Sing A Song

So we did Fright Fest again yesterday – but this time it was just me and Lexie. With the exception of the little argument over whether or not she would ride the Demon (an upside down roller coaster I have FOREVER been trying to get her on), we had a really great day. Oh, and she DID go on the Demon. After I told her that if she didn’t, she would be grounded for a month and that ALSO meant no trick-or-treating. But I only said THAT because she had told me the night before that if I let her sleep in my room that she would definitely go on the Demon, so she slept in my room, and then tried to back out of her end of the bargain when we got to Fright Fest. I explained to her that that was the same as outright LYING in my book, and I don’t tolerate liars. Then I threatened her, as stated above, and obviously it worked. And? After the first time, she liked it so much, she wanted to ride AGAIN. And AGAIN. Who says mom doesn’t know best?

Anyway. While we were waiting in line for one of the rides, she casually commented that she knew how to sing a song in Japanese. Surprised, I said, “Really?” And she started to sing in what I guess was Japanese. The tune sounded familiar, and I stopped her to ask what song it was. “Yankee Doodle,” she replied.

“‘Yankee Doodle.’ You learned how to sing ‘Yankee Doodle’ in JAPANESE?” By this time, a woman standing in our vicinity started laughing. And so did I. But Lexie didn’t get the humor.

“Yeah, so?” she said belligerently, and started singing again.

“Lexie,” I said, trying to stop my snickering. “It’s not that I don’t LIKE your song, it’s just that, well, I can’t imagine people singing ‘Yankee Doodle’ in Japan.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s a pretty AMERICAN song. It’s like singing ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ in French.”

This comment got an eye roll and a heavy sigh. “So, I guess this means you’re going to write about me in your blog again, huh?” she asked.

Smart kid. But I’d really like to know if that song she was singing actually WAS ‘Yankee Doodle’ or was a big Japanese joke on American kids. Because if I was a kid and could speak another language, you can bet I’d have a lot of fun with it. Like making them sing “I’m a geeky little girl” or something and telling them it’s ‘Yankee Doodle.’ Heh. Maybe I’ll have Lexie sing slower next time and attempt to translate online. Because if it IS a joke, I don’t want her to keep singing it.

But who knows? Maybe the Japanese sing ‘Yankee Doodle,’ too. Why? I have no idea. Come to think of it, I have no idea why Americans sing it either. The lyrics in English are dumb enough. Not a very talented lyricist, I’ll tell you that much. Why stick a feather in your cap and call it macaroni? And when they say “with the girls be handy,” what EXACTLY are they implying? Was Yankee Doodle a ladies’ man or something? I guess some things are best left unanswered. Just sing it, and don’t ask questions. In English OR Japanese.

Whatever.

A Child's Wishes

So as I was cleaning my (broken)computer desk area at home, I came across this old letter Lexie had written. If memory serves, she was probably about six or so when she wrote it, so just for effect I added her first grade picture at the bottom. You know, in case the letter itself isn’t enough to move you to tears, looking at that angelic little six-year-old face just might nudge you over the edge.

See, it’s things like this that make me both laugh and cry. First off, you can clearly make out the fact that she had originally written this letter to “god” and then changed it to “mom.” I’m not sure if this was because she didn’t think God would help her and had more faith in me, or if she figured since it was a letter, it should be addressed to someone she could actually GIVE it to. Either way, I found that kind of funny.

Then it makes me sad, looking at all the things she wished she had a dad for. Because she’s right, she got gypped. And no matter how much of an asshole her real father is, it really sucks that he never even TRIED. He has never even told her he loves her. Not even in that half-assed letter he sent her this past Christmas. “Kasper” was the after-school daycare that she used to go to, and I do recall her telling me how she thought it was cool that some of the kids’ dads picked them up sometimes. And then all the other things she wanted a dad for – “to give kisses to or hugs,” “to sit on his shoulders for fireworks,” “to help me with my homework,” “to wish with me for Christmas,” and one that broke my heart – “somebody to be my friend.”

How can a man live his life every day knowing he has a child out there and just not give a shit? Can anyone explain that to me? Because I can’t seem to grasp the concept of having a child but pretending you don’t. You know, even though he is over $30K in arrears in child support, I would rather have him call Lexie up and say, “I’ve straightened out my life. I’m sorry. I’d like to try to be a good father” than get a check for the full amount drawn on the Department of Health and Family Services’ child support account. Now, don’t get me wrong, I do not want him in MY life. We never were a good match anyway, the only good thing between us is Lexie. But MY feelings are irrelevant here. It’s my daughter’s that are important.

But then when I read the end of her letter, it hits me. She didn’t want HER dad, she wanted A dad. Because she also wanted a dad to make her mom happy and to “kiss my mom too.” My little girl had big dreams of the perfect family, and it makes me kind of sad. Sometimes I feel like I’m not enough for her, and that she deserves better than just a single mom in a condo. Then I see her big “I Love You” at the end, and realize that what she wanted was for BOTH of us, because she DOES love me so much. She wanted me to have a husband like her friends’ moms do, just as badly as she wanted a dad. And I’ve always told her that someday, maybe, we would have that. And wouldn’t she be the lucky one, because she would get to help pick out her new dad! She always seemed to get a kick out of that.

In any case, four years later at age ten, my Lexie probably still has a lot of the feelings she had in this letter. But I also think that now she realizes how lucky she is to have other people in her life who are just as special as a dad, like her Uncle Bob and her Grandpa. And that whether or not she ever has a “real dad” in her life, she is truly loved.

Although I wouldn’t mind having someone around to make me happy and to kiss me too – after he helps Lexie with her homework, of course.

Meet MY Jackass - Part Deux

Well, it looks like there are people who want to hear the rest after all, so here you go, guys!

So I get back home to Chicago, and once I get settled in, I start thinking. A lot. Because even though Brad stomped on my heart and was a total ass, I still wanted him. Why? I have no idea. I just did. At the very least, I wanted to see him again. I couldn’t just let sleeping dogs lie. Why? BECAUSE I WAS STUPID, that’s why.

Anyway, since it was April when all this happened, it was only about a month before the rest of my friends from college would be returning home for the summer. I needed to put my plan in motion stat. So I picked up the phone and called information. “Can I please get the number to Radio Shack in Western Suburbs?” (Oh, you’re gonna love where THIS is going…)

Once I had the number, I dialed it confidently and finally heard, “Thank you for calling Radio Shack, this is Karl, can I help you?”

Ohhhhh, yes, Karl, you CAN help me! In my best “butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth” voice, I replied, “Hi, Karl, it’s Dasi. From The Frat. Remember?”

Well, Karl was sooo ecstatic to hear my voice and to learn that I had “come to my senses” and looked him up after “dumping his brother,” he invited me out to meet him that evening. Which, of course, I did. And we had a great dinner and good conversation, but the whole time in the back of my mind I kept thinking “heh heh heh – wait until I see Brad…” Yes, I admit it, I was basically using Karl to get to Brad. And before you get all “oh, you are SO wrong!” on me, let me just tell you to finish this story before you side with Karl.

Anyway. Karl and I continued seeing each other and about a week later, he invited me to his house for a party. Or should I say, BRAD’S house. I couldn’t wait. Even though I knew Brad was still in school, getting invited to his house was a big deal. I would get to see his home, see what kind of environment turned him into the jerk he was. I went out to the party after work that particular evening, and walked into a huge house that was filled with people. Karl greeted me with a kiss, pointed me in the direction of the beer, then disappeared, leaving me to fend for myself. I got a beer and sat inconspicuously on a bar stool in the finished basement. I watched the other people laughing and socializing and felt very left out, until an attractive and friendly brunette walked up to me.

“Hey,” she said, “I haven’t seen you around here before. My name’s Angie.”

I smiled back and replied, “That’s because I’m from the city. I’m Debbie, and I’m dating Karl.”

Angie’s face went from friendly to guarded. “Really?” she drawled, “So am I.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. This was NOT good. “Well, uh, I mean, I don’t REALLY like Karl anyway, I’m REALLY interested in Brad.”

Angie sucked her teeth. “Really?” Again: “So am I.”

Now, the funny thing here was that neither of us was really that upset. On the contrary, she was just as curious about ME as I was about HER. Turns out, she was Brad’s “girlfriend” at home, while I was his “girlfriend” at school. And we both were dumped around the same time. AND we both decided to “use” good old Karl – who, it turned out, was using US as well. (Are you following this? Because I LIVED it and it still confuses me sometimes!) Anyway, rather than confront Karl with our discovery, we decided to let him think we never met, and exchanged phone numbers promising to talk more later. I left shortly after, and called Angie the next day. Boy, did WE have a good conversation! Surprisingly, the two of us felt a bond and became pretty good friends, unbeknownst to Karl, and DEFINITELY unbeknownst to Brad, who was (still) at school. She invited me out to her place, and I met her mother, sisters, and brothers. Her mother was a single mom who went out a lot on the weekends, so I would go out to her house and we would hang out and drink and talk with her sister that was just a year younger than us. On the days neither of us had a date with Karl, that is, because we weren’t quite done with him yet.

Then came the day we both had been waiting for. Brad had come home, and Angie invited both him and Karl and a couple mutual friends over to her place on that Saturday night. Oh – and I was invited too. The trap was set. Neither Brad nor Karl had ANY IDEA I would be there, and Brad didn’t even know I had been seeing his brother. See, Karl thought it might not be a good idea to “rub it in his face” right away. (How thoughtful!) I got to Angie’s and we let her sister answer the door when they arrived. Classic!

To their credit, they maintained their composure well. Both of them. Although Karl’s smile seemed a bit forced. And he couldn’t exactly greet either me OR Angie with a kiss, since HE thought neither of us knew about the other. So while Karl stood frozen by the front door, Brad actually came up to me and gave me a hug. “Hey, Dasi! What’s up? Good to see you!”

Ok – YES, I said he gave me a hug, and YES, he said it was “good to see me.” So at this point, I am just as confused as Karl is and am wondering if maybe what happened at school DIDN’T really happen. AND, I am totally melting with his arms around me. Not good.

So now we have a situation wherein Brad is flirting with me, AND flirting with Angie, and poor Karl is trying his best NOT to flirt with either of us in front of the other, instead he is waiting until, say, one of us goes to the bathroom to cozy up to the other. Brad finally figures out that we both are dating Karl, but keeps his mouth shut, and Karl STILL doesn’t know anything. It was a verrrry interesting night.

Karl winds up calling both Angie and me about two minutes apart the next day, trying to find out how well we knew each other and how long we had been hanging out. Brad calls ME the next day and asks if I would like to meet him at a bar the following weekend. And I call Angie, who tells me Brad invited HER, too, and Karl is losing his mind. Now the issue became who was going to stay with whom, since we both were dating Karl but we both REALLY liked Brad. So we started playing the “well, we’ll just wait and see what happens” game.

THEN, Karl tells Angie he loves her, so she sleeps with him. Next day, he tells me he loves ME – but I resisted. Angie tells me about Karl’s declaration of love, and I feel obligated to tell her that I got the same declaration the following day. Fast forward to the following weekend at Angie’s. Same motley crew – Angie, myself, Brad, Karl, their friend Jamie, and Lisa, Angie’s sister. Angie confronts Karl, telling him that she and I knew all along he was dating both of us, but wanted to see how long HE would continue to string us along. Then she informs him that we are aware that he said “I love you” to BOTH of us, less than 24 hours apart, and demands to know HOW he could claim to love TWO PEOPLE at the same time?? His answer? (Get ready) “Look at Jesus, HE loved EVERYBODY!” Angie threw up her hands in exasperation, I started laughing, and neither of us ever went out with Karl again.

Which left Brad. Long story short, he strung both Angie and I along that whole summer, and still used Pink Floyd as his M.O. I must be honest, I kept the blinders on for a long while that summer before finally ripping them violently off and swearing off Brad forever. There was no prouder moment in my life than the day he turned on Pink Floyd while we were parked in his car and I actually said, “No.” Shocked the hell out of him, and he surprisingly smiled at me and took me back to the bar we had left earlier - supposedly “to talk” (yes, I knew he had no intention of talking, but I had gone anyway). That was the last time he came on to me.

It was around that time I met Kevin, and stopped going out to the West Suburbs completely. My friendship with Angie kind of fizzled, as it was pretty much based on our mutual interest in Brad, and in the end, we both hated him. Karl wound up marrying her sister, Lisa early the following year, and I actually went to that wedding. Go figure. (They are divorced, now though. I always thought that was kind of weird, considering Karl was Angie’s “first.” Just imagine her daughter – “Mom, who was the first guy you were with?” “Oh, that would be your Uncle Karl, honey.”) The last time Angie and I spoke a couple years after that fateful summer, she told me how Brad was getting fat and losing his hair and was STILL a total asshole. Which made me laugh.

Until the day I logged on to Classmates and looked up Brad.


Yep, I found him, and guess what? He is MARRIED to ANGIE and has TWO BEAUTIFUL KIDS. And? There were pictures. Lots and lots of pictures of the two of them looking happy with their cute kids and gorgeous house – and it bothered me. I don’t know why, because this was almost TWENTY YEARS after I had last seen him OR Angie, but I felt betrayed by her, and my first thought about Brad was “You should’ve picked me!” Even after twenty years. And even though I KNOW what a jerk he is.

So, there it is. My Jackass. Who for whatever reason, I will always remember – sometimes fondly, and sometimes bitterly, but dammit, some people you just CAN’T forget.

Meet MY Jackass

Hope recently wrote a post about Jackass, and reading it brought back memories of my own personal Jackass. It seems that most women have one (at least!) in their lives, usually around the college years. So I decided that rather than post an unbelievably long comment on Hope’s blog, I would share my own experience here. Obviously, the props go to Hope for making me remember my Jackass in the first place, thus prompting today’s post.

Shall we begin? Let’s.

It was way back in the late 80’s that I first met Brad. I was a freshman in college at a Big 10 University, and I was thoroughly enjoying my newfound freedom and independence. On a beautiful September day, several friends and I decided to check out the frat party scene. After flitting from one party to the next, we eventually wound up at The Frat. Due to the warm weather, most of the partygoers were outside, but the keg was inside. Since I found myself without a beverage, I told my friends to wait for me and went inside to get a drink.

Once inside, I found the keg, but no cups. As I looked around for something to pour a beer into, a dark-haired guy blew past me and picked up a pack of Marlboro Lights that was lying on one of the tables. He opened it up, peered inside, and crumbled it with a muttered, “Shit!” I watched him with amusement, and realized that we may be able to help each other – for back then, I was still a smoker.

“If you can find me a cup, I can give you a cigarette,” I offered, holding out my pack. He turned to face me. Apparently he liked what he saw, because he smiled, took the cigarette, and said, “Come on, I’ve got one downstairs.”

I followed him down the stairs, and into his room, also called “The Dungeon.” It was a pretty nice room, much better than my dorm room, with a mirrored wall, a bar, a full-size waterbed, a couch, a coffee table and a VERY nice stereo system. He vanished behind the bar and came up holding a large plastic mug with the school’s logo. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to me. I went to take it from his hand, but he didn’t let go right away. He was staring at me, and his dark brown eyes twinkled mischieviously at my blue ones. I felt myself blush, and he finally let go.

We went back upstairs and he gallantly filled my mug for me, and the two of us leaned against a table in the empty dining room and started talking. He seemed really nice, and was VERY cute, and when my friends came looking for me, they gave me knowing smiles and left. Eventually, we wound up back downstairs in the Dungeon, where he turned on Pink Floyd and we continued to talk.

Well, Brad was a pretty smooth guy, and I was pretty naïve, so it wasn’t long before the talking led to more. And more. So with “Run Like Hell” playing in the background (don’t EVEN get me started on the irony there…) I lost my virginity to a guy I barely knew. Deliberately - I knew exactly what I was doing (well, as far as technique, I didn’t, but thank God for the waterbed…) and wasn’t taken advantage of, and kind of convinced myself that I just wanted to “get it over with” anyway. So initially, I used him. He walked me back to my dorm, and the two of us spent the rest of the night together in the empty room across the hall. In the morning, my roommate saw us walking out, and I introduced her to “Brett.” I winced as my stud corrected me: “Um, it’s BRAD.”

He kissed me on the cheek and left – not even getting my number.

That should’ve been that, and if I had any brains at all, I would’ve kept as far away from The Frat as possible, but I didn’t. The following week, my friends and I wound up there again for yet another party, and I had my second run-in with Brad. I tried to play it cool and ignore him, because I actually did feel a little guilty for getting his name wrong the morning after. But surprisingly enough, HE approached ME and acted like we had been a couple for years. I have to admit, I loved the attention. He was an attractive senior, and I was a lowly freshman. He seemed pretty popular in The Frat, and there were plenty of girls hovering around him, while giving me dirty looks.

Initially, things went really well between us. But as soon as I started to fall for him, he started to change. Or should I say, he started to show the REAL Brad. Apparently he was the guy who loved a challenge, and had a new freshman every semester. Some days he would be wonderful to me, other days he would treat me like shit. But I put up with it, because I LOVED him. The whole first semester I was his doormat, and didn’t listen to anyone who tried to talk sense into me. Because every time he was a jerk, a day or two later, he would be a prince – but of course those were the times we wound up in bed. Sometimes he would literally be a total asshole from the first minute on and then at the end of the night, hang all over me, take me down to the Dungeon and turn on Pink Floyd (a not too subtle sign) – only to be a dick again the next morning. BUT, I was STUPID.

His brother even came down to visit, he was a year older and looked like a negative of Brad. Karl had blonde hair and blue eyes, and spent most of his visit trying to convince me to dump Brad and go out with him. Because Brad was no good and HE would treat me right. I told Karl I was flattered, but that Brad and I were fine, and I was happy with him. (whatafool whatafool whatafool)

Anyway, I actually had myself convinced that since Brad still kept me around in the second semester and usually dumped his freshies after the first, I MUST be special to him. But the mental abuse continued. Finally, due to stress from screwing up in my classes, issues with Brad, and issues with some of the guys in The Frat (in their own twisted way, they tried to help me get away from Brad – by being mean to me and trying to make me stay away from the House), I wound up doing the stupidest thing I have ever done in my life.

I went back to my dorm after yet another confrontation with Brad, and swallowed sixty pills.

Thankfully, and mostly due to my brother (whose picture I was looking at while I “waited to die”), I changed my mind and stumbled over to a friend’s house. They got me to the hospital and let me tell you, it SUCKED. Drinking charcoal and nasty ass stuff designed to make you puke is no fun. My parents had to come in and obviously I felt pretty stupid and guilty for doing what I did. The school had a policy that I wouldn’t be allowed to complete the semester (or return AT ALL, for that matter), but I convinced my parents to let me stay for one more week to say my goodbyes.

After many promises to keep in touch and hugs and tears, I had only one person left I really wanted to clear the air with before I went back to Chicago. So I called Brad and planned to meet him at one of the quieter bars the day before I actually left. As I waited for him, I downed a couple Long Islands for liquid courage, and then I saw him walking in. His face was a mask of indifference as I told him that I didn’t want him to think what I did was his fault, that it wasn’t, and that no matter what happened between us, I really cared for him a lot. That he was really special to me, and I hoped we could always stay at least friends.

He looked me in the eye and told me that he never had any feelings for me at all. I believe his exact words were, “Look, we slept together the first night we met. How could you think it ever meant anything to me?” I was too stunned to speak. He pounded the stake through my already broken heart one more time by adding, “You’re going back to Chicago, I’m going back to Western Suburb (that I won’t name here), so we’ll probably never see each other again. Have a nice life.” And without so much as a handshake, he got up and left.

As I watched him walk out that door, I was aware of my mouth hanging open in shock, and after a few blinks to make sure this was really happening, I closed it. There were no tears, I was all cried out already, and it was at that moment my feelings for Brad began to change. He was sooo wrong, I thought. He DID care about me. And he would regret this day forever.

A plan formed in my mind, and when my parents picked me up to go back to Chicago the next day, I was actually excited about the prospect of starting things over back home. This was going to be interesting, for sure.

Ok, I know you all HATE cliffhangers, but this is long enough for now. I really DO have to do some work! And I forgot how involved this story was. It WON’T be like “TBOTE,” this will be finished in Part 2. Which, depending on available time, will be either later today or tomorrow. Unless nobody cares about the rest, in which case there will be no Part 2 at all.

Cheesy Poems

The following are a couple poems I wrote when I was fifteen – and obviously had TOTALLY figured out the whole “love” thing… or so I thought! I’m posting them today for Amber, and for anyone else who cares. I know they’re cheesy, but remember, I was FIFTEEN!

“Clinging To A Dream”

When first I saw your handsome face
I knew it must be true
You’d be the guy with whom I’d share
My hopes and troubles, too.
I fell in love with you so fast
You soon became my god
But things you did would sometimes seem
Oh so very odd.
One day it seemed you loved me too
And then the next, no more
You always hurt me very much
Sometimes I’d think “What for?”
I’d wonder why I’d take so much
From you or any guy
But then you’d call and act so calm
My heart would soar and fly.
Soon I would forget the things
You went and did to me
But often times I’d sit and think
“When will the next time be?”
Of course, that time comes very soon
Acting cool I’d try
But actually when I’d go home
I’d just sit down and cry.
I wish our love was ours forever
Not just from time to time
Cause in my heart the things you do
Are such an awful crime.
I wish that you would notice
I wish that you would care
I wish that you would realize
That love is really there.
Someday you WILL realize
And hold me close and beam
But as for now I’ll stay like this
Clinging to a dream.

Side note: The guy I wrote this for totally broke my heart after a whole three month relationship – he wound up dating my (EX) best friend while I was still mourning. The funny thing is that I found out about ten years ago he’s gay – so now I don’t feel so bad!

“Poem #2 (Unnamed)”

The only guy girls ever love
Is the one that they can’t get
It never fails, they fall quite hard
On him, their heart is set.
I don’t know why, but it is true,
Just look around and see
All the girls think all the time
“Why doesn’t he love ME?”
I wish I knew the reason why
Because I’ve fallen too
In doing so I soon found out
There’s not much you can do.
You cannot make him jealous
And flirt with other guys
He’ll only laugh and say “Good luck”
It’s a trick he’ll never buy.
You can’t come out and tell him
All your feelings deep inside
Cause then he’ll get embarrassed
From you, he’ll always hide.
You can’t say “Oh, well, let’s be friends”
Cause then your chance is done
Your dream will die and then you’ll think
“He was the only one.”
But you can hold on to wishes
And fantasize each day
Maybe someday he’ll come around
And see all things your way.
Maybe someday he’ll love you back
Though many don’t, you know
But hold on tight and take your chance
If you really love him so.

Gosh, my love life was so much more exciting (yet angst ridden) when I was a teenager! I’m not sure whether I should miss those days or be glad they’re over!!

The Un-Shower

This past weekend, my mother and I were discussing plans for my sister-in-law’s baby shower. While doing so, my mother laughed and commented that she doesn’t think my brother has any idea how much baby stuff they are going to wind up with. She’s probably right, as guys generally don’t have a clue about showers. And even though he was the good husband-to-be and went to Sarah’s bridal shower, getting a ton of baby stuff CAN be overwhelming.

Anyway, after spending this time with my mother and discussing the shower, I once again started going over my own master plan in my head. You see, I am going to have my very own shower. For ME. The plan is this: if I am not in a committed relationship (or married) by the time I am 40 (which, by the way, is rapidly approaching), I am having an “I’m Not Getting Married But I Want Stuff Anyway” Shower. And before you berate me for wanting to do this, hear me out.

I have never in my life had a shower. NEV-ER. Yes, I have a daughter, but since no one in the family knew I was even pregnant until AFTER I had her (looooong story – for another blog) there was obviously no baby shower. And I have never been married (or engaged, for that matter), hence no bridal shower. BUT, I have a ton of cousins and plenty of friends, and have attended at least two to three dozen bridal showers and about two dozen baby showers in my lifetime. Now, I am not complaining about the lack of a baby shower, especially since that wouldn’t be fair since no one knew. And to be honest, the people who cared about me were wonderful and supportive, and brought over gifts for Lexie once they DID find out. But the whole bridal shower situation has begun to irk me.

Obviously, every time I attend a shower, I bring a nice gift, one that the shower-ee has carefully selected from Crate and Barrel or Bed Bath and Beyond or Carson Pirie Scott or something. And damn, do they make out! Kitchen gadgets, sheet sets, crystal, bath towels, flatware, dishes – even small appliances. Just because they are getting married. Why does society deem it necessary to give couples all this new stuff JUST BECAUSE THEY ARE GETTTING MARRIED?? Let’s think about this a minute. When two people get engaged, they are joining their lives together, right? And essentially joining all their STUFF together, too. Which means that most couples wind up with two of everything important before they even HAVE the shower. (Unless the husband-to-be is one of those guys who lives with his mom until his wedding day.) Seriously. They already HAVE the necessities – tons of towels, plenty of sheets, two sets of dishes, glasses and flatware… Most single gals already have the basic cooking utensils and pots and pans… Am I wrong about this? So the bottom line is, when the couple is registering for their shower, they are registering for ALL NEW STUFF. Even if they already have perfectly good OLD stuff. And they are registering for crazy things they would NEVER pay money for themselves, like a salad spinner or a bread machine. And usually, they wind up getting everything on their list. Not. Fair.

Why, you ask? BECAUSE I AM NOT GETTING MARRIED, AND I WANT NEW STUFF TOO!! Let’s look at this logically – who needs new stuff more, a two-income married couple with no kids, or a single mom who doesn’t even get child support? Hmmmmm. Why should I be penalized just because I am not getting married? I mean, do I HAVE to accept Mr. South Side’s offer to fly to Vegas just so I can get the Egyptian cotton sheets I’ve been dying for? Why is it that if a woman chooses to remain single, or hasn’t found anyone she can imagine spending the rest of her life with, she can’t register for gifts anyway? I think that is just plain WRONG. Especially since I have given more than my share of shower gifts throughout my adult life. I expect some reciprocation here, people. It’s only fair.

I have discussed this with most of my aunts and cousins, and although they all claim to back me on my “I’m Not Getting Married But I Want Stuff Anyway” Shower, I don’t think they are taking me seriously. They all laugh and laugh and say, “Oh, Dasi! You are soooo funny! Count me in!” But I think they are just patronizing me. Well, just wait until they get the invitation in a few years. Along with my registry list. We’ll see if they still think it’s a good idea then.

Oh, and? MY shower won’t be at some stuffy banquet hall. Remaining single is something a woman should be proud of, I say. CELEBRATE your independence! So MY shower will be in the back room of a bar or something. And there won’t be chicken champagne or whatever and a cheesy punch. At MY shower we will serve beer and hot wings. (And flavored vodka. I like flavored vodka.) So mark your calendars, ladies! Barring the unlikely event that I find my soulmate in the next few years, I’m having the first ever non-traditional shower. And I can’t wait to register. I really do need new stuff, I tell ya.

The Beginning of the End, Part XI

My week in Reno was enough to convince me that I loved it there, and I loved Kevin, so my first agenda when I got home would be to pack up and book the soonest flight available so I could come back permanently. Kevin and I discussed this at length during my visit, and we also discussed it with Matt. Matt and I got along really well, and I had no problem with him staying with us. But he insisted that after he got a job he would look for his own place, and leave us alone. Kevin and I told him there would be no rush.

The whole time I was there, I was filled with excitement thinking of my new life ahead. Kevin took me to the casinos, whose adrenaline-surged atmosphere made my heart race. We walked along Virginia Lake and fed the ducks, while looking at the mountains in the background. I met Linda and Chris, whose throwback hippie style relaxed me and made me laugh. And not once did Kevin or I even bring up the subject of partying. Of course, we did drink at the casinos, but that was the extent of it. Besides, how could you pass up an opportunity to drink for free? He showed me how you could get a roll of nickels for $2.00 and order free drinks while playing the slots one nickel at a time. And SOMETIMES even win a couple bucks!

We had a fantastic week, and the day before I left, as we were walking down the block to the condo, we came across some kids sitting on their front lawn with a big cardboard box. Our curiosity got the better of us, and when we got close enough, we saw that there were about seven little kittens mewing frantically inside. Almost instinctively, I reached in and picked up a tiny black and white ball of fluff that immediately started purring. Kevin looked at my pleading eyes, and reached over to pet the little guy, who looked up at him and went, “Schmau!” in a squeaky kitten voice. So the day before I left, one free kitten named “Schmauser” became Kevin’s companion until I returned.

It was a bittersweet goodbye, since we both knew it was only a matter of time before I returned for good. When I got back to Chicago, I informed my parents of my intentions. While not thrilled, they heard the determination in my voice and decided (correctly) that it would be useless to try to talk me out of it. They helped me pack when it came time to go, and three weeks after I ended my vacation they drove me to the airport for my flight back to Reno, my new home.

I cried as I hugged my mom and dad, and promised to call often, but beyond my tears was an excitement I could barely contain. Waiting in Reno-Canon Airport would be the man that I loved, ready to take me to OUR home, to OUR kitten (even after knowing him only a day, I missed the little guy!), to OUR new life together. I spent the flight reading a book but barely comprehending WHAT I was reading most of the time. My mind was just too preoccupied with the adventure that lay ahead.

When I got off the plane and saw Kevin standing just beyond the gate, I knew I had made the right decision. We made our way to the baggage claim to pick up the various suitcases, boxes and Hefty bags which contained my life. “What, are you moving in?” he joked.

I smiled and kissed him. “Yup.”

On the drive home (home – it still seemed unreal that Reno was now my home) I told Kevin how I had already contacted the Olive Garden about a job, since I had worked at Red Lobster back in Chicago and they were both owned by the same corporation I was pretty much hired already. But I had to meet with the manager in two days. He seemed impressed, then without looking at me casually mentioned that he wasn’t having as much luck in finding a job. But he would – he was quick to assure me – I shouldn’t worry. Besides, he still had PLENTY of money left. Oh, and Matt? He had decided that he was in no hurry to move out after all. And hadn’t found a job, either.

At that point, I wasn’t worried too much, after all, MY job was pretty much guaranteed, and I had faith that Kevin would find one soon. I was determined to think only of the good things – the fact that we were back together, for one. Then Kevin announced that he had a surprise for me when we got home. I begged and pleaded for him to tell me, but he kept refusing with a teasing grin, insisting that I would have to wait until we got home and I was partially unpacked.

I let Kevin do most of the unloading for me, as I raced up the stairs of the condo with my suitcases that held most of my toiletries and some clothes. I was greeted by Schmauser at the door, who let out his trademark “Schmau!” upon seeing me. I stopped to pet him, then continued to carry my stuff into the bedroom as he weaved himself in between my legs with every step, seemingly trying to stop me from moving forward. “Stop it, goofy!” I laughed, as I set down my load.

“Where’s Matt?” I called out to Kevin, noticing how quiet the place was.

“He ran out for a while. He’ll be back later. We were planning to visit a couple of his friends in Carson City later, if you’re up for it,” he replied.

I wandered back into the living room and sat at the built in counter facing the kitchen. Kevin finished bringing up my stuff and disappeared into the bedroom. “What are you doing?” I called.

“Wait ONE minute…” he yelled.

I sat on my stool, looking around the place. My home. MY home. OUR home. A new beginning, one that I was sure would be the start of a life filled only with good things and happiness. I was finally in Reno, permanently, with my Kevin, I had a job set up – nothing could change the fact that the future looked bright.

And then Kevin walked out of the bedroom.

“The shit out here is UNBELIEVEABLE, babe,” he said, holding out the still-smoking pipe. “Have a hit.”

The Bad Mom

Yesterday, my daughter told me I was cool. She told me that she was really glad that I was her mom, because I was a cool mom who did things with her. She said that some of her friends’ moms may buy them lots of things, but she would rather have me because we always have fun together. I can’t even tell you how proud I was. And really, we DO do fun things together. We went to Fright Fest at Great America not once, but TWICE this year. (And we’re going again next Sunday.) We watch tv together and laugh about the characters, or discuss in depth what we think is going to happen next. (Like on Lost. Or The Amazing Race. Or our soap operas. Yes, I know, we do watch too much tv. But I’ve already admitted that.) We talk about everything, and I mean EVERYTHING. There are no taboo subjects between us, and I don’t want there to ever be any.

Anyway, I was really proud. And then what do I do? I get crabby at the end of the night last night and I wind up being mean to her. She was getting ready for bed, and asked if she could sleep in my bed since it was cold in her room. Now, she’s right, it DOES get cold in her room, and I have to eventually get new windows, but it doesn’t get UNBEARABLY cold until the winter months. So from December until February, she pretty much does sleep with me. And although I am not a big fan of sharing my personal space, I do have a king size bed and I can’t really let my daughter freeze, so I deal with it. (Until we get those new windows!) But as I said, her room was not cold at all last night. Maybe she was freaked out from Fright Fest, I don’t know, but in any case I made a big production about how I didn’t want her in MY bed, and there was nothing wrong with HER bed, and besides, wasn’t she ten years old? She hemmed and hawed and even though I knew I was making her feel bad, I continued on. Maybe if her room were CLEAN, like it was SUPPOSED to be, she would be ok sleeping in her own room. MAYBE she didn’t want to sleep in her room because it SMELLED in there, since she hadn’t cleaned it last week like I asked. And then I told her very sarcastically that she could sleep in my room, because OBVIOUSLY she always does whatever she wants anyway. That it really didn’t matter what I wanted. She told me she would sleep on the very edge and not bother me while I slept, and I just gave her a “whatever.” So she slunk off to bed with her little stuffed dog, and when I went to sleep a half hour later, she was squeezed all the way over to the edge and was barely under any covers at all.

Well, I felt the pang of guilt kick me in the stomach, and I covered her better and moved her away from the edge. In the morning, I got up and showered, then woke her up. Now, a little backstory here – she had a field trip with school today that she had known about for about a month. And yesterday she tells me she is going to wear her sandals to school because she “can’t wear gym shoes to the opera.” Apparently the kids were told they have to dress nicely. So, I am deservedly a bit frustrated that she is telling me this THE DAY BEFORE the field trip, but also thankful that we already had plans to meet my mother and go shopping for other things. I pointed out to my darling that obviously if she couldn’t wear gym shoes, I would assume she couldn’t wear jeans either – so what was she planning to wear? She admitted she didn’t know, so I gritted my teeth and told her that we would buy her something new today, but that she had to tell me things like this RIGHT AWAY – and not THE DAY BEFORE. Anyway, we wound up getting her a really cute pair of slacks, a dressy-casual top, and a cute pair of black suede shoes. Oh, AND a new pair of gym shoes – Nike Airs, no less.

So back to this morning. As I am running around getting her lunch ready, and myself ready, she finishes her shower and I go to dry her hair. We finish that, and she goes to get dressed. All of a sudden, I hear the telltale heavy sigh. “WHAT IS WRONG NOW?” I yell. “Nothing…” she sighs. We go back and forth like this until she stops sighing and tells me that her socks don’t look right and I made her get pants that are too big and she doesn’t like the shoes after all. So, do I become the nurturing mother and tell her everything is fine? No. I feel my blood boiling and give her a pair of my black socks to wear (which of course, she complained about more) and then proceed to tell her that she has NO IDEA how lucky she is that she even got that outfit at all, that because I charged her clothes at the store yesterday, I may not be able to get my refi approved, and won’t be able to pay our mortgage and we might just have to move, and if we move, maybe she will realize how lucky she HAS been because we will be living in a tiny apartment far away from all her friends and she can sleep with me EVERY night since we won’t be able to afford a two-bedroom place. I tell her that she is spoiled rotten, and I guess that it is MY fault for doing everything for her, and she has NO IDEA how good she really has it. That I am working so hard every day to do things FOR HER and buy things FOR HER, and that even though I can’t afford to pay my bills, I will take her shopping for a costume tonight because EVERYTHING IS ABOUT HER. But that someday in the near future we may be broke and living in an alley somewhere, so she’d better enjoy what she has now.

All this because… hell, I really don’t even know why. I think I just get overstressed and frustrated and hearing her whining about silly things like that put me over the edge. But that doesn’t mean that I should react like that. And I CERTAINLY shouldn’t tell her we’ll lose our home because she needs a Halloween costume. I know, I’m mean. I always apologize, and try explaining to her that sometimes it frustrates me when she takes everything for granted, and she says “that’s ok” – but it’s not. I have to realize that she is only ten, and I can’t worry her about things she doesn’t need to worry about. I think maybe I vent on her because it IS just the two of us, and there’s no one else to vent TO. Just like she can be beastly to me. And believe me, she CAN be beastly.

I’m always having people tell me how I’m such a great mom and Lexie is such a great kid – and sometimes I feel like such a damn fraud. I want to say, “No, I’m not. I’m mean and I yell, and I hurt her feelings on purpose even though I regret it later. I’m an AWFUL mom, and my poor daughter is probably going to grow up hating me.” But instead I say, “Thank you.”

The funny thing is, Lexie and I know each other on that mother-daughter level that every mother and daughter have, but about 100 times better. Because we’ve ALWAYS been a team act, just the two of us, and we’ve managed this far alone. And even when we DO fight, or hurt each other’s feelings, we’re quick with an apology or a hug. I think we both know each other’s moods, and have learned to weather the storms. Which doesn’t make it right, of course. No excuses here.

And even though I seriously AM scared about finances and the mortgage and other adult-things, they shouldn’t affect Lexie. And even though sometimes she can be more like an adult that I feel, she’s not. I love her more than I ever thought I could love anyone, and I’m scared to death that her childhood memories will be bad ones. I really WANT to be the good mom that everyone thinks I am, and I WANT to be the cool mom Lexie says I am - I want to deserve the compliments.

I feel like “I’m sorry” is getting old, for both of us – Lord knows she says it enough too – and maybe I need to refocus on the big picture and not so much the little things. Maybe I need to think more before I vent, or vent HERE instead of at home. Lexie deserves sooo much more than me, but unfortunately I’m all she’s got.

But either way, I still want her to clean her room and quit complaining about her clothes.

Just When You Thought it was Safe...

So, time to find out which of you are long-time, loyal readers… (heh-heh) Don’t worry, if you’re not, you can delve into the archives to get the backstory…

(In a singsong voice) Guess who called my cell last night?

Here’s a hint: it played the theme from “The Exorcist” and came up as “Restricted.”

Ohhhhhh, yes! To be fair, I can’t say for 100% definite that it was, in fact, Mr. South Side, but COME ON! Whoever it was didn’t hang up when I answered, and after I said “hello” a couple times, I could hear someone breathing (not heavy obscene phone call breathing, just normal breathing), and then hang up.

Lexie thinks next time my phone plays that tune, I should answer like this: “Hey Baby! I missed you! Where are you at?” and if he answers (or even if he doesn’t), say “Wait a minute – Jim (or any other male name that isn’t his)? Isn’t this you??”

She’s pretty funny for a ten-year-old, don’tcha think? I’m SOOO DEFINITELY gonna do that! Oh, and? This is the second such call in the past week, only I forgot to tell you last time. Besides, the last call was at 1:43 am and I OBVIOUSLY didn’t answer it. Sigh. It really sucks being the object of a psycho’s undying affection…

A Short Post

Yesterday as I was leaving work, I overheard the receptionist on the phone. She obviously wasn’t on a business call, because this is what she said: “No, I’ve never dated short men.” For whatever reason, that comment made me laugh. And I told her as the elevator doors opened that I wished I had time to hang around and hear the rest of that conversation.

I was only half-kidding.

I’ve always been tall myself. ALWAYS. Not as tall as my sister-in-law, but at 5’9” I feel pretty tall. And keep in mind that 5’9” has been my height pretty much since high school. Not really a big deal, but there always seemed to be a shortage (no pun intended) of taller guys.

It seemed in high school that most guys were just my height or shorter than me. Once in a while, I would meet a taller guy, but not that often. I really didn’t have a problem with it back then, I tried to look beyond the surface and see the real person. (Oh, and by the way, I SUCKED at that. Most guys I dated in high school were total jerks.) Anyway, during my junior year of high school, my best friend and I hung out with this guy Steve. Steve was 20, blonde, very cute, and taller than me. Steve had a brother who was 17 named Robby, and Robby had darker hair, was ok looking, but was shorter than me. Now, since I was always the follower back in high school, and had a considerably less amount of self-esteem than my best friend, SHE was the one who wound up dating Steve. Yay for them. Meanwhile, I started thinking more about Robby – he was a funny guy, and he WAS older than me, after all… He flirted with me a lot, and finally one night while we were at a party, he and I wound up sitting on the couch together and making out. Now, sitting down, things were all well and good. Height didn’t seem to be such an obstacle at that point. So we didn’t stand up for the rest of the night, and talked and kissed a lot.

When I got home that night, I remember being so distraught over the fact that Robby was shorter than me that I even wrote about it in my journal. That particular entry turned into a blatant campaign FOR Robby, and I cited such famous couples as Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley and Barney and Betty Rubble. After much teenage angst, I decided that I didn’t care what other people thought, I liked him. And since my best friend had already asked Steve to Junior Prom, I made up my mind to ask Robby. Which I did. He said yes, and when Prom night came, I realized that I had probably made a huge mistake.


My heels made me even taller than Robby, and he looked pretty uncomfortable. The whole night, he was razzed, and I had several girls cattily ask me if I had brought my younger brother. When we had our prom picture taken, I took off my heels, but the photographer had another suggestion. He brought out a box for Robby to stand on. Unfortunately, even without my shoes and WITH the box, Robby was still shorter than me. (Funny, looking at the picture now, Robby reminds me of that sidekick from “A Christmas Story.” You know the one…) Long story short (again, no pun intended) after prom Robby broke up with ME because he said I was “too tall.” Whatever. He actually turned out to be pretty much a jerk anyway, and my cousin Karyn wound up grabbing him by his shirt and slamming him against a wall for hurting my feelings once – but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

As an adult, I tend to prefer taller men, just on principle. I probably would date someone my height, but would probably NOT date a shorter man ever again. And I would DEFINITELY never date a midget. Because believe it or not, I was propositioned by one about five years ago in a neighborhood bar. I’m so totally not kidding – do you really think I could make this stuff up??

See, I was supposed to meet a friend, but she called me on my cell to cancel once I was already there and waiting. Since it was a neighborhood bar, I decided to just hang out by myself and chat with the bartender and the other people. So there I am, socializing and having fun (and getting a lot of free drinks, too, being a girl alone in a bar does have its advantages…) when this midget (literally) jumps up onto the empty stool next to me. I found this pretty humorous, partially because I was pretty buzzed, and partially because it’s not every day a midget starts flirting with you. Anyway, he starts talking to me and trying to impress me with the things midgets can do for a woman (EEEWWW!!) and I start to realize that he is a TOTAL PERV and I want him gone. So I kind of start ignoring him, and then he asks me, “SO, do you know any other midgets?” And I’m all like, “Uh, no, I really don’t think so.” But then it occurred to me – I DID! “Wait a minute!” I then said, “Actually, I DID know a guy when I was in high school and used to hang out at the roller rink. He was a dj there and-” At this point, midget interrupted me: “That was me.”

Wow. Small world (third time – NO PUN INTENDED). Then I had ANOTHER thought. “But wait! There WAS another guy who was a dj at Shooter’s when I used to go THERE about ten years ago or so…” I didn’t get to finish that thought either, because (you guessed it) “That was me, too. Wow, I KNEW you looked familiar!”

Of course. I mean, what are the odds that I would know more than one midget? Pretty slim. So apparently I already knew this guy from wayyyy back in my past, but obviously he didn’t used to be this perverted, and had never hit on me. Or maybe I had never noticed. Which I really don’t think was the case, because his come-on lines NOW were pretty blatant. And vulgar. Eventually he got tired of me ignoring him and hopped off the stool and left. Thankfully, I never saw him again.

So, those are my reasons for not wanting to date shorter men. Or midgets (who would be shorter men by default). But you can’t say I didn’t at least try.

Being the Bigger (Wo)Man

Ok, Timmortal and all you other south siders out there, this one’s for you. And I think you’re gonna like it. Although may I first say that typing these words is literally KILLING me, but after much soul searching, I have decided to be the better man. Well, the better woman, actually.

After listening to our Governor, the numerous Sox fans both on tv and at the office, and my brother (not necessarily in that order), I have decided to no longer bash the White Sox. I will no longer cheer for the other team, I will no longer get pissed off with every Chicago home run hit in the Cell. I will TRY not to make White Sox fan jokes (that one may be pretty difficult, though considering… JUMP BACK! See, it’s automatic, I can’t help myself!!), and I will actually be happy if the Sox go all the way. I may not cheer for them openly, but I will not curse them, either.

As the Gov said, I will NOT wear a Sox cap or jersey, because I am still, and always will be, a die-hard Cub fan. But the fact of the matter is that the Cubs are not in the World Series, and the Sox are, and as long as they aren’t playing each other… well, I guess I can suck it up and be happy for the south side. (Somebody better check – I think Hell just froze over…) Now, before you all start gloating and being all “Sox Rule!” and everything, keep in mind that this does NOT change the fact that the Cubbies are my guys, and always will be, no matter what place they wind up in each season. I will always prefer them to the Sox, and I will probably never set foot inside the Cell. Even if I was handed front row by the dugout seats for the deciding game of the World Series, I would not go. (Hell, I would SELL them!! Are you NUTS?? I could practically pay off my mortgage with the asking price for those!!)

Besides, as my brother pointed out, it is not being disloyal to the Cubs if they have already been eliminated. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m sure that Kerry and Jeromy and Nomar are supporting their cross-town rivals as well. So I am grudgingly becoming not necessarily a “fan,” but a “supporter.” Another thing my brother said (which is the fun part) is that if I, as a Cub fan, show support for the White Sox, it will confuse the hell out of some of them. For example, if I were, say, in a bar during a game wearing my Cub bracelet or sweatshirt or just commenting on the Cubs, obviously advertising my loyalty, and a die-hard Sox fan came up and started digging on me, I could look at him (or her) and calmly say, “Yes, I am a Cub fan, but I totally support the Sox. I really hope they win it all for the city.” And then what would that Sox fan say? “Cubs Suck!” probably, but a little more weakly and with confusion. Because that is not the attitude Sox fans are used to from Cub fans.

So, in a nutshell, I am letting go, turning it over, taking one day at a time (a few little phrases I learned from a different addiction, but it works well with baseball-team addictions, too). One day at a time, that is, until it’s the Cubs’ turn to make the city proud again.

(Ahem) Go White Sox.

Glory Days

Lately I have been receiving e-mails from both Classmates.com and from the Alumni Society of my old high school, because 2006 marks the 20th anniversary of my graduation. (Twenty years! Like I don’t already feel old enough!) Basically these e-mails keep asking me if I want to organize a reunion, or get in touch with some “old friends” and help THEM organize a reunion. And how do I respond to these e-mails? Simple – I don’t. Delete, delete, delete. Now, before you get all horrified, it’s not that I wouldn’t actually GO to a reunion, because I would. I SO TOTALLY would. I went to my 10th reunion and actually had a pretty good time. But to ORGANIZE it? Hell, no! I wasn’t UN-popular in high school by any means, but I certainly wasn’t with the pep squad, either. I pretty much got along with everyone, and fit in with several different “groups.” I was an honors straight-A student (with the exception of a “Christian Lifestyles” class that I actually failed – go figure!) who got along with the brains, the burnouts, and the average janes… and liked it that way. The only people I really never meshed with were the jocks and the student council preppies. Nor did I care to, for that matter. Anyway.

The high school I went to was Resurrection High School in Chicago, a catholic all-girls high school. Yes, I know. Sounds verrrrry scarrrry, doesn’t it? But really, it had some pretty good points. And I did enjoy my time there – I’m not one of those “God I HATED high school and I would NEVER go back” people. Because I didn’t hate high school, and I’d definitely go back – I had fun. I just didn’t realize it at the time. At least, not usually. You know, the usual teenage angst crap. When I look back in my journals, they crack me up. I had no idea how good I had it back then! So yes, Res was an ok school. There were actually two other all-girls Catholic high schools in the area, but Res was the only one I had any desire to attend. Res was more of an “average jane” school, while the other two were more “uppercrust,” and hence more snobbish. The girls at Regina Dominican and Mother Guerin tagged us as “Ressie Lezzies,” but we ‘Resites’ were less cutesy and more to the point – we just called them “stuck-up bitches.”

Since there were no boys at our school, it took a lot less time to get ready in the morning. No one to impress, unless you were one of the vast numbers that had a thing for Mr. Mazzulla the Social Studies teacher. Which sooo wasn’t me – I mean, sure the guy was a cool teacher, but I didn’t think he was all that. After all, the guy had to be like thirty, at least – gross!! (Oh wow, like I am TOTALLY older than Mr. Mazzulla now!! Well, not in real-time, but in high school time, anyway…) You never had to worry about looking stupid in front of a guy you liked, because there weren’t any guys. You could talk about sex and periods and soap operas freely and without worry, and nobody cared about sports scores (except the jocks, of course). Study hall and lunch were always fun, and you could actually EAT at lunch and not worry about some guy thinking you were a pig.

One of the really neat things about going to an all-girls school was the end of the day. If you were one of the lucky girls who had a boyfriend, AND said boyfriend had a car, you had the opportunity to be the envy of your peers. Because every day near the end of final period you could see the line of cars outside by the curb. In fall and spring, if it was still warm out, some of the guys would be leaning (very cool-like) against their cars, defiantly smoking cigarettes while the nuns stared out the windows at them in contempt. (There were several attempts made by the nuns to stop this so-called “travesty,” but nonetheless it continued.) And if you were one of the lucky ones (sometimes even if you WEREN’T, in the hopes of snagging some guy’s eye who may be growing tired of his current girlfriend) you stopped in the bathroom before you left, rolled up the plaid uniform skirt so it was about 6” above your knees instead of 3” BELOW them, added more makeup than the nuns allowed, and finished off your can of Rave hairspray on your poofy hair. Then, and only then, would you strut outside to your waiting chariot.

Fun stuff.

A lot of people don’t understand how you actually meet guys when you go to an all-girls school, but let me tell you, it ain’t hard. There were several all-boys high schools in the area, and all the schools had dances that pretty much anyone was free to attend. Also, I happened to work across the street at the hospital, and there were several cute guys that worked there as well. And of course, if all else failed, there was the ever-popular “Harlem Cruise,” where you just piled in the car with your girlfriends and drove up and down Harlem Avenue, realllly slowly, trying to find a similar car full of guys. Believe me, we had NO TROUBLE at all finding guys!

But really, high school was all about friends. Once I decided in sophomore year that I wanted to meet more people and have more fun, I did just that. No, I wasn’t Ms. Popularity or anything, but I’d say I was kind of known… my yearbooks have a ton of autographs in them, but the only picture of me was in the obligatory student photo section. (Oh – except for senior year – there’s a picture of me hugging a friend at graduation!) And when I let a very curious Lexie look at my old yearbooks, she commented, “Mom? Why does almost everyone say you are crazy?” Hmmmm. I looked over her shoulder and said, “But look, honey, they said I was NICE, too! See? ‘You are crazy but NICE.’” (Funny thing is, those girls had NO IDEA just HOW crazy my life would turn out to be a few years down the road…) I do think about the friends I had in high school now and then, since the only one I really still keep in touch with is Julie. And I WOULD like to see everyone again, because even though you can never really go back, you can sure have fun talking about it.

But no way in hell am I organizing anything. I’m just saying.

Full Moon Madness

I knew it without even looking at the calendar. After the third phone call from the third moron looking to sue for the most RIDICULOUS thing, I just KNEW a full moon was coming. And I was right, Monday is a full moon. I don’t quite understand why people get a little crazy around the full moon, but the word “lunatic” wasn’t invented on a whim. Anyway, back to my callers.

As you know, I am in the legal biz. And as such, I field calls all the time from potential clients. For the most part, it is pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, but every now and then, ESPECIALLY around the full moon, you have to deal with some pretty (ahem) interesting people. Take the three I spoke to today.

First there was the woman who called to find out how to go about suing her ex-husband’s mistress for “loss of affection.” Apparently her divorce attorney told her she could do this. So, according to her, she thought she would call a lawyer and file suit. Oh, AND? She wasn’t doing this for revenge, or anything. (Of course not, toots.) She just felt that it was her LEGAL OBLIGATION to make this bitch pay. (Ok, she didn’t use the bitch part. I just filled in the word I KNOW she wanted to use instead of “woman.”) Well, in my layman’s opinion (after all, I never took the bar exam myself) I honestly didn’t think that this was something you could sue over. Apparently I was wrong – to a point. Because when I put her on hold to check with Satan (my boss, the attorney) he told me to find out if she knew how much the other woman was worth. Which I did, and what I learned was that this “other woman” was an LD teacher who owned her own car and home, but as far as being wealthy… well, she really wasn’t sure. So I wound up transferring her to Satan so he could talk to her. To avoid legal malpractice, we can NEVER tell anyone they “don’t have a case,” we always simply state “that’s not something we would handle.” Which is what Satan was telling this woman. But she insisted on getting the name of someone who would. Since she was referred to us by a colleague of Satan’s, he tried to patiently explain to her that EVEN IF she could prove that this “loss of affection” was caused to intentionally hurt her and also “with malice and aforethought,” and EVEN IF it was determined that this other woman WAS legally liable to pay compensatory damages to her for those reasons, the problem was that since there are no insurance companies that insure someone in the case of an affair, chances are slim that she would find an attorney to take the case. Unless the woman in question was insanely wealthy, which didn’t seem to be the case. Did she give up? No, siree. She was bound and determined to hear what she wanted to hear. He went on to tell her again that attorneys RARELY, if ever, take cases on contingency if there is any possibility that they wouldn’t get paid, no matter how good the case was. And that all this woman would have to do is file bankruptcy to avoid paying any kind of judgement. That in order to actually hire an attorney for this kind of case, she would have to pay on an hourly basis, which could run from $150-$500 an hour. And she STILL wanted to go through with it. Finally, in exasperation, he gave her the name of some schmuck that I think he doesn’t really like. Wonder what HE told her…

Then I get a call from a Middle Eastern woman who is soooo upset she is crying. She wants to sue her job for “sexual harassment.” You see, this woman has worked at a state hospital for over 20 years (I am assuming a state MENTAL hospital). She herself has been on disability for the past three months for “breathing problems due to stress” (i.e. anxiety, maybe??). And yesterday she received a letter in the mail on the hospital’s letterhead that she thinks is sexual harassment. She wanted to know if we could take her case, or if she should call the police or report it to her supervisor. Through her tears she tells me that if her husband saw this letter, he would NEVER let her go back to work, because whoever wrote it threatened her too. She said it was addressed specifically to her, and mailed to her home address, but was unsigned. When I asked her if she could read it to me, she obliged. It apparently said (and I quote) “The deal is off. You sold me bad weed bitch. You will pay.” I asked her exactly why she thought this was sexual harassment, and she tearfully replied, “because they used the word ‘bitch.’” (Ok, so I think that she’s probably right about her husband being upset, but MY guess is that he would be more pissed about his wife selling pot.) I put her on hold and relayed the info to Satan. His response? “Not something we would handle.” I almost felt obliged to tell her she PROBABLY shouldn’t bring it to the cops, either, since she’s selling weed and all…

Then finally I get a call from a woman who is upset because her husband is losing his disability pay that he was promised in a settlement agreement that he signed in 2001. She claimed he was supposed to receive this pay until he turned 65, but they cut his benefits in January. Since he is only 48, she wants to sue the company for breach of contract and fraud. The agreement he signed in 2001 stated that he would receive benefits according to the plan for as long as the plan allowed. Well, apparently the plan USED to allow the benefits until age 65 no matter what, but the plan was changed in 2003 and only allowed benefits for mental illness for two years from the date of the first payment. Hence, his loss of benefits. So, was it WRITTEN in the agreement that he would keep getting payments until he turned 65? “Well, no, not exactly…” And was I correct to assume that he had a MENTAL disability? “Well, yes…” But he IS receiving social security disability too, right? “Mmm hmmm.” And was this disability job related? Any worker’s compensation involved? “Well, no… he just has some issues…” Issues?? ISSUES?? I have “issues” and nobody pays ME to sit around and watch tv all day!! Not for one day, not for two years, and CERTAINLY not until I turn 65!! But, put her on hold, and talk to Satan. Just in case. Surprise, surprise – “Not something we handle.”

I don’t think I want to talk to any more potential clients today. They are all nuts. On a side note, though, I found it pretty funny that as I was looking on my calendar to find out when the full moon was, I noticed that the 16th is Boss’ Day.

Anyone besides me think it is pretty funny that Boss’ Day is on a SUNDAY??? When most people AREN’T EVEN AT WORK??? Whoever decided on that date must have a boss like mine. Gosh, I love my job…!

Squirreltopia

All my life, I have been an animal lover. In fact, I always swore that when I grew up and had my own place, it would be filled with pets. But when I finally did “grow up,” it occurred to me that I really didn’t WANT a whole houseful of pets. For now I have my boys, and that is plenty. I actually have learned to prefer cats over dogs, because they are much less time-consuming and they don’t ever smell like “wet dog.” Not that I don’t like dogs, of course, but I just can’t imagine having to walk a dog several times a day, not to mention the fact that it would limit the time you can go out, and I still think that it’s not right to have a dog in a condo all day if no one is there to be with it. Anyway.

I have also gotten Lexie the obligatory fish (both goldfish and beta), none of which ended well. She also had a hamster at one point, and cute as it was, it STUNK, and it made a big mess with all its stupid wood shavings. And who cleaned the cage every week?? Yours truly. When Max died (unfortunately the day after Christmas, a truly sad tale that I will share on another occasion), Lexie begged and pleaded for another one. My answer? The parents’ favorite reply: “Someday.” And she is still waiting for “someday,” which will most likely wind up being when she decides to move out herself.

So since I still consider myself an animal lover, yet have no desire to actually have any more in the house, I decided it would be fun to buy a bag of peanuts and start feeding the squirrels. I started doing this probably about a year ago, and at the onset there was pretty much only one squirrel who ever seemed to come around. After a couple weeks, there were several more. See, right outside our balcony, there are two trees, which make for easy access to the peanut stash. I started buying more peanuts, and more squirrels came. It became like a “squirrel aquarium” if you will, and Lexie and I really got a kick out of watching them. Baby and Ace initially kept trying to get the squirrels, and would ultimately wind up bonking their furry little heads against the glass balcony doors. This was funny too, because not only would the cats bounce back in confusion, but the squirrels would freak out thinking they were being attacked. But it didn’t take the squirrels long to realize that the cats couldn’t get to them when the door was closed. So they would actually walk up to the door, sit up, put their paws against it, and stare at the cats with what I SWORE was a gloating squirrel look. (Unfortunately, my boys apparently weren’t as quick learners as the squirrels, though, because to this day they STILL will occasionally forget about the door and bonk their little heads. Ace more so than Baby, since I think Ace is slightly “mentally challenged” anyway.)


For a little while in the beginning, we had some racial issues, since the original squirrel was a grey squirrel and didn’t want to share with the red squirrels that started coming by. But I put a quick stop to that. This was an Equal Opportunity Peanut Place, and I told them so. If they couldn’t get along, there would be no more peanuts. Period. For the most part, they have all managed to get along, but every now and then we get a racist squirrel. When I see that happen, though, I reiterate my rules and scare him off. I will not tolerate any little Squirrel KKK goings-on on MY balcony.


In the winter, I kept up with the feeding, and you should’ve seen those little critters hopping through the snow. Cute cute cute! But when the snow melted, it was actually kind of gross on my balcony what with all the old peanut shells and squirrel poop. This prompted me to buy two things – a leaf blower/sucker-upper (because I tried my house vacuum and it didn’t work too well… good thing Target had new ones on sale) and some outdoor carpeting. Both of these vastly improved the looks of my balcony, and the feeding continued. The people at Costco were getting pretty familiar with me, since by then I was buying about 15 lbs. of peanuts every week or so. Then one day in the summer I forgot to put out the peanuts. ONE DAY – that is all I forgot. And when I opened my blinds the next day, one of those jerks actually chewed a hole through my screen door!! Of all the nerve!! Well, I put some duct tape over that screen, put out more peanuts, and waited for the troops to arrive. And when they did, I gave them a strict lecture about gratitude. I told those squirrels ONE MORE HOLE in my screen, and the free lunch was over. And guess what? No holes since. (Of course, I haven’t forgotten them again, either, since then.)
So no real problems in Squirreltopia for a while, until my daughter called me at work about Demon Squirrel. Apparently there was a new squirrel that started climbing the screen and attacking any other squirrel that tried to take a peanut. I told her to just chill out, and maybe call her Uncle Bob (which was a joke, because he is TERRIFIED of squirrels). She laughed, and said ok. When I got home, sure enough, Demon Squirrel was there, making weird squirrel noises and making sure no other squirrel got near the peanuts. So I went over and gave him a talking to. Freaked HIM out, but since the other “regular” squirrels were used to me by now, they all came back and ate in peace. I think Demon Squirrel learned to share, though, because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him around lately.


Then this morning I was trying to coax a squirrel to take a peanut from my hand (what?? I’ve done it before, and squirrels don’t carry rabies. I looked it up). Every now and then I’ll do this, by lying on the floor with my hand outside on the balcony holding a peanut ever-so-lightly and not moving an muscle. It’s actually pretty funny watching the squirrels debate whether to take the peanut or not, they always kind of do this little “one step up, three steps back” thing, and usually with a couple of their pals watching to see what happens. But if I’m patient enough, eventually one brave soul will usually inch just close enough to stretch out his head and gingerly take the peanut… then RUN. Like it was a trap or something. Then I’ll dump out a whole pile of them, so the other squirrels think the first one is a hero for starting the peanut banquet. Anyway, as I said, I was doing that his morning, only this time the brave little squirrel crept towards me, stuck his little head out… and BIT me on the thumb! Not hard, or anything, I mean, he didn’t even break skin. I think he thought my thumb was the peanut. But I said “Hey! Don’t bite me!” and jumped, and you should’ve seen the poor guy fly up in the air. This made me start laughing, as Lexie started asking if I needed to go to the hospital. Once I calmed her down and assured her I wasn’t actually ATTACKED, just mistaken for a peanut, she was ok. But again, those squirrels got another lecture about not biting the hand that feeds you.

Then at work today I decided to double check my “squirrels don’t carry rabies” theory – and I’m still right. (Actually, the whole truth is squirrels RARELY carry rabies, and there hasn’t been a documented case in IL from a squirrel since like the 1920’s.) But I also found out that due to the fact that squirrels’ eyes are located on either side of their head, they really can’t see directly in front of them. So apparently if you hold a peanut in your hand, you run the risk of a squirrel thinking your appendage is in fact another peanut. (A much bigger peanut, possibly, depending on the size of the peanut you are holding as compared to the size of your thumb…) Anyway, my squirrels are all very gentle, and no blood was drawn, but I’m not sure if I will continue hand feeding them knowing this fact.

So there you have it. I am not only destined to become the “lady with the cats” but am now confessing that I am ALREADY the “crazy lady who feeds (and talks to) the squirrels.” And proud of it, dammit.

To Ride Again

My daughter has been asking me for the past few years to take her horseback riding. And I would absolutely LOVE to, only there aren’t too many places I know of that have horses for rent around here. And I don’t mean those wimpy “get on a horse and follow a guide down a trail” rides, either. Because when I DO take her riding, it will be REAL riding, and not that stupid “horseback for idiots” bullshit. This is because I grew up riding horses, thanks to my Uncle John.

My Uncle John was my mother’s youngest brother, and as the baby of eleven brothers and sisters he was extra special to everyone in the family. Especially to me. He was only fifteen when I was born, still a kid himself. He was crazy and fun and always made me laugh. And he introduced me to horses. As far back as I can remember, my Uncle John would take me horseback riding every year on my birthday, and several times in between. We started out riding my Grandpa’s horse, Pride, and then my uncle got his own horse, Duchess Bonnie.

There was nothing I loved more than driving with my Uncle John on a beautiful fall day out to the stables to go riding. He always listened to whatever I had to say, never judged me, and usually offered pretty good advice. The older I got, the more special these trips became. He taught me how to handle a horse correctly, and how to NOT wind up walking funny afterward. We NEVER went on group trail rides, he always rented me my own horse and he rode Bonnie and we took our own private voyage through the trails.
I loved galloping or running through the forest preserve, feeling the freedom, smelling the crisp scent of autumn leaves. One of my best memories was of the time when he first let me ride Bonnie on my own. I must have been about fourteen, and I knew how special it was. Uncle John NEVER let anyone else ride his Bonnie. Only me. And only in the riding arena – yes, I was special, but even I knew where the line was drawn. No one but Uncle John rode Bonnie on the trails! Anyway, Bonnie was a remarkable horse. It was almost like she could read your mind, the most subtle nudges could get that horse flying like the wind. And it was awesome. But the other thing that was awesome was the smile on my Uncle’s face and the gleam of pride in his eyes as he watched me handle her like a pro.

The year I turned seventeen turned out to be the last time we went riding together. My uncle died of a heart infection the following May at the age of 32. There was really no warning, and at the time I worked at the hospital he died in. I actually heard the code over the intercom, but the family was told he was going to be released that day, so I never thought it was for him. He had been admitted to the hospital for observation and tests, and never did get released. I can’t even put into words the loss I felt back then, or the loss I still feel now, almost twenty years later.

His wife told my parents that she knew he would have wanted me to have Duchess Bonnie, and it killed me when they said there was no way we could afford the upkeep of a horse. I didn’t even get to see her again before she was sold. And I haven’t been on a horse since.

I think part of the reason I never rode again was because I couldn’t imagine riding without my Uncle John, and part of it was just silly things – no time, no money, no desire. As the years passed, I realized how much I missed riding, but again, I never really found the right opportunity. I couldn’t see myself plodding along on an old mare who probably hadn’t galloped in years. If I was going to ride again, I was going to RIDE again. And finding a place that would let me have that freedom was nearly impossible.

When Lexie was born, my brother stepped into the shoes her deadbeat dad had left behind. And as she grew, I watched the two of them interact, and I saw myself and Uncle John all over again. I made it a point to tell her about “The Angel Uncle John” and what a special person he was, and that he was probably riding horses in heaven and watching over us. We even went to the cemetery one day when she was about three, and I sat and reflected on all that I had and all that I had lost. My Lexie wiped away my tears with a three-year-old’s concern, and parroted my words back to me, “Don’t be sad, mommy, the angel Uncle John is riding horses in heaven now and watching over us.”

Weeks went by and then one day at breakfast Lexie commented, “The angel Uncle John came to see me last night.”

I felt a chill go down my spine and turned to look at her. “Really, sweetie? So did he say anything to you?”

She shrugged her little shoulders and replied, “No. He just looked at me and smiled. Then he went away.”

Skepticism clouded my mind, but I asked one more question, “So what did he look like, Lex?” For all the times I had told her about the angel Uncle John, I had never showed her a picture. It wasn’t until a few years later that I came across some at my mom’s house. So her answer made my heart jump in my throat.

“He was tall, with dark hair. He was smiling and wearing jeans and cowboy boots. He was really nice.”

My Uncle John LIVED in cowboy boots. But there was no way Lexie could have known that. Part of me really WANTED to believe that my Uncle John was hanging around and looking out for us, but part of me was totally freaked out. Yes, I loved my Uncle John, love him to this day with my whole heart and soul, but I’m not sure I want to SEE him right now… after all, he had been gone for years. So I just let the whole thing drop with Lexie.

Until a few days later.

“The angel Uncle John was back again last night,” she informed me.

“Really?” I said.

“Yup, and this time he talked to me,” she said earnestly.

I tried to sound nonchalant when I asked, “So, what did he say?”

She looked at me and smiled and said, “He told me to take good care of my mommy.”

My smile froze on my face. “Really?” I asked again, more weakly.

“And then he went into your room and gave you a kiss.”

Somehow that made me believe her even more. I could definitely see my Uncle John telling her to take care of me, since he wasn’t there to do it. And my cheek seemed to burn with the possibility of having received an otherworldly kiss.

She never saw him again, and now at age ten doesn’t even remember seeing him back then. But I believe she did. They say small children and animals are more open to the spirit world, and I’m sure that’s true. And I’m also sure Uncle John took advantage of the opportunity to let me know he’s ok wherever he is, and that he’s still there for me in some special way.

And just the other day, I was talking to an attorney down the hall whose eighteen year old daughter is an accomplished equestrian, and I told him how I would love to take my daughter riding… how I would love to ride again myself. So guess what? He has invited Lexie and me down to his home where he has three horses and lots of trails to ride on. He said he is sure his daughter would love to show Lexie how to ride. We are planning going sometime next month, probably. And when I get back up on that horse, and feel the wind in my hair and the freedom, I will think of my Uncle John, and I will thank him for everything he shared with me while he was alive… and for the reaffirmation he gave me after he left.


Uncle John and Me riding Pride, probably in the early 70’s

Countdown to FUN! ( I Hope...)

When I got to work today, I looked at my calendar and noticed that today is the 11th. Which means that my birthday is exactly one month away. Normally, I start getting excited about now, and look at my calendar and figure out which Saturday night would be the best night to celebrate. Because every year on my birthday, I get together with anyone and everyone who needs a night out and drink and laugh and have a good time, and if I drink too much and feel like crap the next day, so be it, because I had FUN, dammit. And much like that fateful night I went out on the south side, I try to forget I am an aging single mother with responsibilities and recapture my youth for a night.

Which in itself is actually pretty ironic, since I’m celebrating my birthday, for crying out loud, and therefore am getting OLDER and not YOUNGER.

Another tradition for this time of year is for me to get bummed out because I’m always afraid no one is going to show up, or I’ll hold a big table and only my brother and like two of my friends will actually come. And I start thinking I am a big loser because I am WAY too old to be going out to bars and having fun. What is the cut-off age, anyway? Does there HAVE to be one? And if so, WHY??

I mean, really. I remember being in my early twenties and going out with some of the older waitresses I worked with and thinking “Gosh, they’re pretty cool for moms!” And laughing when they did shots or got drunk, just because they were SO OLD (probably like my age now) and didn’t seem like people who should be at a bar. And as I got older, I realized that these women (who went out like EVERY night, not just once in a blue moon like myself) were actually pretty pathetic, because they DID have kids and husbands at home, and shouldn’t have been hanging out in bars getting drunk and flirting with Mexican busboys half their ages. All I know is that I certainly don’t want to be like them.

But does going out for my birthday and having fun really make me a pathetic loser? According to my mother, it can. (Then again, she has been telling me not to go to bars ever since I can remember, so maybe I should take her words with a grain of salt… and a margarita! AH HA HA!!) Every year it gets harder and harder to find people to come out though, and to find a day and location that works for people. See, now a lot of my friends have kids and therefore need a sitter, are pregnant and therefore can’t drink, or are sooo settled into the “happy homemaker” mode that they can’t comprehend WHY anyone would want to go to a BAR in the first place (most of those friends I don’t invite anyway, though). And no, we are not as rowdy as when I turned, say 18 (yes, I know technically I was still too young to drink, but I was away at college and had a fake id, you know how that goes…) and drank about 20 shots of everything from Southern Comfort to Jack Daniels to Kamikazes (yessir, I was a hard-ass drinker back then) then switched to beer and champagne and woke up with an ever-so-slight headache yet was ready to go out again the next night (ahhh, the good old days!), but we still have fun. And laugh a lot. For me, I think the thing I enjoy most is being with my good friends (and some family – my brother never lets me down and there always seem to be some cousins floating around) and just being able to let loose. In a mature way, of course. Oh, who am I kidding? I enjoy being able to be silly and get a good buzz and take lots of pictures to remember the night by.

So, hey, everyone is invited this year. You can all crash at my place. Amber, catch a flight from Denver. Fig, Timmortal, take a cruise from the south side. Major Tom, hmmmm, how DO you get out of West VA?? Linda – swim to the mainland and fly to Denver, then pick up Amber. Miladysa, think your husband would let you take a short jaunt across the pond in a month?? Everyone else – get yourselves ready. I’ll get details later.

Seriously, it IS fun. Besides, fun is what you make it, right?? So I guess I’ll NEVER be too old, age is only a state of mind, anyway, right? But please, no hard liquor shots for me. To be honest, I think I am still recuperating from my 18th.

Oh, AND?? I almost forgot!! While I was in Dominick’s (Safeway to some, I guess) the other day I found the perfect balloons for my party!! Look!!

Can you BELIEVE they actually sold these in a major supermarket?? And not in the kinky sex store?? Yes, I HAD to buy them because they made me laugh. “Squiggly Worm Balloons” indeed. You can’t fool us, Mexican balloon manufacturers! You think that we Americans won’t realize what they REALLY are!! Well, you’re WRONG! But I bought them anyway, so maybe I really WILL bring them for my party. Tee Hee!

Thus the countdown begins. Actually, SEVERAL countdowns, the countdown to my night out, the countdown to my anxiety attack over self-esteeem issues, the countdown to figuring out where to go… you get the idea.

Scatterbrained

Today is one of those days that I really WANT to write, but I just can’t seem to wrap my mind around what exactly is floating around in there. I COULD write about the fact that I ordered my Aerosmith tickets this morning (AND Lenny Kravitz is opening – this will be AWESOME!!), or I COULD write about how I probably shouldn’t have charged the $300 for said tickets since I am trying to refinance and things are tight enough already (but come on – Joe Perry AND Lenny Kravitz?? Who could blame me??)… Or I COULD write about the fact that I just got a call from my mom who told me one of her best friends just died last night, all the way up in Wisconsin which is a four hour drive that I would NEVER let her make alone… especially since I have grown up with Shirley in my life as well, and even though she had been sick for a long time, death is never convenient nor expected… Or I COULD write about the fact that my brother is starting a new job today, and I am so happy and relieved and curious to know how it is going… Or I COULD write about the fact that there are six people that I know of who are expecting a baby between December and March, and THAT is a LOT of babies, which makes me think about babies in general…

But unfortunately, although I have plenty of topics, nothing is really gelling in my head right now. I’m sure Shirley’s passing on has a hand in my mood, she was a good lady and made the best brownies in the whole world. But like I said, she has been sick for a really long time, and can finally rest pain-free, which is a good thing, right?

Well, what I DO know is that my writing can’t be forced, so for today it looks like that’s all, folks. We’ll see, maybe things will change later today, if not, then hopefully by tomorrow…

Stranger on the Road

So there I was, sitting at my desk in a quandary over what to write about today, when all of a sudden my cousin calls. (She WAS my cousin the b**** from an old post, but since Mr. South Side seems to be gone forever, I guess she’s forgiven.) Apparently she was minding her own business driving down Pulaski on the south side (which is where she lives) and noticed that there was a car stopped in the middle of the street, apparently for no reason. She told me that all the other drivers were laying on their horns and giving this car the finger, obviously pretty ticked off that he was blocking traffic.

My cousin, being the bleeding heart that she is, decided to investigate, because she said she could see a person in the driver’s seat, and she thought maybe he was in trouble or something. Apparently there aren’t many parking spots on Pulaski, because she had to drive down about a block and a half before she was able to pull over and park her car. She said she left her purse in the car (under the seat, I’m sure) and jogged off to the problem vehicle. Getting to the car proved to be no easy task, either, because now drivers were screaming obscenities to the car in the street AND to her, as she tried to weave through traffic on foot. When she did finally reach the car, she was horrified to find an elderly man sitting in the driver’s seat with his head back on the headrest. And his eyes rolled back in his head.

Well, obviously this isn’t the type of situation you come across every day, but she kept her cool. Sort of. She managed to call 911, and decided to try to see if she could get into the car, since she knows CPR she thought that MAYBE if he was just unconscious she could help this guy (even though she knew deep down he was NOT just unconscious). She tried the driver’s side door, which was locked. So she crossed in front of the car (did I mention it was raining??) and tried the passenger door, which was also locked. But as she peered into the passenger window to get a better look, she realized that not only was the car still running, but it was still in DRIVE and the guy’s foot was on the brake. This kind of freaked her out, mainly because two seconds ago she was in front of the car, and if his foot happened to slip off, she would’ve been killed by a dead guy (which made me laugh, even though it really wasn’t funny… but still, think about it a minute…). Anyway, there she was, still waiting for the cops or an ambulance or SOMETHING, IN THE RAIN, with every single stupid car that drove by honking and swearing and giving the finger… when all of a sudden, a tow truck pulled up.

The driver asked her if she needed any help, and she told him that she thought the guy in the car was dead, but she couldn’t get into the car, and if he WAS still alive, they needed to help him. That an ambulance was on the way, but did he have a slim jim or something? Well, apparently the tow truck driver had no desire to get involved in THIS freak show, because he told her he was sorry, no slim jim. She asked if he had anything to break the window with, then, since she had left her purse in the car and couldn’t break it with her fist. He mumbled something about “liability issues” and begged off that, too. Then he apologized and left.

Leaving my poor cousin once again alone in the rain with a dead guy who still had his foot on the brake in a running car and a bunch of pissed off drivers whizzing by. FINALLY the police and an ambulance showed up, and she explained to them what was going on. She had noticed that there was a dent in the rear fender, and voiced her thought that maybe someone had rear ended this guy, and when that happened, he just had a heart attack or something and died. But the cops didn’t seem too interested in her theory, or her name or personal information either, for that matter. (Which was really strange, since I had to give all my info when I found that girl OD’ing, and THIS guy was actually DEAD.) What they DID do was shatter the rear window so they could crawl through and shift the car to park without moving the body or causing the guy’s foot to come off the brake. She said they then actually pulled his body back out through the rear window and literally plopped his body on the street. In the rain.

The paramedics tried to revive him with their paddles, but it was pretty obvious the guy was long gone. And the cops began directing traffic and the paramedics loaded the body, and they sent my cousin on her merry way. Without even asking her name.

She told me that when she got home, she called the local hospital and spoke to someone in the ministry department, telling them what had happened. She told them she wanted to leave her name just in case the family wanted to know, so she could tell them he wasn’t alone, and someone DID try to help him. They took her information, thanked her, and hung up.

She never even found out HIS name, although his license plates said “TONY C.”

Well, Tony C., I hope all those people who blew by you and swore and flipped you off and honked instead of showing some concern have a really great day. Sometimes people really piss me off. Always looking out for number one, and never taking just a MINUTE out of their busy day to worry about anyone else. Maybe someone could’ve saved his life had they stopped instead of just getting angry, or maybe not. The thing that sucks is that no one will ever know for sure. Rest in peace, Tony.