorry to see there's no Catholic mass or funeral."
WTF, Bonnie Stroot?!
Allow me to explain something, Bonnie: there was no Catholic mass because Mom didn't want one. She didn't even want a visitation, really, but we had one because we thought it would be nice to have a place where her friends and family who don't see each other often could gather and share their memories. I notice that you weren't there, Bonnie Stroot, although you seem to have had time to write a snooty message.
I shouldn't be too hard on Bonnie Stroot. She's a good Catholic (apparently), and it's important to her that other people be good Catholics, too. In fact, she's such a good Catholic that before she married Dr. Stroot, he had his first marriage annulled. Which, I suppose, means that his four children from that marriage (and with whom I went to grade school) were then illegitimate. And also that her first marriage to one of my dad's best friends, and which produced a lovely daughter who was also in my class, didn't happen.
But when one wants to marry a rich chiropractor, such trifles fall by the wayside. So you go ahead and pray, Bonnie. Pray for enlightenment. My mother had already found hers, and practiced it daily. I hope you can understand that.
And if not, who the hell cares? Go suck an egg, Bonnie Kruger Seidlarz Stroot.
(Authors note: Bonnie K-S-S is not on MySpace, so I shall share these sentiments in a respectfully worded thank-you note, provided by the funeral home.)
Most of all, I've been very glad to spend time with my family this week. They all came together and remembered my mom the way she should be remembered. And for that, I love and cherish them...I'm proud that she was my mom.
Peace out!
I went down to Chillicothe again Saturday to visit with Mom. I've been going every three weeks, as I may have mentioned before, but this week, things took a significant downward turn.
I talked to her a few times this week (when they managed to get her up in her chair) and she absolutely made no sense at all. She thought she was on a boat. She was heading to the bowling alley. She'd won some raffle drawing and wondered if she got a prize. My aunt had called me earlier in the week and told me what Mom was doing, and we laughed a little at her imagination. But I was really glad that I was going down, because I sensed that time is getting very, very short now. Aunt Fay told me on Friday that Karen, mom's nurse, wanted me to be prepared when I saw Mom and noticed the change.
When I went in Saturday morning, Karen walked with me down towards Mom's room and filled me in again. Mom doesn't know what she's saying or what's really going on. Karen said that she'd been very surprised if Mom makes it until the end of the month. After seeing her this weekend, I'd say it could be even sooner.
Mom was in bed when I got there, but she recognized me and we hugged and kissed each other several times. I held her hand a bit and there's absolutely no grip at all. Her speech is very slurred, both from the medicine and the cancer in her brain. She did get up in her wheelchair for lunch (tenderloin and cheese fries) and ate a few bites, but not all of it (I didn't really blame her--I wouldn't have either!). Her TV set was on and tuned to ABC Family, so we watched the recent "Nancy Drew" movie (surprisingly good, at least after the annoying first few spoiled-rich-girl minutes), another of those damned ice skating movies they're always showing, and several episodes of "Grounded For Life" (pretty good show, actually--I'd never watched it. Oh well, too late now). Mom couldn't really follow any of it, although she'd make comments from time to time that sort of segued off what was happening on screen and bounced into whatever was going on in her mind.
Mostly, she remembered roller skating and climbing trees with her cousin Pat, and her father bringing her a pig home (she's mixed up on that: her aunt and uncle lived on a farm near Joliet, she spent summers there, and they had the pig). Mentally, I'd say she was around eight years old. She remembers nothing about being an adult at all. Karen said, "I'm not sure where she is, but it's a really happy place."
As I listened to Mom talk, I realized that this is what heaven is: it's the happy place we all long for that waits for us when we cross over. It's a place we make for ourselves. And that's what made me realize how close she is. I thought "I'm finally ready when the time comes." I never, ever thought I would be.
I realized that I had to come back to Chicago and work this week, get some things done before I'm out for a week when the inevitable happens...right now, I'm planning to go back next Monday and spend a few days. Aunt Fay said she'll call if anything happens, and of course, I'll go right back if that's the case (that's the beauty of only being two and half hours away).
Once, it would have been unthinkable to me not to be at her bedside when she passed away...but since I can't live in the home with her, I realized there's a real possibility I may not be there. And I'm finally OK with that. I got to tell Mom the things I wanted to tell her this weekend, and that I needed her to know. I've told her how much she means to me and that we'll always be a part of each other and will always visit each other. I walked out of there yesterday afternoon knowing there was a real possibility that I had just seen her for the last time. I can finally accept that, although I don't like it...
On a final note, there were a few gems of conversation this weekend when something distracted her and found its way into her speech. This was my favorite, and I'll leave you with it:
"They don't have very many midgets around here. So they can't really say 'Go Midgets'."
Ready? Let's go down the slide. Wheeeeeeee...!
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DEAR ABBY: Help! I am engaged to a man with three kids -- a 7-year-old girl and 9-year-old twin boys -- and soon to become a stepmom. He has them about half the time.
The family all believe their biological mother is failing miserably, and I feel as though they view me as a suitable substitute. I like his children, but I have three of my own. One is grown; two are teenagers. I see the light at the end of the tunnel and do not want to start over again raising someone else's kids.
Can I marry this man and not have to raise his kids? Or is that what a stepmother does? I would be happy just being their friend.
UNCERTAIN STEPMOM IN NEW ENGLAND
ABBY IS BUSY IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR, SEEING IF SHE CAN SAY “DARN TOOTIN’” WITH THE SAME MORAL AUTHORITY AS HER MOTHER. SINCE SHE CAN’T, LET ME GIVE IT A WHIRL:
Poor little you! “Can I marry this man and not have to raise his kids?” “Can’t we just lock ourselves in the bedroom and leave a jar of peanut butter outside for the little monsters?”
Do you want the short answer or the long answer? Well, you’re in luck, because they’re both the same: No.
I guess it can be confusing for second-time marriages when kids are involved, but this ground has been tread for years and years and years (Christ, the Brady Bunch was 40 years ago, and even they knew this shit). Where’s the mystery now? It’s common knowledge, Precious: if you marry a man/woman, his/her kids are part of the deal. Period. You said yourself that the family feels their biological mother is failing them. You don’t say WHY they feel this way, but they obviously need something that they’re not getting from her. If you’re married to Dad, you will therefore become Mom.
These are all young kids, too—they’re at a rambunctious, sly, and devious age, and they need firm parenting. As Dad’s partner, you will either become surrogate Mom, or end up like the poor substitute teacher whose drawer is full of frogs and whose chair is full of thumbtacks.
If you think it’s possible that your “mom quotient” is part of the deal your fiancé is putting together, and you’re not ready to pull that duty again, you’d better clear the air now.
Before three teenagers are in the bathroom stinking it up again…
DEAR ELLIE: My boyfriend is too attached to his older sister. Their parents died when they were teens, and she helped him a lot.
But I'm sick of visiting her place every other week. We have to eat early because of her young kids' schedules, help bathe them and read to them etc. I'd rather be out at a club having fun for our age group.
BORED
WHILE ELLIE PORES THROUGH HER BOOK OF PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE PHRASES, LET ME SEW THIS ONE SHUT:
You don’t say what your “age group” is, but from your letter, I’d guess that you’re not old enough to be going to clubs anyway—although it’s possible that you’re just a really immature, snipy early 20-something. And if you’re any older than that, God help you—you’re way too old to be channeling Lindsay Lohan.
Here’s a cold slap of reality for you, Tawny: some people feel very strongly about their families. They actually even--*gasp*--LIKE them, and want to spend time with them, especially when they’re grateful for an emotional lifeline like the one your boyfriend got from his sister. This gratitude is especially strong when the event is not far removed, and it sounds like their teenage years, and the death of their parents, is not that long ago.
Is it really asking too much to visit her and spend time with her kids once every two weeks? If it is, do your guy a favor and break it off—give him the freedom to find a worthwhile partner who shares his love of family and isn’t a skank. And then, by all means, run, with your nipples to the wind, to the nearest nightclub. Throw your dress over your head and dance like there’s no tomorrow. Drink until you pass out. Face down. In the toilet.
But when you vomit, at least have the courtesy to hang your head OUT of the cab window. Taxi drivers don’t make nearly enough money to put up with that shit.
DEAR MISS MANNERS: I am a very health-conscious person. When I was a child, I was obese and was picked on by my peers. But with hard work and determination, I have lost a lot of weight. The problem is, my family and friends, many of whom are overweight, don't pay attention to their health.
When we go to social gatherings, I eat light foods and order diet sodas right in front of them. I always feel this cold mist of jealousy around me. Is this good manners? Or should I just indulge myself with them for that night?
HUNGRY MORON (OK, I made that up—so what???!)
OH, FORGET IT—I’M TAKING OVER:
Are you expecting a pat on the back? Well, now that your arms are so goddamn skinny, you can reach around and do it yourself. Geez, could the fat-free chip on your shoulder be any bigger?
What makes you think that anyone gives a rat’s puckered behind what you eat? (Although I have a helluva suggestion for you.) Are you sure that you’re not projecting? That it’s not YOU who exude a “cold mist” around your family and friends who “don’t pay attention to their health?” Sometimes the cheap seats allow the best view, but the mirror has a big-ass blind spot.
If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about it—you’re not likely to be troubled by too many social invitations. Your family and friends aren’t as dumb as you think.
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That's all for this week! Hope it was good for you. I have to go take my anti-depressants now...see you next time!
I went home, made some din-din, straightened up the place a little and went to bed around 10:00. It was still fairly warm outside (probably in the mid-40s), and the radiator in my bedroom never does shut off all the way (it's a knob issue), so I had the window cracked and the fan going.
About 1:30 in the morning, I woke to the smell of something burning. I bolted up and searched the apartment, but there was nothing to be found--no smoke, no coffee pot left on (like last time), nothing. I figured it must have been a car going through the alley burning oil or something and went back to sleep.
Twenty minutes later, I woke up to the same smell, only this time it was stronger. Something definitely WAS burning--and it was close. I still couldn't see any smoke (it was hazy outside because of the humidity, so if there were any smoke, I wouldn't have known it under the orange lamps in the alley) but I smelled it and it was sickening. I looked at the building across the way and saw a flickering reflection in one of their stairwell windows.
Shit! Something WAS on fire and it was in my building, next to my apartment! But none of the smoke alarms was going off, and none of my neighbors (some of whom were still up) made any noises that indicated they were evacuating. Just then, I heard the sirens of an approaching fire engine and figured somebody must have called them. I heard water being pumped in the alley. I leaned further to look out my living room window, and saw them spraying inside a dumpster.
So that was it. Somehow a fire got started in one of the dumpsters, and since my bedroom is about 15 feet along the back wall, the smell drifted along and the fan blew it into my window. But not the smoke itself, which would have set MY smoke alarm off. The whole thing was over in about 15 minutes and the firemen were on their way. After they'd left, I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn't. I still smelled the gross debris from outside.
I decided to go surf the internet for a while and see if there was anything decent on iTunes. And the internet was down. Damnit, of all the times! Oh well, I thought, I'll just go back to sleep. I woke up a 6:00 with a miserable sore throat and nausea from the smell outside, plus I was groggy from so little sleep. It dawned on me that since I have the "bundled" services from my cable company (internet, phone, cable TV), my phone may not work either. Sure as hell, I lifted the receiver and heard no dial tone.
Te-fuckin'-riffic.
So I called into work with my cell phone, leaving that number as my contact number if they needed to reach me. I finally did get back to sleep for a few hours and when I woke up, I realized I'd better call Big Cable Company and ask what was up. The rep asked for my information (then made me repeat all of it when SHE got my phone number wrong), and said that they'd have to have a technician come to my apartment. Of course, no appointments were available yesterday (when I was actually HOME), so the earliest one was today between 2 and 5 (because they have to keep you hanging around waiting for hours--they can't give you even a one-hour window--they're just SO busy). The soonest I can get an appointment between 5 and 8 is on Thursday, so that's what I've ended up doing. At a cost of $49.95 to myself, naturally.
I wondered if the dumpster fire might have something to do with it, but I went outside to look, and the dumpster was nowhere near the cable boxes. So apparently it just went out on its own. So, until Thursday, I have no functioning internet or home phone. I'll have to check all my e-mail, etc., at work and use my cell phone at home (which doesn't have the greatest reception).
Anyway, I may not be able to post much, or read anyone else's blogs, until Thursday. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep up a little...
UPDATE: The cable TV did come back on its own last night, so that's one thing I have, at least. It's pixilated and cutting in and out a lot, but at least it's working. I wish the Internet and phone would come back on THEIR own too! But so far, no dice...
It still makes you a douchebag.
If you want amusement so bad, renew your subscriptions to the various online porn sites that you've allowed to lapse, grab a roll of Bounty, and stay the hell out of sight for a few days. Got it?
Now go and wipe.
No, I'm not kidding.
** I won't embarrass the person (and I use the term LOOSELY) to whom this is really addressed, and they should be damned glad...however, I WILL get even.
Oh Lordy, yes...
Enjoy...
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DEAR ELLIE: I'm on the brink of separation from my beloved wife of 35 years. I run a small business and was always home by 9 p.m. Yet my wife accused me or suspected me of being with almost every woman I came across. Partly, it was caused by my mother-in-law, who was hitting on me and creating drama by telling my wife she suspected me with different women.
Things got worse after my wife stopped working four years ago. We fought often regarding her suspicions. She'd then give me the silent treatment for days or even months. It led to my betraying her five times.
My biggest mistake was confessing about those one-night stands; the worst involving a lady employee of mine. I let her go soon after. That was 18 months ago, and my wife's still angry.
After two months of her silence, I moved out to cool things down. Recently she ran into me with a lady I've been seeing since I left home; she's filed for divorce.
I still love her and want to be back together. What should I do? Family therapy hasn't helped. I'm trying to be more romantic toward my wife.
PUSHED TO BETRAY
ELLIE’S A FUCKING MILKTOAST WITH NO SPINE. AARON SEES AN OPPORTUNITY TO “REEDUCATE:”
Wow, your wife sure has a lot to answer for! Look at her, all driving you to prove her right and shit! Do you think she’s a psychic?? Would she pick some lottery numbers for me??
Seriously, you have got to be fucking kidding—you were pushed into betraying her? Bullshit. You just betrayed her, period. And the mother-in-law who had the hots for you? Double bullshit—she probably read your number from three miles off and warned your wife about it, so you spitefully decided to make her look bad by saying she was the aggressor—I’m surprised you could even keep a straight face.
I particularly love that you finally moved out to “cool things down,” yet, while you were cooling your jets (and still married, let’s not forget), you started seeing yet another little enchilada. Quite the penile juggler, aren’t you? What exactly were you trying to “cool down?” Not yourself, obviously. And you claim to still be in love with your wife? Un-fucking-believable.
Frankly, if I were your wife, I’d divorce you too…I can’t believe it took her so long. I hope she cleans your clock, mister.
Oh, and the female employee you bonged, then dumped and fired when she became inconvenient? I hope she sues the pants off you.
(Although it doesn’t seem a lawsuit would be necessary—you seem only too eager to shed them.)
DEAR ABBY: I recently turned 40, and because I don't get along with my husband "Ted's" family, I chose to celebrate out of town with my parents and siblings. At the end of my five-day trip, Ted picked me up at the airport and barely greeted me. He waited three days to give me my birthday gift.
When he finally handed me the box, Ted didn't even wait for me to open it. He went off to take a shower. I waited for him to finish, then opened the gift in front of him. Inside was a pair of diamond earrings.
I have never wanted diamond earrings, and I have told him so many times. I had asked Ted for cash so I could buy a new sewing machine. Why diamond earrings?
That night we had a major quarrel, and now I'll never be able to enjoy them. What do I do with them now?
TICKED OFF IN RHODE ISLAND
ABBY’S BUSY APPLYING (SORT OF) NEW EYE SHADOW—LET AARON TAKE THIS ONE:
Send them to me. In fact, send the husband to me, too—he deserves someone who appreciates him.
What gives, Queenie? You don’t like your husband’s family (shall we assume the feeling’s mutual?) so you leave him at home for five fucking days and fly out of town, back to Mama’s teat? What message does that send to him about your relationship, when you think it’s OK to ditch him for an entire week? Then make him pick you up at the airport??
You’ve got chutzpah, girlfriend. You’re lucky you got diamonds—I would’ve given you horse turds. If you DO buy that sewing machine, use it on your lips. Or anywhere else appropriate.
DEAR MARGO: I have a very dear friend who's been my roommate for years. She has a good heart and a lot going for her, but when it comes to men and love, she is blind, which may be an understatement.
Recently her boyfriend of six months was arrested for prostitution (that is, patronizing one), and without a blink, she insisted the police had framed him because he would never do anything like that. Even after two officers told us what happened and what was said between the boyfriend and the "working girl," she still refuses to believe it. I tried to point out that this could explain why he never had any money and why he always came here and immediately showered. I am concerned about her health and her way of thinking.
Should I continue to try to steer her away from her "John" or just let everything come to light in its own time? Is there any way I can help her to see the light?
BLUE IN THE FACE
POOR MARGO’S EYES ARE CROSSED FROM READING SO MANY WACKO LETTERS. AARON’S RELIEVING HER TODAY:
Please tell me you didn’t use the soap after this guy was done with it. If I were you, I’d make sure I kept mine separate. From the roommate, too. “Stupid” may not be catching, but scabies are. And God knows what else this Roadhouse Romeo has picked up from his filles de joie. As far as making your roommate see the light, forget about it—I’d say she needs a brick to fall on her head, but it already has, figuratively speaking, and she still refuses to accept the truth. Some people get what they deserve. Or think they deserve. You do the math. The bottom line is, buy Lysol. Lots of it.
And scrub till your elbows ache.
A fire apparently broke out in a building across the street. Believe me, this picture doesn't even begin to do justice to the firepower that was called out for this one. Within 10 seconds, five fire trucks, three police cars and two ambulances appeared on the scene. Another 10 seconds saw at least three more fire trucks and two more ambulances. And the police cars began parking across the intersections.
Diagonally.
The intersections through which traffic, including my bus, were to travel. Of course, the police don't feel the need to explain what's going on--they apparently think their uniform and their swagger are sufficient. But sadly, that didn't get my bus there any faster, and in fact, it detoured down a side street before it even got to us, so I and the rest of my groggy, grumpy, disoriented fellow commuters stumped off to the nearest L station (Loyola) three blocks away. I got on my cell immediately and called the office and left a message (nobody was there yet), just so they knew what was going on (because who knows how long the train was going to take at this rate?).
And all this over a freaking kitchen fire. A person was injured, so it's good that there was a rescue team there, but I couldn't help thinking: what happens if there's a BIG-ASS fire somewhere else and they're all putting out a bacon grease fire over the 7-11?
(I just ooze compassion--isn't it charming?)
I ended up getting to work exactly on time, but I'm usually at least 15 minutes early, and the lack of "padding time" has left me nice and grumpy.
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I just got my certificate of title in the mail this week for my car. The car is currently in storage down in my hometown. It looks nothing like the one pictured here (at least, not anymore), but it did once, except it was blue.
Anyway, it dawned on me the other day that I didn't have the keys to it on my keyring anymore since I've been driving the Momibu. And I don't know where they are.
Shit.
Fortunately, I do have a spare set, but there's a problem: the door key is not mine. A few years ago when I got my oil changed at the Firestone on Clark and Peterson, they somehow put the wrong key on my ring. I went in to the office and explained that it wasn't my key, but they stubbornly swore that it was the same key that was on the ring when I brought the car in. Even my demonstrating to them that it didn't fit the lock wasn't enough to convince the probably-undocumented workers that it was the wrong one. Fortunately, the door was unlocked, and since the ignition key was at least mine, I finally got tired of arguing, started the car and peeled out in a cloud of gravel and disgust. That set HAD been my main set--since I had another, it then became the spare set (for obvious reasons).
So you see my problem now--I no longer have an original key to fit my door--or my trunk. This will be a problem when I go to open the door next time I want to start it, not to mention sell it. I called the Chevy dealer in Chillicothe and explained my problem and they said that there is a man who fits keys, but he won't be in this Saturday (when I'm down there). He usually is, though, so I said I'd call again in a few weeks when I'm coming down (which will be April 12, I guess). I'll also have to bring some bolt-cutters to get into the storage unit, because I can't remember the combination to my lock.
Things are just going swimmingly here. Oh well--it gives me lots of extra time to look for the original keys...I feel sure that they're around my apartment somewhere.
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The Tribune reports that radio host Steve Dahl has almost 2 million air miles from flying so much. There's a link posted on a sidebar that asks us to vote on whether he's "addicted to travel" (because it's not official until John Q. Blowhard votes).
Who gives a shit? Wherever he flies off to, he'll still look like Madalyn O'Hair...
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I need more coffee. NOW.
I agree with some of them ("My Heart Will Go On" is at the TOP of my list, although it was at the bottom of theirs), but I think they should have spent more time critiquing the musical merits of the songs than pissing and moaning about which ones were most politically incorrect.
But then again, this is the generation for that. Once we had the New Seekers--now we have the New Whiners.
Perhaps if The Committee had been ambitious enough, they could have made their way on to some REALLY egregious songs, like "Run Joey Run" (remember that one? I do!) and "Kung Fu Fighting" (I notice no mention was made of the political incorrectness of a Jamaican singing a song about "funky Chinamen in funky Chinatown" and even adding kung fu yells to punctuate the rhythm--classy stuff, Maynard).
Now what the hell is that all about? Why does this guy have another guy inside his jacket?
And why is he so happy about it? Dare I even ASK what the two of them are doing?
No...no, I don't want to know.
And:
The $5 Devon Avenue Haircut Fairy strikes again! (Well, he struck this fairy, anyway...)
I actually like this barber...he's fast, quick and doesn't take any shit. I'm in and out of there in 15 minutes (well, excluding the half-hour wait, because there are always people waiting to get in...they don't do appointments, it's walk-in only).
And seriously, it's $8 WITH a generous tip--it's not like I have tons of hair to style, anyway...so this all works out.
(Oh, and did I mention that the barber is kinda hot?)
And finally --
James Carville REALLY wanted to make sure he reached me quickly today.
As you can see above, he wanted to "take a break from work" to make sure I knew about the big FEC deadline tonight. Considering that his "work" consisted mainly of chasing skirts, appearing on "Politically Incorrect" opposite his frigid conservative wife Mary Matalin and telling dirty jokes in Clinton's office, I thought it was mighty generous of him to take a break. If those things were MY job, I'd never retire. And I'd never take a break, either. I'd work all the overtime possible so I'd get big honkin' fat checks EVERY week.
But he took a break to send me this message today. Twice. He must have forgotten he sent it the first time. His mind must not be what it used to be. (Now what did it used to be again...?)
So maybe it IS time he retired after all...
Apparently, we expect the next leader of the now-only-semi-free-world to balance the budget, lower taxes, reduce the price of gas and fix what's wrong with the environment. Who'da thunk? The President, responsible for making the country better? Perish the thought! (I have to wonder why the article is accompanied by a picture of Mitt Romney--is the Associated Press trying to tell us something? If so, I refuse to listen.)
The article calls these "outsized expectations." I think perhaps that's only because after eight years of incompetent leadership, the pundits and watchdogs have had to adjust their expectations downwards. Well, I look at it differently. Try this one on: we're payin' for it--we better damned well get our value. We sure as hell haven't been lately.
For those who take the view that it's unrealistic to expect a single person to fix every one of the crises facing our country (and indeed, our world), well, that's what the cabinet is for--the President has people to help him with this. Would any of us have thought it "outsized" at the time of GWB's so-called election to imagine that he could undo the many decades of social achievements, budget surpluses and advantages that America had worked so hard to get? I certainly would have. Who could have imagined one man could leave a trail of destruction so long and a swathe of disappointment so wide? So, you see, he did at least exceed our expectations in one area!
But he didn't do it alone. He had a cadre of carefully selected Greedbots seated at his table in the underground lair, each one responsible for ravaging a separate sector of American life. Let's see, we had Tom DeLay cracking the whip down in Texas, all redrawing those voting districts and shit so that minorities would have less electoral standing (and standing on a stack of phone books the whole time--that's gotta be hard!); we had Katherine Harris who, when she wasn't reapplying her Battered Hooker #5 purple eye shadow, was working behind the scenes down in Florida to make sure those disputed ballots got shuffled through; Brother Jeb helping her out (hey--its GOOD to have family in the house!); Dick Cheney gunning his big corporation's engines to "rebuild" the war zones after they got torn up (and conveniently stepping down in the midst of it all so there could be no legal question of conflict of interest); Antonin Scalia and various sundry family friends who got pasted into the Supreme Court to ensure that their conservative social policies would once again (and for the first time since about 1965) become reality, suspending our lives once again into that delusional halcyon sitcom where every woman stays at home wearing shirtwaist dresses and finger wave perms (or is punished by laughable wages and sexual harrassment that's more and more difficult to prove), only men and women live together with benefit of marriage and punishing the single folks with killer taxes, thereby forcing the issue of marriage (so we can all suppress our natures, contributing to ever-increasing resentment which eventually erupts into violence or divorce anyway), and birth control education is discouraged in school, thereby insuring a spate of unplanned children are born to parents who aren't always prepared to raise them (and a dearth of adoptive parents who can care for them).
But hey--those are the liberals' problems, aren't they? Let them worry about it! Life on the Right is one long party--it's a big ol' hoedown complete with roasted pig, Laura's fried chicken, devilled eggs, corn squeezin's and Toby Keith concerts. Those goldurned liberal heathens! If they'd live like the Bible said, everything'd be just fine and dandy!
(Never mind that if the conservatives lived like the Bible said, we'd have fewer business interests controlling the government right now, since the Bible does after all instruct us to show good stewardship of the earth--I can't imagine God dancing for joy at how his children are treating his creation--in fact, I imagine there's a big-ass paddle up there waiting to be used on some wayward neo-con hineys.)
So, to sum it all up, let's BE "outsized" in our expectations. We've had outsized damage done to us for the last better part of a decade (or should I say "longer part of a decade"--it sure hasn't been better). It's only right that we should expect our next leader to start selecting his or her team to put this shit right. And please: do you really think that these candidates don't know what they're facing? If they're smart, they've had ideas for years now. They wouldn't be running if they didn't.
Oh, that's right, we forgot--because non-smokers demanded THEIR right to trawl for booty in dark rooms with spooge-covered walls, too, so they could find a complete stranger with whom to engage in risky sex, in a healthy environment free of second-hand smoke (and so that, when they got them home in the harsh light, they wouldn't have the added indignity of clothes that smell). Our bad!
So how's the new law going for me, you ask?
Thanks for asking. But seriously, folks...
Not that I mind going outside every hour or so (after breathing in so much of the cheap-ass Stud-For-Hire cologne some of these guys wear, a cigarette break actually seems like a healthier alternative every hour or so, ironically), but I do wonder how it will affect the balance of the clientele in various establishments? For example, now that the last vestige of "regular guy-ness" is gone from the "regular guy" bars, I suppose all the insufferable, yibbering drama queens will be streaming into the places where I used to seek refuge from them, with their inane chatter, calling each other "bitch" and "mary," and insisting on playing Madonna and Britney Spears on the jukebox.
How much is a pair of noise-cancelling headphones? (And don't tell me they're less than an oxygen tank, smartasses--I know from the nursing home those things can be had for under $150--I KNOW the headphones are more than that!)
