Same Conversation, Different Location

Répondez S'il Vous Plaît

2010-02-09T20:10:00.009-06:00

I'm thinking of opening my own RSVP business. The concept would be modeled after People's Revolution, Kelly Cutrone's "public relations, branding and marketing firm" (see Bravo reality series Kell on Earth), which appears to provide as its main service the frantic collection, logging, charting and checking of RSVPs.

Here's the thing: I'm totally qualified. During the early years of my career, I used to address envelopes and place postage on invitations of every description. I answered calls, listened to messages and received e-mails containing RSVPs. I made lists of RSVPs, and I confirmed RSVPs. I alphabetized RSVPs. At the entrances to parties from coast to coast, I consulted spreadsheets of RSVPs and matched them to actual party attendees.

Somewhere along the line, I learned to perform the RSVP. Invitations bearing my name arrived in the mail, complete with phone numbers and e-mail addresses to which I was expected to respond. I received Evites. I became the subject of follow-up RSVP-related phone calls. My name--and variations thereof--appeared on the list and was crossed off at the door. I began to read invites carefully for clues about the probability of complimentary valet parking. I mastered the art of the plus one, and occasionally, the plus six.

I am both mean and nice enough to make it in the RSVP industry. As part of my all-encompassing customer service package, I will scrupulously Google every party attendee. I will create seating charts and assign VIP status based on the number of each guest's Twitter followers. I will make easy-to-read notations on The List to specify which guests (determined by attractiveness level of Facebook profile photo) are worthy of appearing on the red carpet. And, most importantly, I shall employ a complicated ranking system to indicate who among the RSVPs is eligible to receive the most luxurious gift bag at the end of the night and a "thanks for coming!" e-mail the next day.

Meanwhile, I will continue to personally attend a wide variety of parties and balls, if only to ensure I remain in tune with the latest in RSVP protocol. If you are interested in becoming an investor in my new venture, please let me know. I'm still weighing my options, but as of right now it's between the RSVP thing and opening a Waffle House in Lincoln Park.

Aesthetically Pleased (Or Not)

2010-01-20T17:21:00.003-06:00

It might be over between me and National City bank (now a part of PNC). I opened my first and only checking account with National City when I was 15. My mother cosigned, and I've never taken her name off the account. It's too much trouble. If my mom wants to review my online statement to see how many times I ate at Chipotle or the staggering number of $2.50 debits to LAZ Chicago Parking, fine by me.

National City kept me hanging on these many years for one reason and one reason only: aesthetics. I like the logo. The pleasing boldness of its letters; its rich bluish-greenness; the soothing arrangement of pale green bubbles on my debit card. Now that PNC is forcing its ho-hum signage upon every former National City location (and soon, I suspect, my new debit card), I may be forced to transfer my assets to an institution with more visual character. What does PNC even stand for? Who knows, and who cares. It's too boring to research. Not even my teller, Gloria, had an answer when I stood at her counter to make a deposit today:

Gloria: Let me see here. They may have already converted your account...
Me: Who's they? PNC? To tell you the truth, I don't like this PNC thing one bit.
Gloria: But you should give them a chance. They might be a good bank.
Me: I hate the colors. I mean, look at your new nametag.
Gloria: I know. And you have to pay extra for the prettiest debit card.
Me: I'll probably have to do that. What a scam. Do you know what PNC stands for?
Gloria: Would you like a heart-shaped Dove chocolate to go?
Me: I guess so. Thanks.

In other news, I took Black Beauty for a bath yesterday at the We'll Clean Auto Wash on Halsted. She's been feeling self-conscious and a little damaged ever since her December break-in. I could tell her confidence was flagging, especially when she could barely motivate herself to climb a parking ramp at Whole Foods last week. I gave her a pep talk as we pulled into the bay:

Me: This'll be nice. We'll get rid of some of this salt, and I'll even spring for the Armor All tire treatment. You know your wheels have always been your best asset.
Black Beauty: What's the point? Don't waste your money on me. I'm a mess. Did you see that new dent under my right headlight?
Me: Come on, now. You look great for your age.
Black Beauty (gasping as garage door opened to reveal an entire BMW dealership's worth of new cars in line for a rinse): Is this some kind of joke? You're replacing me with a younger model, I know it!
Me: Get a grip. Go show these kids what's up. They can count themselves lucky if they make it as long as you. Geez Louise.

Black Beauty's not the only one with body image issues these days. Like seemingly all of Chicago, I've been spending an increased amount time at the gym over the past few weeks, trying to fight what my friend Tim refers to as Christmas Chub. He and our other friend, Jenny, have compiled an entire list of names for occasion-specific weight gain: Holiday Heft. January Jiggle. Recession Rumble. Thanksgiving Thunder. Flat-broke Flubber. They are ultra-creative, those two.

The locker room at Equinox is one of the most pleasant places one could hope not to be spotted by an acquaintance while in one's underwear or less (especially since Equinox introduced Kiehl's products in the showers), and I do my best to avoid conversations in this setting. But sure enough, there's always someone who ignores my lack of eye contact:

Woman in Red Granny Panties: Nice place to take a break from the cold, huh? I'm not sure if I can stand January anymore.
Me (frantically stuffing gym bag in locker): Mmm hmm.
WIRGP: I'm about to get out of here for a week or two at least. Going to visit my grandmother in Phoenix.
Me: Sounds good.
WIRGP: She's not doing so great. She's old. I might just stay to help her get her affairs in order. Or longer.
Me: That's nice of you.
WIRGP: Ever been to Phoenix?
Me: Nope, but I hear it's something. Well, have a good workout!

I suwannee.

Yikes (An Easy Scare)

2009-10-31T09:00:00.002-05:00

When my sister Claire and I were roughly 3 and 5 years old, our parents took us on a one-day excursion to Disney World. It was our first and only visit to the park, and I have just one memory of the event: being escorted out of the Haunted Mansion via emergency exit. As I recall, we were still waiting in line for the ride itself--but when the rising ceiling trick started, I just couldn't take it anymore. It was too scary.

In honor of my almost-favorite holiday, behold: my fourth annual list of Terrifying Things:

1. Space heaters. The next five months will be spent shivering/anxiously monitoring three plug-in devices for signs of smoke, sizzle or impending flames.

2. The new digital price tags under every item at Whole Foods. I suspect this system makes it even easier for them to sneakily raise prices day by day--and beware, I'm watching. I know those Omega-3-enhanced eggs weren't $3.39 last week.

3. Potholes. At 270k miles, Black Beauty is rattlier than ever. Yesterday, outside Jimmy John's, a piece of door handle fell off in my hand. Is total implosion imminent?

4. Halloween costume stores and all items for sale within. Only crazies think 100% polyester "Dominatrix Unicorn" getups are hot. Or figure-flattering, for that matter.

5. A realization: my homemade Pocahontas outfit might resemble something off the sale rack at Chico's.

6. Chico's.

7. Porch collapses (standing on porches at parties).

8. Pressing the "purchase" button after selecting an itinerary on an airline website, then frantically second-guessing whether I entered the correct dates for several chilling moments while the confirmation page loads.

9. Getting laid off. It's been almost a year, and my feet still sweat when I think about it.

10. This conversation:

Me: Where's my black jean skirt?

Claire: You don't need to put on that black jean skirt.

Me: But it's my thing, that skirt. I'm wearing it.

Claire: You're no teenybopper. It's time to retire the skirt. Promise me you'll never wear it again.

Me 2 Me: I love that skirt. I'll wear it until it disintegrates! Until the day I die! They can bury me in that skirt!

Boo.

Hope There's An App for That

2009-10-19T08:18:00.007-05:00

My BFF Jeff moved to New York over the summer, and since his iPhone is his sole mode of communication, most of our conversations now go something like this (ahem, AT&T):

Ring, ring.

Me: Hey Jeff! What's crackin'?

Jeff: Oh, I'm just walking to work. Man, my feet hurt. CLICK.

SILENCE.

Ring, ring.

Me: Jeff? We got cut off.

Jeff: I know, sorry. This stupid phone. Anyway, what are you up to?

Me: Well, yesterday, Kate and I went to a Big Buck Hunter tournament at a bar for five hours. Straight men from Texas everywhere. It was wild. CLICK.

SILENCE.

Ring, ring.

Jeff: Sorry. I hate this thing.

Me: Geeeeez. That freaking phone.

Jeff: So, what do you think about... SIRENS. HORNS. ENGINE NOISE.

SILENCE.

Me (to me): My God, is he hit?

Ring, ring.

Me: Jeff? What in the world?

Jeff: Oh my gosh, it's so loud here. Well, I'm at the office now. Guess I have to go. Talk to you later.

Me: OK, bye.

iPhones do not function well in New York. But they seem to work fine in most other places, and since close to 1 billion users have personally told me their iPhone changed their life for the better, I'm still considering getting one. It's not, however, a popular debate among my exclusively Sprint-bound family members. A frequent exchange with my brother unfolds as follows:

Lee: Yo Emma. What's up?

Me: I'm thinking of retiring the old flip phone.

Lee: Come on. Not the iPhone talk again. We've been over this. If you give up Sprint to Sprint minutes, all the phone bills in the family will skyrocket.

Me: But Lee! I'm a Mac user! I need an iPhone!

Lee: Just hang on for, like, another 64 months. Then my Sprint contract will be up, and we can all switch at the same time.

I might be forced to enter BlackBerry territory to appease the extended family, but I'm still developing an iPhone app from which I anticipate millions in profits. It's called "The Complainer." Day-to-day life provides so many opportunities to voice one's opinion, and this app would deposit recorded voicemails and texts directly into the phones of CEOs and elected officials across the country. No research, dialing, or holding necessary. For example:

To CEO of Chipotle: I just passed a Chipotle billboard which reads: "Not drugs. But just as addicting." Sir, the word is "addictive," not "addicting." It's incorrect to use a transitive verb without a direct object. While this won't result in my reduced consumption of your delectable burritos, your company is now a little dumber in my eyes.

To Vi Daley, 43rd Ward Alderman: Hi, Vi. This is my third call about the 'no parking' signs in front of my building on Mohawk Street. The work on the house next door is complete. I even talked to the stucco guys about it face to face. So let's get these signs taken down now, OK? It's a waste of valuable parking spots. Oh, and holler me back when you get a chance. I have a few other things to discuss.

To president of Checker Cab: Greetings, King of Cabs. One of your drivers just schooled me yet again for using a credit card to pay the fare. He made me late to the opera with his intentionally prolonged swiping process, then advised me to go to an ATM next time. But I don't have an ATM at my apartment. That's where I catch cabs. So please, no more of this argument. Get with the times. Let's have those passenger-operated CC swipers installed STAT.

Speaking of cabs, I hopped in one last Wednesday night only for the driver to ask: "So, when did you join the ranks of the upper class?"

Here we go again, I thought. My posture--which I refined as a child in order to appear taller, and continued to hone during four years of perfectly perpendicular piccolo-holding while trilling off Sousa tunes as an Eastern High School Marching Eagle--often leads people to label me a supersnob (a debatable point). But my attempt to convince the driver of my down-to-earthiness led to a heated discussion about health care reform that left me completely overwrought for my press dinner. (Driver: The public option will never work! Never! Work! Me: Oh yeah? What's YOUR coverage like? Driver: Eh. Lost it when my wife divorced me.)

For heaven's sake. One minute you're watching MTV and still really, really wishing you could do Beyonce's "Single Ladies" dance, and the next minute you're on heart-attack alert over a public policy argument with a stranger. Oh, the stress of city living.

The Casting Couch

2009-09-22T09:34:00.010-05:00

Somebody needs to sit me down and read me The Berenstein Bears and Too Much TV. You know, shame me into putting down the remote. The batteries are dying as it is. Then again, I've learned (or at least reinforced) some valuable lessons under the tutelage of my favorite shows. In the past year alone, I've learned how to chop fennel (Barefoot Contessa). I've learned that sometimes, the less you say, the more you get (Mad Men). I've learned that bad boys can be good (Gossip Girl) and good boys can be boring (Gossip Girl). I've learned that you will most definitely cry when you try on the wedding dress you were born to wear (Say Yes to the Dress). And, if your boss hires a fun gay assistant, he will soon be the favorite and you will be either bitter or fired (Rachael Zoe Project).

I forge strong emotional ties with the faces on TV, and while I'm fast-forwarding through the commercials, I like to imagine which characters would make the best contributions to my own reality (should they suddenly step out of the screen and into, say, Black Beauty). A few years ago on this very blog I made a list of potential stand-ins, and it needs an update. Herewith, my life as populated by the realest of the reality stars (version 2009):

Dad: Tim Gunn, Project Runway. It's not easy, being endearing and all-knowing at the same time. Tim pulls it off. Plus, he could teach me how to do a perfect hem, a useful skill to have when every pair of pants in the world is six inches too long and every skirt fits you like a nun's habit.

Mom: Ina Garten, Barefoot Contessa. This is a no-brainer. I could sit in that cedar-shingled barn/kitchen pouring out my heart all day while she whipped up hearty sausage-lentil soup and lobster mac 'n cheese. Duh.

Big Sister: Patti Stanger, Millionaire Matchmaker. Like lots of big sisters, Patti loves to give advice. She's also brilliant at destroying people's self-esteem one aching fiber at a time (which I've heard is a popular activity in many families) with relentless jabs at other women's hairstyles, clothing, weight and makeup application techniques. Anyway, I'm sure she'd have me looking good and scared to speak in no time flat.

Little Sister: Khloe Kardashian, Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami. Khloe's a good little sister because she's fun but surprisingly take-charge, much like my real little sister. If you're into drawing parallels between the Kardashian sisters and the Drury sisters, here's how it lines up: Kourtney = Emma (oldest, shortest); Kim = Claire (glam middle child); Khloe = Liv (youngest & tallest; expert eye-roller). We are just like them. We even hang out in family-owned boutiques drinking champagne and everything! OK, back to the list.

Brother(s): Michael and Bryan Voltaggio, Top Chef: Las Vegas. Competing chefs in the family? Thanksgiving would be aMAZing.

Best Friend: Jeff Lewis, Flipping Out. Jeff is mean, self-centered, has impossible standards, is a neat freak, and is unsuitable for romantic involvements. Oh, and also handsome, funny and good at hanging curtains. He would be a great best friend.

Boyfriend: Hmm. This is the hardest, since there are almost zero straight men on my reality TV schedule. OK, it's a little out of left field, but how about: Joey Rozmus, Real World: Cancun? You know, the skinny one with the tats and the drinking problem? He's a little young (or is he? At 22, he's within my 10-year radius), but he's an instigator and he's in a band. That's hot.

P.S. Last night, I ventured out on a dusky stroll and passed a woman on the sidewalk carrying a mostly white rabbit wearing a neon green leash. I openly stared for about 40 feet of approach time, hoping to make eye contact with the woman so we could both acknowledge it:

"You're carrying a rabbit. That's weird."
"I know! A city rabbit, on a leash! I'm a kook."

But she refused to see me, keeping her eyes trained on the stoplight ahead as the rabbit morosely twitched his ears in my direction. What does it take to get a little human interaction around here, people? Geez Louise.

Identified Flying Objects

2009-09-02T07:50:00.001-05:00

Have you ever found yourself driving down the highway next to an unfathomable object? Something so surreal that you risk your life digging in your purse for your camera so you can document and research the item when you get home?

I have, about two months ago. It was on I-65 in northern Indiana, about 90 miles outside Indianapolis. There I encountered several slow-moving semi trucks, each carrying one smooth, white, gently sculpted, extraordinarily graceful, shockingly large thing. I had no idea what the things could be. Propeller parts for the world's largest helicopter? The hulls of super-swift submarines? Rockets being developed for use by the general public? BOMBS? Good Lord, I was mystified.

The answer came last week, when I was again driving the same route and came upon this glorious sight (see right). These towering beasts (please note size of trees for sense of scale), as I later learned via extensive Googling, are GE 1.5MW Wind Turbines at the Benton County Wind Farm, providing carbon-free energy to hundreds of thousands. Perhaps you have seen something similar on your own journeys, but I had not, and was moved to exit the expressway for closer inspection.

A few days after the windmill encounter, my sister Claire and I flew to Florida to visit our brother Lee on the occasion of his 24th birthday. Our visit was a mix of incidents both successful and mildly disastrous, our favorite combination. On our first afternoon in residence at the Vero Beach Hotel and Spa, we began with an hour of poolside lounging, followed by a stroll on the beach. A group decision to fully immerse ourselves in the Atlantic Ocean led to the following mini-emergency:

Claire: Should we get in?
Lee: Yeah, the water’s warm!
Me: I hope our sunglasses stay on.
Claire: We’ll just leave our drinks right here in the sand.

Soon, the conversation turned to body-surfing:

Lee: Here, wait for the next big wave, and I’ll tell you when to start swimming.
Me: This one?
Lee: Nope. Not good enough. Hold on.
Claire: This one?
Lee: Yeah, get ready. OK, paddle! Go!
Claire (shrieking as two-ton crush of saltwater sweeps us helplessly to shore): My sunglasses! They’re gone!
Me: Stop! Everyone! Find them!
Claire (flailing in wave suds, panicked by accessory loss to churning sea): It’s over. Done! We'll never see them again.
Lee: Yeah, I'm pretty sure those suckers are gone.
Me: Weren’t they, like, $600?
Claire: Yeah. Retail. But not wholesale.
Me: Well I’m just sick over it. We’re not leaving until we find them. I’ll drown looking for them.
Lee: Forget it, Emma. Those sunglasses are on the bottom.
Claire: A mermaid’s wearing them.
Me: She must be one cool mermaid.

The emergency trend continued later that night when Lee slipped on some wet marble stairs in the hotel and required three stitches, some x-rays and a tetnus shot, an activity that kept us entertained at the urgent care center for the better part of our brother's actual birthday. It was fun, but not as fun as this nighttime landing in a single-engine Piper (Lee's been living in Vero Beach for flight school, and he flies like a pro). The video cracks me up every time, see, because the screaming stall horn followed by the sudden camera drop makes it seem like we really crashed. Luckily for you, we didn't:

This video of a daytime landing features better lighting, but beware, Claire's deeply ingrained fear of flying occasionally prompts her to cuss:

P.S. Today, I saw a bee buzzing along the sidewalk and thought: I wonder if I'll ever get stung by a bee again for the rest of my life? I wonder.

Hot Timez in the City

2009-07-31T17:00:00.011-05:00

You know those girls who're always like, "Ooh, it's freezing in here!"? (See left: Keira Knightley, a master of the art of appearing chilled.) Then, their teeth chatter delicately as they display goose bumps and pull cashmere wraps around their non-insulated shoulders in 82-degree environs? Well, that's not me. All my life (well, at least since I was 13), I have been known in certain circles (i.e., the circles frequented by all people with whom I've ever associated) as a particularly hot-natured person. When it's -5 degrees with a windchill of -20, then yes, I'll shiver with the best of them. But otherwise, I may be observed frantically ponytailing my hair off my neck, disappearing to run cold water over my pulse points and fanning myself with any card, envelope, folder or notebook to be found in the depths of my handbag.

I'm relieved to live in the age of air conditioning, and on occasions when this invention fails, I become something between melty and incensed. The backs of Chicago cabs are a true-life nightmare, ventilated as they are by makeshift accordion hoses squeezed through crudely sliced holes in the bulletproof partitions that separate passenger from driver. I do plan to bring this public discomfort issue to Mayor Daley's attention the next time I encounter him in a social situation, but meanwhile, I rely on fainting motions and heavy sighs to convey my angst to cab drivers. Recently, this method led to an inappropriate line of questioning:

Me: Siiiiiiggggghhhh. Fan, fan, fan. Fiddle with window control. Inspect makeup meltage in compact mirror. Siiiiiggggghhhh. Moan lightly as if delirious with fever.
Driver: "You OK, miss?"
Me: "It's just sooo hot back here. Is your air conditioning broken?" [A frequent inquiry; see post dated 7/22/08]
Driver: "No, it's on. Can you feel it coming out?"
Me: "I feel nothing but heat. I'm dying."
Driver: "Yes, eet is very hot."
Me: "I'm sweating."
Driver (arching eyebrow in rearview mirror): "Sweating, you say?"
Me: "Yes, I'm always sweating in this heat."
Driver: "Where you sweat, miss?"
Me: "All over."
Driver (knowingly): "Ah, I see. All over."

P.S. More glamorously, last week, in a temperature-controlled setting (the penthouse of the Park Hyatt on Michigan Avenue), I received a haircut (retail value: $1,400) at the hands of celebrity stylist and John Lennon-slash-Jesus lookalike John Nollet. Two semesters of college French have all but escaped me; still, I did manage to translate a thing or two whispered by Nollet as he tornadoed about my head, snipping passionately. Les cheveux magnifique!, he breathed. And this from the man who coiffs Johnny Depp's pirate 'do! Nollet's young assistant was visiting the U.S. for the first time (I was pleased to advise him on a Chicago sightseeing itinerary for the rest of his stay), and he may have found the situation slightly less enthralling. "So many hairs," he muttered ruefully amid the masque-ing, shampooing, scalp-oiling, conditioning, and endless blow-drying of my locks. "So many longs hairs."

But they did shape up nice, those hairs (see partial evidence above). Afterwards, for lunch, I had a celebratory quiche.

I'll Give It Some Thought

2009-07-20T13:16:00.015-05:00

"I'll give it some thought." That's one of my favorite expressions. It's nothing original, nothing new, just a vague proclamation I've recently pushed to the limits of usefulness. Like making stacks of "open later" mail and coding e-mails in "respond later" colors, "I'll give it some thought" is a well-intentioned procrastination tool which--when paired with a slight chin-tilt and brooding nod--provides a polite delay:

Mom: "How are you keeping track of your taxes for next year? Don't you think you should get an accountant?"
Me: "Hmm. That might be wise. I'll give it some thought."

Bob the Landlord: "Are you still planning to move that old mattress out of the basement? It's a fire hazard. Do you want me to hire someone to carry it away for a small fee?"
Me: "Yes, that mattress has seen better days. It's no doubt blocking the walkway. I'll give it some thought."

Me: "Why don't you spend the entire day arranging every item of clothing you own into three piles: Love It, Hate It, and Haven't Worn It in Three Years? Then dispose of all but the first pile."
Me2Me: "How industrious of you to think of such a plan! I'll certainly give it some thought."

Sometimes, though, it is necessary to maintain an appropriately cheerful flow of chatter rather than putting the lid on a conversation with a handy five-word catchall. This can occur when on a semi-blind date, for instance, or when dining with one's grandparents at a Chinese restaurant. On the dates, I tend to revert to three topics:

1. My job, the related anecdotes of which I suspect make me sound like A. a brat, B. a priss, or C. I'm making shit up off the top of my head.
2. How, when I worked there in college, I used to love to try on bridal veils in the dressing room at Jacboson's department store when there were no customers around (alarming for obvious reasons).
3. The true story of how I once aspired to be a professional flute player (men of a certain age enjoy inserting vulgar American Pie reference here).

Or, I let the dates themselves get a few words in. If they tell me something along the lines of, "So, I'm carrying a laminated list of all my food allergies in my wallet. Here, wanna see?" And the list includes chicken, black pepper, spinach, wine, chocolate, and virtually every other item I regularly place in my grocery cart, I revert to, "Wow. I'll give that some thought."

With my grandparents and other family members, I cover work, their travel plans, the most recent mini-scandals involving each of my three siblings, my relationship with Black Beauty (my car), the state of the economy etc. Luckily, if there's another sibling present, we have double the material. My sister Claire, for instance, can always be counted on to relay the details of her most recent dry-cleaning fiasco (See previous post. Claire has sparred with hundreds of dry cleaners from Chicago to Louisville, for offenses ranging from unremoved wine stains to lost satin belts, too-short hems, unexplained discolorations, favorite-shirt disappearances, and much, much more):

Claire (during lull): "Oh! Did I tell you what happened at the dry cleaner last week?!"
Me (to grandparents): "Claire had another fight with the dry cleaner."
Claire (in affronted tones): "You WOULD NOT believe it. I had this shirt from the store [her store, the Peacock Boutique] that was ivory silk with brown leather straps." (See left, and black version below.)
Me (to grandparents): "They melted the straps."
Claire: "I was SHOCKED. I specifically told them when I dropped it off: 'BE CAREFUL. Those are leather straps.'"
Me (to grandparents): "But in all fairness, how many shirts have leather straps?"
Claire: "Emma! Are you kidding me? Dry cleaning is their JOB. They should know what to do with leather straps."
Me: "Well..."
Claire: "Anyway, you will not believe what happened next. They tried to CHARGE me for it! I said, 'You melted my shirt!' and they said, 'That'll be $15.'"
Gram (mildy): "Then what?"
Claire: "Well, what do you think? I said there was no way I was paying, and they owed me $250 for the shirt, and I would NEVER. RETURN!"
Gram: "Did you get the money back?"
Claire: "Of course I did. And it's too bad since they're so conveniently located. In fact, they're only moments from where we're sitting right now."
Me (sensing drama overload): "So. Pot stickers, anyone?"

P.S. I'm conflicted on the punctuation of the term "dry cleaner's" (or "dry cleaners," or "dry cleaner"). If you have interest or input on the subject of whether or not to use the apostrophe "s" when referring to the specific establishment in question, please weigh in.

P.P.S. Thank you, anonymous commenter. Your logic is sound and I've made the suggested revisions. My initial inclination to use the apostrophe "s" is likely due to the longstanding Louisville tradition of conferring the possessive upon all establishments in existence: "Let's eat at Outback's tonight." "I need to pick up a few things at Kroger's." "I'm craving that burrito from El Mundo's." Outback. Kroger. El Mundo.

Confrontations in Innumerable Locations

2009-07-01T15:30:00.002-05:00

As seasoned readers may have noticed, I rarely resist action whenever I encounter a situation, person, product or service that proves deeply disappointing. And since I'm your basic non-violent citizen who's never thrown a punch (and since utter silence is the most physically and emotionally draining option imaginable), my conflict-resolution strategies are usually written or verbal. For instance, as a child, I once formulated the ultimate insult: Brokenpiggyskunkcowrotteneggydorkbraingrimyboogerfartfacecrustymoldybuttsucker. It breaks down like this: Broken. Piggy. Skunk. Cow. Rotten. Eggy. Dork. Brain. Grimy. Booger. Fart. Face. Crusty. Moldy. Butt. Sucker. My sister Claire and I used it most often on our younger brother Lee:

Claire: Oh my gosh, Lee, you're such a brokenpiggyskunkcowrotteneggydorkbraingrimyboogerfartfacecrustymoldybuttsucker.
Lee: Mom! She called me a brokenpiggyskunkcowrotteneggydorkbraingrimyboogerfartfacecrustymoldybuttsucker!
Mom: Okay guys. That's enough.

These days, I try to address conflict in more adult terms. Remember my open letter to the Farley's & Sathers candy company about their sickening new formula for Brach's malted milk balls? Well, soon after I posted the letter on this blog, I printed it out and packaged it in an envelope with the uneaten portion of malt balls. Then, my intern Courtney placed it in an outgoing mail bin. Two weeks later, the following reply arrived:

Please note that no chocolate items were included in the enclosed Brach's Sampler (Lemon Drops, Circus Peanuts, Candy Corn, etc.). That's because they know and I know that the chocolate sucks now.

So, that was the somewhat dissatisfying resolution to one recent conflict. Let's move on to the next, an e-mail communiqué I initiated between myself and a 31-year-old Match.com member whose toolbag tendencies I couldn't resist pointing out after reading this sentence on his profile page (a direct cut-and-paste): In all honesty, I prefer to date women who are younger than me. I've found that many single women in their 30's are a bit obsessed with Facebook and text messaging. I'm sorry but it's just not worth the hassle.

Me to Match a-hole: Hi there. Your generalization about women in their 30s being "obsessed with Facebook and texting" is ridiculous. Isn't it kind of the other way around? I mean, I'm 30, and yes, I'm on Facebook, but until recently I always considered it the stomping ground of a younger crowd. Meanwhile, my friends in their 30s are mostly concerned with careers and families. I'm surprised to see a guy who's 31 so easily writing off people your own age with a flip little line like that. -A

Match a-hole responds: Hello "A", There's good news and bad news. The bad news is I feel bad for you. Your're critiquing online dating profiles. What could be more pathetic? The good news is I will never meet or talk to you. Thanks for saving me the hassle. [LOVES the word "hassle."] FYI- Enjoying hayrides and champagne does not make a person versatile. Well, maybe it does in Kentucky?

Me (after arriving home from vodka tasting at midnight and becoming incensed upon reading derogatory reference to home state): I'm a professional writer, so the critiquing comes naturally. Takes no time at all. You could have answered in a less defensive manner, but clearly, "professional douchebag" comes just as naturally to you. Good luck with the ladies, bud. Your profile is just the kind of place where I find some of my best material. Readers really get a kick out of that shit. Adios.

Who won that round? Who knows. But I did have the last word, since I subsequently blocked him from further communication.

One more:

Me (to Jimmy John's cashier): I'll have the number two, no mayo, no cheese, add avocado and sprouts. And a bag of Skinny Chips.
JJ cashier: You want a drink with that?
Me: No, because you don't have any good low-cal options that aren't loaded with sugar.
JJ cashier: That's because Jimmy doesn't really care about that stuff.
Me: Well, you could at least offer un-sweet tea.
JJ cashier: Yeeeeah...here's your sandwich.
Me: Thanks. Do you have any low-fat mayonnaise packets?
JJ cashier: No, we just have regular.
Me (rolling eyes): Great.

Well, that's about all the discord I can handle for today. Stay tuned for a script from my sister's most recent "Claire vs. The Dry Cleaners" encounter, an epic battle which occurred after a silk top with leather straps was irrevocably destroyed.

Sweet Treats

2009-06-11T09:28:00.004-05:00

Today I'm listing my favorite sweet Chicago treats on my friend Liz's food blog, Elizabites. Mosey on over there for your chocolate fix.

Sammy's Summer 'Do

2009-06-08T06:32:00.001-05:00

Poor Sammy. Sammy is one of our family's golden retrievers (shown here at a flower shop in 2006), and he's lived through a lot in his 10 years as a dog. Once, he ran away for two months with one of our other dogs, Frankie. We thought they were gone for good, but then they were found. Once, Sammy came to visit me in Chicago for seven months and got a taste of life as a city canine. Like many dogs, he has particular likes (car rides, wide open spaces, fishing) and dislikes (hardwood floors, sidewalk grates, other dogs). For a while, a few years ago, he was addicted to MySpace. But never has Sammy weathered such a storm as the one he's facing now. He has received, at the hands of my mother, an Unfortunate Haircut.

Me: Mom! OMG, what happened to him?
Mom: I know. It's bad.
Me: Oh Sammy, come here. Poor thing, I can see your skin. In some places.
Mom: You should have seen the pile of hair! It was about four feet tall.
Me: Well, this is the worst he's ever looked. I hate to say it, but I might be embarrassed to take him to the park. He's a sunburn risk.
Mom (sighs): It was dark when I was shaving him. I couldn't get the guard to stay on the clippers, so I went without. Should try to touch him up a little? On his legs and maybe around his neck?
Me: NO. One hundred percent no. Sammy, you look diseased.

Still, a dog's gotta walk, so to the park we went. Sammy perked up and pranced along in the shade (we tried to provide him with as much natural SPF as possible). He ignored, for the most part, the stares. But I couldn't help overhearing two well-meaning busybodies who passed as Sammy lapped up a bottled water and leaped into the car.

Lady 1: Well, I'll be darned. Look at that.
Lady 2: For heaven's sake! He's lost all his hair!
Lady 1: He shure has.

P.S. In other news, at the bus stop last week, someone appreciated the combined effect of my most recent home pedicure and sensible but stylish Sigerson Morrison sandals:

Unidentified man: Woo hoo! Those feet look sweet enough to eat!
Me: Oh! Thank you.
Man: Mmm hmm. I do love me a woman with some pretty feet.
Me (looking down at toes): Thanks.

Brows, Balls & Cartoon Boyfriends

2009-05-28T20:50:00.001-05:00

Pardon me for shamelessly quoting Sex and the City as a 30-year-old, but they say that in New York, you're always looking for three things: a job, a boyfriend and an apartment. If you've got at least two of those covered, you're doing pretty well. Hmm. Hmmmmmmm.

It's pretty much the same deal in Chicago, except apartments are easier to come by. An alarming review of my current status in the three categories:

1. Last week, I submitted my resume to a major media conglomerate with the following line in my list-format cover letter (devised to avoid the utter boredom of actual paragraphs): "Gets along well with others!" In the same e-mail, I also name-dropped Mary Poppins the musical, a topic which I cannot cease referencing.
2. I can't go into detail about topic #2 without exercising my signature eye roll to the point of retina fatigue, except to say that lately, Match.com has been attempting to lure me back into its soul-shriveling fold with the following e-mail subject line: "Love is on sale! 25% off!" Is that a bargain? The offer is accompanied by a rendering of a possible future love interest (above), who, as you can see, might not have a face but comes complete with a full head of hair and confidently slouchy stance.
3. When my upstairs neighbor strides around his living room preparing for his shift at the shoe store, it's like the cast of Riverdance is rehearsing inside my skull. When my next-door neighbor dries her hair at 5:26AM with her low-wattage, non-salon-quality tool, I might as well insert my eardrum into a trash compactor. And when another neighbor lets her XXL tabby cat into the courtyard while my porch door is ajar, he creeps into my kitchen and startles my pants off with his baleful meows. How much, I wonder, am I currently willing to tolerate in exchange for the ease of accessible street parking in the 142 residential zone?

P.S. An open letter to the makers of Brach's malted milk balls, once my favorite mass-market candy:

Dear Farley's & Sathers Candy Company, Inc.,

I have recently learned, via Internet research, that you acquired the Brach's candy company in November 2007. While one would hope you'd keep their time-tested recipes intact, I can see (and taste) that you've implemented some cost-cutting measures to the one candy I regularly purchase at grocery and drug stores: Brach's Malted Milk Balls.

Based on my evaluation of a bag of said balls obtained yesterday at my neighborhood Treasure Island, I would like to submit the following observations:

Packaging (THEN): Lustrous pink bag with superior plastic thickness and tempting photo of malt balls beneath Brach's logo.
Packaging (NOW): Noticeably flimsier plastic in more garish pink hue; dull, grainy picture of unidentifiable brown mass.

Malt Ball Appearance (THEN): Shiny chocolate brown exterior; slightly irregular ball shape with mildly undulating surface.
Malt Ball Appearance (NOW): Smaller ball size; suspiciously matte texture with waxy finish.

Taste (THEN): Initial bite through medium-thick layer of semi-real chocolate, crunching through to sweet/crisp nougat interior.
Taste (NOW): Disturbingly chewy, 100% fake chocolate non-taste followed by chalky, lackluster semi-crunch at center.

Basically, Farley's & Sathers, you're busted. Per your suggestion on the back of the bag, I shall return the unused portion in original packaging to your Minnesota mailing address. I hope you are able to replace it with a quality candy specimen.

Very Truly Yours,
A.R.D.

P.P.S. The latest installment in the Drury Sisters Eyebrow Chronicles, excerpted from a conversation on 5/20/09:

Emma: Your eyebrows are looking good. You're going to a new girl in Louisville, right?
Claire: Yeah, she's strict. She yelled at me. I'm not allowed to wait more than two weeks between appointments.
Emma: Well, are you happy with them?
Claire (pointedly arching aforementioned brow): I think they make yours look a little thin.

Once and Future Jackpots

2009-05-06T19:02:00.012-05:00

It is one of my most frequent activities: Driving up and down I-65 from Chicago to Louisville, Louisville to Chicago, in my trusty auto, Black Beauty. If you've ever previously read this blog or have met me in person anytime between 1999 and now, you will remember that Black Beauty is not your standard semi-antique hunk of steel. In fact, the two of us have a lot in common. We're both always simmering a little under our hoods. We look younger than we really are. We have the same breakdowns over and over again. And neither of us has very good shocks, so we hit potholes hard (but at all other times we hug the road with a high level of style). You get the gist. So, I usually make that I-65 drive by myself these days, but I'm never 100% alone. A recent (as in yesterday) conversation between me and Black Beauty:

Me: Are you serious? Check engine again?
Black Beauty: If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, check my dang engine.
Me: Bogus. You always say this and it's always nothing.
Black Beauty: Well, you never know.
Me: And frankly, I could use a little input about this SRS light situation.
Black Beauty: Supplemental restraint system.
Me: I know, but is it seriously broken? Would the airbag still protect my face in a crash?
Black Beauty: That's for me to know and you to find out.
Me: N-E-WAYZ, which exit are you thinking for gas?
Black Beauty: Let's hit 240. New pumps, nice quality windshield wipes.

When my car and I run out of things to discuss, I turn to my other favorite 300-mile pastime: deciding what to do with my lottery winnings if and when I win them. I cover the usual bases (pay off people's mortgages, go on an African safari, build myself an elaborate treehouse where I'll read books and listen to birds, and (shhh!) buy a hot new M5), and yesterday I made an addition to the list:

Me: You know, all these billboards are a crying shame. Nothing but porn, preaching and patty melts for sale.
Me 2 Me: Yeah. If that lottery ticket pans out you can totally put whatever you want on these billboards.
Me: Then you can give back to the community. You know, do something to really connect with your fellow drivers.
Me 2 Me: Something pretty.
Me: Yeah, pretty. And fun! Like an art show.
Me 2 Me: Yeah! You can rent, like, seven billboards in a row and hire a famous photographer to do something large-scale and arty.
Me: But not like those nature pictures in the inspirational poster store at the mall. This is not about footprints in the sand.
Me 2 Me: I know. It would have to be non-controversial but cool.
Me: Yeah, like those back-lit Tokihiro Sato photos from the Art Institute [see below] that you got in trouble for taking pictures of because it's against the rules to take a photograph of a photograph.
Me 2 Me: And you could have just a few words at the bottom of each billboard. A greeting to all.
Me: It would be like:
1. Hello, fellow drivers!
2. Please enjoy these beautiful photos.
3. But don't get too distracted.
4. Happy trails!
5. Exit here for a free cookie.
Me 2 Me: A free cookie?
Me: Yeah, you could build a little drive-up shack at the next exit where you'd give everyone a free homemade chocolate chip cookie.
Me 2 Me: Hmm. A few logistical kinks to work out, but man oh man, that is a great idea. I sure hope this ticket is a winner.

P.S. I am anti- the new British announcer they had calling some of the races on Derby day at Churchill Downs. This is not England. This is Kentucky. A British accent does not automatically make everything fancier.

P.P.S. And come on, people, when they play "My Old Kentucky Home" right before the Derby, I really do expect you to sing along. If I memorize the all the words and wear a fascinator all day and throw down cold hard cash on Mint Juleps and park three miles from the track, then I need to hear group participation at the crucial emotional moment. I don't even care if you're from out of town. Get on it for next year. Thanks.

Herewith, the fascinator in action. Speaking of jackpots, my sister Claire (right) took home some bank on the long-shot surprise winner, Mine That Bird.

Thank Gelato It's Friday

2009-04-24T10:33:00.011-05:00

Today, on Gelato Friday (mmm, I'm really craving something cold and creamy), I would like to address several topics:

1. I want Oprah to stop with Twitter, talking about her Tweeple, and beaming in viewers in via Skype. Sure, I've Skyped here and there, but that's because I'm on a budget and I wanted to communicate with my sister Liv in Italy (that is, before the Italian police asked to see her nonexistent work visa and politely invited her to exit the country). But anyway, I know Oprah is not on a budget. I'd much rather see her take a question from an actual audience member being filmed from a flattering angle than listen to her shout across the room at a blurry image of a poorly-lit Barbara from Rhode Island or Monica from Idaho.

2. I am fascinated by an item called a fascinator, which is what I plan to wear on my head to the Kentucky Derby next weekend. It's something like a cross between a headband and a hat (see above: SJP in a particularly elaborate example). I hope my (yet to be procured) fascinator will add Drama!, Flair!, and furthermore, Height!, to my ensemble. FASCINATOR. Don't you just love that word? I learned it from my sister Claire.

3. It has been one full week since I spoke to my teacher friend Tim's first-grade class at the Walt Disney magnet school on career day. I told them about how I write stories for magazines, and I tried to outline the process of getting from an idea to an interview to a photo shoot to words on a page. All they really wanted to do, however, was play with my late-90s model mini cassette recorder, which still held the previous week's interview with Mary Poppins (the musical) star Ashley Brown (whom I claimed was the real Mary Poppins). Regardless, I enjoyed the feeling that for a moment I might be molding young minds. I also enjoyed reviewing the students' recent homework assignments on the bulletin board, especially the paper which noted: "If I could be a butterfly for a day, I would fly to Pizza Hut and eat cheese pizza." Well said.

(My favorite number from Mary Poppins: "Step In Time")

Ina Is My Martha

2009-04-11T15:00:00.001-05:00

Because affectionately referring to my girlfriends as "heifers" doesn't come naturally to me, I don't think I could ever be BFFs with Paula Deen. (Though nothing entertains me more than gazing in the mirror and intoning in my most extravagant twang: "Guess what I'm fixin' t' do now, ya'll? I'm fixin' t' wrap this bacon 'round these chilled mac 'n cheese squares, an' then I'm goin' deep fry 'em, ya'll.") I can't connect with Martha Stewart, either, because as much as her bad-girl tendencies and sinister flower arranging demonstrations intrigue me, I don't do Arts & Craps. But if there's one TV homemaker who makes me want to move into a cottage and start growing my own asparagus ASAP, it's Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa. I never watched her much when I was immersed in the, um, corporate world, but these days I'm 100% enamored with her popped-collar denim shirts, her soothing approach to egg-cracking, her trips to the market to buy lamb shoulders from butchers who adore her and her rotating cast of non-threatening dinner guests. No one else on the Food Network can touch her for pure legitimacy, pure quality, pure comfort--and that, I have decided, is the catchword of the moment.

I was not comforted, however, when I awoke this morning to the grating scream of a giant wood chipper in the alley behind my building on Mohawk Street. I was not comforted when I heard my next-door neighbor puking through the wall (and, directly after the puking, watching an adult video at top volume). I was not comforted when I got into my car and listened to Eminem's Crack the Bottle (the fully explicit version), a tune with which I can hardly bring myself to sing along. I was not comforted when I discovered via various beauty blogs that I might die from the formaldehyde-laced Brazilian hair straightening treatment I received on Thursday. And, though I'm very much looking forward to this evening's VIP Chippendales performance at the Horseshoe Casino, I don't expect banana hammocks would score high on Ina's comfort meter. Oh well. Tomorrow is Easter, a good day for fresh starts.

P.S. More wholesomely, have you ever communicated with a real live Uncanny Nanny using the most modern of technologies? I have:

Whilst waiting in the lobby of the Cadillac Palace Theatre last night to interview Broadway star Ashley Brown in her dressing room, pre-performance:

Jeff: Who're you texting?
Me: The girl I'm interviewing.
Jeff: You're texting Mary Poppins?
Me: Yes. I'm texting Mary Poppins.

Change I Refuse To Believe In

2009-03-17T13:05:00.006-05:00

I couldn't be more thankful to see the season finale of The City air last night. Despite the show's value as a treasure trove of upbeat shopping tunes (which I regularly download to add to the Peacock Boutique master playlist), I suspect the producers' choice of Aussie model/renegade Jay Lyon as Whitney's boyfriend has been nothing more than a marketing gimmick designed to subliminally encourage viewers to eat at Outback Steakhouse. Listen closely when Jay speaks and you'll hear for yourself:

Jay: "I told you, Whit, I don't even know that girl. I swear I didn't take her home cheese fries cheese fries cheese fries last night.
Whit: But Jay, you were wasted.
Jay: I only had seven shots alice springs chicken oozy cheese cheese, I swear.
Whitney (balefully): "But Jay."
Jay: "Why're you always yelling at me, Whit? Deep fried bloomin' onion mmm mmm good. Look, if you can't trust me, I just don't know if this relationship can work.

Lord, what I wouldn't do for some shrimp on the barbie.

Meanwhile, a sticker on my most recent bag of Baked Lay's has alerted me that the chip brand will soon be sporting a new look. That's just great. I'll never find them in the snack aisle, and if I ever do bring a bag into my apartment I'll be confused every time I see them on the kitchen counter. Obviously there are Frito-Lay executives who are unaware of my fear of change and the fact that I've already had enough for one year. Between this, the renaming of the Sears Tower (prompting all my Facebook friends to indulge in "What you talkin' bout, Willis?" status updates), the privatizing of Chicago parking meters and an upcoming overhaul of the Chipotle logo, my life has become nearly unrecognizable.

P.S. There are two Quotes of the Week. One goes to Jeff, and one to me. What? It's my blog.

While traversing a sidewalk in Washington Park and mapping a route to the Museum of Science and Industry via iPhone:
Jeff: I think we passed the bus stop.
Me: It's right behind us.
Jeff: Where?
Me: That blue sign, see?
Jeff: There? We can't stand there. Too ugly.

Over dinner at Pingpong:
Jeff: Kelli, remember when you used to love those Babysitter's Club books? You had every one lined up in a row.
Kelli: I loved the horse books, too.
Me: I watched the Babysitter's Club movie on OnDemand last week. I used to be a Babysitter's Club of one.
Jeff: Emma, you babysat?
Me: Oh yes, Lake Forest was a babysitting gold mine back in the day. I used babysit the shit out of that neighborhood.

A Ghost Story, Ending TBD

2009-03-11T08:26:00.006-05:00

Yesterday I was at lunch with someone who said he hadn't seen a certain movie because, he reasoned, "Who needs a ghost story? Isn't life scary enough these days?" I concur. Even movies with titles like Confessions of a Shopaholic are enough to scare my pants off in this economy, and with so many hypothetical axes being slung every which way, the last thing I'm trying to get into is more gore.

Still, I can't help but create a little suspense in my head once in a while, especially when the weather calls for it, and especially when I've been churning out a feature story in utter silence for days on end. And so, when I'd typed the last word of said story yesterday afternoon (in case you're wondering, the word was "here"), I stood up, slipped on my tennis shoes, and exited the premises. It was 5:51pm and a tad late for a walk, but that's what Daylight Savings Time is for, right? It was also drizzling rather seriously, but by the time I'd realized it the front door had closed behind me and it was Too Late to Turn Back.

Dodging sludgy puddles and peering through the fog on the lakefront path, I beheld the enshrouded Chicago skyline. I passed beneath the dim orange glow of an endless row of streetlights. I outpaced the rush-hour creep of Lake Shore Drive. I made my way along the curve of a narrow concrete pier that dead-ends about a quarter of a mile out into the water, where I determined to touch the graffitied steel lattice of a lookout station before retracing my steps. It was a curiously warm evening, but an empty chill rose from either side of the walkway; below, winter's slow-melting swaths of chunked-up ice floated in ringed patterns like crop circles, rolling heavily atop the waves. It was, in other words, an Eerie and Unsafe situation (sorry, Mom!).

As far as I knew I was the only human soul on the pier, but when I turned I found myself walking toward a man dressed in head-to-toe black (workout wear, mind you). He was tall, gym-rat burly, and despite his stony expression, clearly be-bopping to something effervescent on his iPod. We inched closer, and I held my head as high and level as possible, hoping to exude an ass-whuping air of defiance. My hair, unrestrained by any ponytail-holding device, swirled about my face in what I imagined to be an extremely mermaid-esque arrangement. "That man could kill me right now if he wanted to," I thought. "One hard shove, and I'd be a goner." (See above: My possible fate.) I became acutely aware of those undulating ice circles, one of which I might disappear into like a basketball swishing through a hoop. Eye contact was established, and the man and I passed without incident (obviously, as I am still here to spin this heart-stopping tale).

Moments later, the Alicia Keys song "Superwoman" began piping through my headphones, and my mind turned from dark scenarios involving hulking powerwalkers to the daily business of pep-talking myself about my future career. "You will once again be a valuable asset to some company, some day," I preached heartily. "Yes you can. Yes you will." I even sang along a little, since no one was around.

Closer to home and now in full darkness, I waited to cross the street with a group of sensibly accessorized office workers (umbrellas, galoshes) who'd just filed off the 151 bus. They'd stayed late at their desks, no doubt, to prove their usefulness. At a lull in traffic we moved forward in a pack, and for a block I pretended I was one of them. You know, just for karma's sake.

When the Clouds Align, At Last

2009-02-24T07:07:00.025-06:00

When Beyoncé sang Etta James' "At Last" to Barack and Michelle at the Neighborhood Ball on inauguration night, it was arguably one of the loveliest moments ever to play out for an audience of billions. Honestly, I could YouTube that shit all day. When the same song plays during the black-and-white scene in Pleasantville where they drive down Lover's Lane while floating cherry blossoms create a sudden shower of blush pink, a similar fairy-tale effect is achieved. But lately, when Etta's silky first notes of this timeless tune announce the beginning of a new Hoover vacuum cleaner commercial, I'm forced to close my eyes, sing "LA LA LA" at top volume and change the channel before another strain reaches my ears. Hoover: As much as I respect your vast vacuum empire and enjoy the sheer dirt-busting power of my Wind Tunnel Complete (it certainly does suck), you're ruining it for me! Please, make up an original jingle about bagless debris storage or something.

In other news, I thought Bachelor Jason made quite the revealing slip last night when he said: "When I'm with Melissa, it's like everything just falls right into place. It's like when all the clouds align. She's such a fun and amazing and beautiful girl." If he were really in love with her, don't you think he would have said stars instead of clouds? Mark my words, Melissa will not be the winner of a product-placed diamond ring and soon-to-be-called-off engagement when the finale airs next week. But if she's lucky, she might get one more run-hug-twirl, Jason's best and signature move.

And now, please allow me to present today's Match Moment! Is it mean if I continue to feature cut-and-pastes from my favorite Match men on this blog? Come on, you know you like it. And so many clouds are aligning these days that I think we could all use the entertainment. So, here you go. Real uncensored romance, unleashed:

PRINCE CHARMING #1: Don't sweat the small stuff I always say! Tommarow's another day! Oops. I'm pretty much of a guy that when life slams me down I always stand up, dust myself off and go on!! Shit happens!!!! Get up and stand tall I always say!!! My match should be able to fish with no help if you know what that means. Camper also is great, but I know when a lady has to be a lady. I enjoy going out for dinner but the candle light thing works for me also! Love to snuggle an spoon!! I love snowy nights infront of the fire, and those rainy Sunday's sitt'n watchin the games, huge bonus!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Huge Bears fan and Cubs fan you pick the game I have tickets for both!

PC #2: A Ray Of Sunshine.....And A Lot Of Laughs!!!!! If you are looking for a lot of fun and a bunch of laughs and can handle a great looking, fun guy! Look no further! I am looking for a girl who can be just a blast to hang out with. Someone I can look over and can't help but think "damn she is hot". I want a woman whose smile catches my eye from across a room and makes the heart flutter. A woman who smells intoxicating and I can't help but whisper "let's leave this party now!" Simple guy who loves to be active-sports-playing them...coaching them...watching them...loves the sun-why am I here in mid Feb??? Love to cook-hate doin the dishes...I am old scool romntic but why can't I have it all?!

PC #3 (accompanied by 14 shirtless self-portraits featuring a variety of silver and wood-bead necklaces): Well I'm 5 10 185lbs, . I'm 100% italian, STRAIGHT male, i have 11 piercings & 5 tats, im outgoing, spontanious, silly and fun to be around because I'm still a kid at heart. I'm very blunt too, i dont sugar coat things, I say it like it is! I'm professional with a bad boy side to me which always helps. I always get my way if I want it that bad. I love to work out, love my music (electro house, hardstyle, vocal trance, metal ) , go clubbing, beaches when its nice out, anything that can keep my interest.  Most of my friends are married engaged or work on the time that i have off so it's almost like I'm stuck in alot which sucks.

25 Things, Random or Not

2009-02-17T19:17:00.004-06:00

So, is everyone aware of this 25 Random Things About Me chain letter that's taken hold of Facebook and choked the site's entire population in its irresistible boa death grip? Well. When I first saw it I rolled my eyes several times in a row. Like millions of users, I've been "tagged" in the 25 Random Things note nearly 1,276 times. I've always stoically resisted the urge to respond. Anyone who hasn't already been exposed to enough info about A.R.D. via Facebook status updates, MySpace golden oldies, blogs, Google searches, texts, e-mails, contributer bios, first-person essays, actual face-to-face conversation, etc., clearly has not been doing his/her research. Plus, an internet expert on the Today Show last week smirked while calling the list "the epitome of modern-day vanity," therefore making anyone who falls into its trap the automatic World's Biggest Dumbass.

But. When used as a procrastination tool, the 25 Random Things can be highly effective. Please don't disown me for doing this:

1. I'm considering full-on bangs, or maybe parting my hair in the middle.
2. My sister Claire and I are sometimes mean to each other about our eyebrows. The last time she told me mine were getting too thin was on September 22, 2008.
3. There's a jar of mint-infused honey in my kitchen that I don't want to open for some reason.
4. I've never met my current upstairs neighbor in person, but I know via Bob the Landlord that his family owns a popular Chicago shoe store where sensible shoes are sold.
5. When my sister Liv was a sweet little eight-year-old whose hair curled charmingly around her temples, I taught her to point to those curls and say: "Look, I'm horny!"
6. Magic Johnson cried a little when I interviewed him once. I am the next Barbara Walters, surely.
7. Personally, I always cry a little while watching Sweet Home Alabama or The Notebook.
8. And, I need to get over Ye Olde Hometown Sweetheart Love Story. At least, that's what various friends have asserted REPEATEDLY.
9. I keep a plaster cast of my own teeth above my kitchen sink. I got it the day my braces came off, at the ripe old age of 22 (see photo).
10. I know the horse racing industry is not always on the up-and-up, but I love the sound of many hooves thundering by on a dirt track.
11. Every Monday night, my uncle Jack and I exchange close to 58 incredulous texts on the subject of The Bachelor.
12. Favorite pen = Uniball Vision Exact, fine point, in blue.
14. I just skipped the number 13 because after last Friday, I'm feeling superstitious.
15. I've never been a bridesmaid.
16. Today I stood in front of the seal pool at the zoo, willing a seal to swim over to me. When one finally poked its head out of the water and flared its nostrils at me plaintively, I said, "Oh, there you are!" Like we were old friends.
17. The following fortune cookie wisdom is taped to my desk: "You have a slow and unhurried natural rhythm." I'm not sure if that's a compliment, but I like it.
18. I have to write a book. It just seems like the natural progression of things. But will people still be reading books by the time I finish mine?
19. After I park my car some nights, I like walking down the middle of my street in my party heels, in the dark. I consider it part safety measure, part Sex and the City delusion.
20. I am an incredible rapper. You should hear me on Lupe Fiasco's "Kick, Push." (My favorite song of the year.)
21. Also today, I wrote a letter of complaint to Hotmail about their banner ad featuring some girl's stretch-marked belly hanging over her waistband. I'm sick of looking at that.
22. I just sighed deeply.
23. I'm boring myself to death.
24. I have to go watch American Idol now.
25. Adios.

My Un-Funny Valentine

2009-02-12T10:09:00.012-06:00

It would appear that I do not have a confirmed Valentine this year, except for McLovin4U, who sent me a wink on Match last night but whom I cannot entertain as a possibility because he's yet another Vegas fanatic. Honestly, I can't wait until my subscription runs out. Whatever, no Valentine is better than last year's a-hole, who sent me an e-card, a couple texts and an arrangement of carnations that arrived at my office after I'd left for the day. He then went off the radar for the remainder of the evening (a time period during which I later learned he took his other girlfriend out to dinner).

This year, I'll be attending someone else's engagement party on V-day, and although I won't be taking a date, I will be getting into the spirit by wearing a rather beautiful pair of red satin shoes with jeweled bows, and that has to count for something. (See right for desktop still life.) They are my new ruby slippers, and if I could break them in enough to tap my heels together three times without wincing in pain, they just might take me somewhere incredible. Somewhere where health insurance is handed out like candy. Somewhere where every lottery ticket is a winner. Somewhere where the temperature at any given moment is 74 degrees and they serve a side of chocolate chips with every meal.

In other news, several things occurred yesterday and the day before:

1. I watched a dried Christmas tree float down the bike lane on Wells Street like a homesick tumbleweed.
2. I went to the dentist for my toothache, which hurts at all times but especially when breeze blows on it. My dentist said she can find nothing amiss and asked if I'm under a lot of stress, then brought up a toothache of mine from several months ago that vanished mysteriously. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I have been diagnosed with a phantom toothache.
3. I took myself out to breakfast at Nookie's, where I sat near a multi-pierced girl who faintly resembled Angelina Jolie and who carried on a mostly one-sided conversation with her unlikely dining companion, a Nerdy Dude:

Angie Junior: If I can draw really good cartoons, then why shouldn't I, you know?
Nerdy Dude: Seriously.
AJ: And the weird thing about it is, everybody says I look like Angelina Jolie, and everyone says Jeanette looks like Jennifer Aniston, but we don't fight, we're actually the best of friends.
ND: That's so weird.
AJ: Jeanette's a Pisces, so she's really outgoing, which is kind of the opposite of me but not really.
ND: Hmm, interesting.
AJ: I would like to have nice teeth at some point, you know, get some work done on my teeth or maybe get Lasik surgery, even though my mom had complications from it. She couldn't see out of one eye for a long time.
ND: Wow.

P.S. I've loved print media since I was roughly 11 years old, when I first started reading Sassy magazine. (Or, maybe it was a fascination born out of running around Granddaddy's office at the Louisville Courier-Journal as a child and getting black ink on my socks. Or reading my mom's Redbooks while she was in Jazzercise.) Magazines have always been my most reliable bedtime companions, and I can hardly bring myself to throw away my Vanity Fairs even when they weigh 20 pounds and I've read every page. I once thought to myself: I want to write for a magazine. And that's what I did. But last night, I met with CNN's Ali Velshi, who just wrote a book about the recession titled Gimme My Money Back: Your Guide to Beating the Financial Crisis. I knew I was expected to ask him a question, so I said, "Ali, I work in print media. When do you think I might be able to get a new job?" His response: "Get a new career." So, I'm taking suggestions. If you can think of a line of work for which I might be suited, please let me know. And please don't say Waffle House.

See Here: Sassy Water

2009-02-04T14:01:00.000-06:00

The next time you come over to my apartment, I'm totally whipping you up a batch of Sassy Water. I just made my second-ever pitcher of it, and it's so refreshing I think everyone should give it a whirl. The only problem is that it's so summery-looking, which is contrary to pretty much everything else. But the chance to offer someone a "glass of sass" is so pleasing that I'm just going to overlook the seasonality thing. Here's the recipe. It's from the Flat Belly Diet, a book my mom and I were recently lured into buying from the end-of-the-aisle discount selection at Target:

8 cups water
1 cucumber, sliced
1 lemon, sliced
1 tsp freshly grated ginger root
12 mint leaves
chill overnight
(see right: Sassy Water reclines upon my desk)

In other news, Black Beauty was towed last Sunday sometime after 3AM, which was the last time I laid eyes on her. Such a thing has NEVER previously occurred. I hated everything about it, from walking outside the next morning to find zero transportation to Graham's birthday brunch, to extracting $180 from the ATM to cover costs, to taking a cab to an underground trailer on Lower Wacker Drive to retrieve her. My friend Jeff accompanied me on that mission, and luckily he was able to find some entertainment:

Jeff (to counter lady at Chicago Central Impoundment trailer): Ahem. Um. Have you ever been on TV before?
Counter Lady: No.
Jeff: Really? You look so familiar.
Counter Lady: Oh, I was on the news one time when they was filming down here.
Jeff: Oh.
Counter Lady: Maybe you're thinking about Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Me and Kate have the exact same haircut.
Jeff (eyeing haircut dubiously): Oh.

As we drove away, Jeff mused, "She said Jon & Kate Plus Eight. But I really thought I saw her on Springer once."

Later that day, I drove by an actual hot dog tent sale at the Vienna Beef factory on Damen Ave. Now that, I thought, is not Flat-Belly-approved.

No Way No How

2009-01-29T06:20:00.000-06:00

All week I've been in Louisville. I came down here to go to my sister Claire's Peacock warehouse sale and hang out with my other sister Liv one more time before she flees to Italy for six months. I planned to head back to Chicago five days ago. Then came the ice storm. It was no joke:

So, first some snow happened. Then a lot of ice. Then more snow. I got up at 6:30AM on the first morning of the citywide TOTAL FREAKOUT AND EMERGENCY SHUTDOWN and went into my mom's room to whine:

Me: Mom, I have to get internet access! Right now!
Mom (in sleepy voice): Well, I don't know what to tell you.
Me: I have to go to the coffee shop!
Mom: It's slick out there. You don't have to go anywhere.
Me: I'm leaving. I'll just drive up there. I can make it.
Liv (entering room): What's going on? How are we ever going to get out of here?
Me (panicked): Yeah, we have to get out of here!
Mom: Ya'll need to stop it. I've been up five minutes and you're already stressing me out.

The day went by, and more ice came. Mom, Liv and I watched American Idol that night and then we went to bed. The lights flickered. "Oh no," Liv said down the hall in her room. "It's only a matter of time," I whispered, so quiet no one could hear. At 3:30AM the lights went out for good, and ever since then we've been camping out at my Aunt Jenny and Uncle Mike's house, which is great because they have lightening fast internet access. They also have a dog named Henry who is highly decorative but who has always been a biter. He hangs out in the kitchen most of the time, so if you want a glass of water you have to ask Uncle Mike to get it. Our friend Cecily, a jewelry designer visiting from California, stayed there with us last night, and when she saw the sign on the kitchen door that says, "Beware of dog. Stay out of kitchen," she thought it was a joke. She got a bite.

P.S. The other day when every road was covered in snow and ice and there were downed trees and power lines blocking our progress at every turn, we drove to the hardware store to get some keys made. (The key story is a whole separate situation and I don't think you'd be all that interested.) Anyway, at St. Matthews Hardware, a man asked us if we were looking for sleds.

Man: Lookin' fer sleds?
Us: Nope. We're not sledding. We need keys. Are you sledding?
Man: Aw hell, I ain't goin' sleddin.' No way no how, dammit.

I'm Just Not That Into Them

2009-01-19T21:04:00.001-06:00

Not that I'm a member of Match.com or have ever given out my credit card number to meet straight men online, but...is it rude to e-mail a stranger whose profile you've just read after receiving a wink from him and say, "Dude, that's just too many exclamation points?" I mean, is it over the top to comment upon the punctuation of someone with whom you've never actually communicated?

Please review this sample Match.com profile I've created to illustrate my point. It is compiled from actual excerpts, a 100% cut-and-paste job:

MR. EVERYCHITOWNGUY
Go Cubs!

I am looking for a girl who likes to laugh! Hard! I'm a total beachbum!!! I LOVE Vegas and I've been there 27 times since I turned 21! I also love MIAMI!!! I have a medium build and dark hair and dark eyes! I'm a selfish prick! A hot, rich, pampered intellectual!! I am a very good looking successful greek male who lives on the mag mile who enjoys all the finer things in life and am hoping I find a woman who is very attractive clean intellegent and also enjoys all the wonderful things that life has to offer!!!

Well, maybe I added one or two extra exclamations, but you get the gist.

In other word-related news, I learned a new adjective on The Bachelor last night: amazing. Well, I already knew the word since it's been in heavy rotation as the favored expression of mindless enthusiasm for several years, but I discovered it can now be used with even greater frequency than ever before. So many things can be AMAZING. Helicopter rides. Jason's bod. Levels of bitchiness. Plaster busts. Legoland.

Anywho, I really need to concentrate on this historic inauguration now. GOBAMA!

P.S. Last night I dreamed I accidentally ate a little bite of a real goldfish. It was pretty gross. I think it happened because I cooked salmon for dinner, and even though salmon is an undeniably healthful superfood, it's nearly impossible to get that smell out of one's apartment.

Brain Games

2009-01-08T19:55:00.000-06:00

I just had the most fascinating conversations with two employees at my gym, Equinox in Lincoln Park. I went there not so much to work out (which of course was an added benefit), but to bask in the presence of actual humanoids. One of the gym employees asked me about my headphones, which gave me a chance to explain that my Ultimate Ears UE-5 Pros were made from casts of my inner ears and provide the most superior sound quality imaginable (and no, they're not hearing aids). I initiated the other conversation at the concession stand:

Me: You know what I wish you guys would get?
Concession stand guy: What?
Me: Those G2 drinks from Gatorade.
Him: Yeah, I think we're getting them.
Me: Only 25 calories per serving!
Him: People have been asking about those.
Me: They're really good.

It was so stimulating! I mean, that's the most words I've exchanged with anyone face-to-face for 48 hours.

I'm spending way too much time kicking it solo in my new capacity as Freelance Writer. I know I need to keep my brain sharp for the moment when the economy leaps to life like a newborn foal and job offers flow toward me in abundance (no pressure, B.H.O.), so here are some activities I plan to start engaging in more frequently:

1. Driving. Chicago's pothole plight works wonders for one's reflexes. Just try driving down Sheridan Road--especially the blocks with defunct streetlights--in the dark, in a blizzard. It's kind of like playing Minesweeper, but with your whole car at stake.
2. Puzzles. I used to love working puzzles, and they provide surprisingly inexpensive entertainment, except I might need to buy a new table for the purpose. Never mind, I forgot about my card table.
3. Cooking. As soon as Bob the Landlord fixes my dishwasher, I'm totally getting back to cooking. When I arrived at my apartment after an outing today, I noticed the place smells like grilled cheese. That's because I've been subsisting almost exclusively on grilled cheese sandwiches...on whole-grain, high-fiber bread, but still.
4. TV. In particular, The Real World: Brooklyn. Finally, a cast whose collective hobbies cannot be summed up in one word: tanning. This season's strangers are so non-hottie-oriented and diverse in their sexual orientations, it promises to be a truly mind-expanding ride.
5. Bubbles. I keep a bottle of bubbles on top of my refrigerator at all times, and sometimes I open the back door and blow a few into the courtyard. I'm not positive it's increasing my brainpower, but it certainly is soothing.

The Case of the Defrosting Steaks

2009-01-07T14:22:00.000-06:00

Yesterday there was a box sitting in the front hall of my apartment building which clearly contained dry ice and Omaha Steaks. It was addressed to my downstairs neighbor, Cade, for whom I'm always walking on the outside edges of my feet because I don't want to torture him in the same way my upstairs neighbor tortures me. The box had a notice taped to it: "Contents Extremely Perishable! Freeze Immediately Upon Delivery!" Well, the steaks were still sitting there this morning, so I carried them up and placed them outside my neighbor's door, hoping he'd find them on his way to work. He didn't. My anxiety about those rapidly thawing hunks of meat rose throughout the day to the point that I was going on hourly peek-over-the-rail missions to see if the box was still there. I didn't know if I should, like, knock on his door, or try to intercept him in the back stairwell, or maybe even track down his work number via Bob the Landlord. Eventually, I came up with a plan to bring the steaks into my apartment if they had not moved by 7PM, stow them in my freezer, and compose a note to Cade politely explaning the situation. Promptly at 7:00, I peeked over the rail. Whew. He found them.

So, did everyone catch the season premiere of The Bachelor earlier this week? (Mid-episode text from Tim: "If I see that guy and his son run dramatically towards each other again with their arms spread like hookers' legs, I'll vomit into a box and send it to him.") I hope you at least tuned in for the touching one-hour portion of the show during which each girl was shown individually teetering her way out of a limo, trembling in her satin Caché dress as she approached irresistible single dad Jason (who is surprisingly beardless for someone from Seattle) to share their first precious words. Most of the conversations can be summed up as follows:

Girl: You're beautiful!
Jason: No, you're beautiful!
Girl: You're so beautiful!
Jason: Seriously, you're BEAUTIFUL!
Girl: Cool, see you inside.

I started to get a little sad, watching it. I just wish someone could see into my soul like that.

A Miniature Horse, Of Course

2008-12-30T19:40:00.000-06:00

Today I spent the entire day reading an entire book. Nothing too intellectual, just a frothy novel about a champagne vineyard in France and three sisters who couldn't get along until a Gypsy showed up and straightened them out. The most intriguing character was their pet, a dwarf miniature horse named Cochon (French for pig). Having never heard of dwarf miniature horses (tinier, even, than a regular miniature horse), I immediately Googled them and learned they are sometimes put into service in the manner of seeing eye dogs. Fascinating. I always think about how fun it might (or might not) be to get a puppy, but I think I could definitely be the talk of the neighborhood with a dwarf miniature horse following me around on his little hooves.

Anyway, I needed to take it easy today because for the past week I've been kickin' it in Kentucky, gettin' buzzed on bourbon balls, shootin' the s$%! with a variety of family members and researchin' a new breed of cool kids who appear to be taking over the town: Hillbilly Hipsters (my own term, don't you love it?). I tell you what, they're a slightly standoffish crowd, and I pretty much feel like an uptight supernerd around them. I never did come up with quite the right outfit to properly infiltrate (my hair is waaaayyy too shiny for that scene), but I did manage to take some pretty revealing notes, which you won't find here since I'd rather work them into a story for a paying media outlet.

While in Louisville I had one breakfast at my favorite restaurant, Waffle House. Atmosphere-wise, that place has really taken it up a notch since the smoking ban kicked in. One new thing I discovered at Waffle House is that I don't need to order the double waffle, ever. It's just too much dough. I also noticed a line of fine print on the menu that I'd never seen before: "Thank you! You had a choice and you chose Waffle House. Please send comments to..." followed by an address. I always try to comment whenever possible, so I started thinking about what I might say. Basically, I'd be full of compliments. Good waffles. Crispy hash browns. Exceptionally friendly service. I like watching the line cooks work the grill. My only advice would be that Top 40 music should not be allowed on Waffle House juke boxes. Only oldies and country.

Meanwhile, I defy you all to lead me to a more outstanding fast food establishment than the Chick-fil-A at exit 172 off I-65 in Lafayette, Indiana. I mean, give me a break. It's fabulosity defined. Sparkling clean, with delectable waffle fries and employees who seem genuinely delighted to be serving up chicken sandwiches. It's also a great place to stock up on my favorite low-fat mayonnaise packets, which I carry in my purse at all times. They're not open on Sundays because the Chick-fil-A corporation believes in a day of rest, so I sometimes have to reschedule my drive to a Monday morning so I don't miss out.

P.S. The highlight of Christmas Day was when my sister Claire brought one of those spiky head massagers to dinner at my grandparents' house. In a rare episode of bonding among all factions of the family, we passed it up and down the 20-seat table, each person massaging the next one's head. Even Sammy, our golden retriever, got his head raked. It was a very warm moment.

30 Going On 13

2008-12-18T07:08:00.000-06:00

Last weekend, I was watching the enchanting Jennifer Garner flick 13 Going On 30 (it was part of a movie marathon that included two other favorites guaranteed to drive any man away, In Her Shoes and Something's Gotta Give), and thinking I really ought to star in the sequel, 30 Going On 13.

When I was 13, I was a very powerful eighth-grader at Crosby Middle School. I was the number-one flute player in the school (duh), and my band teacher and I even had a special whistle. (Mr. Dennis Anderson was possibly the best teacher of my entire public school career and beyond, and I sincerely wish I'd called him up and told him that before it was too late.) My on-again, off-again love interest was a bad boy named Brandon with a floppy blond bowl-cut, and I never found his antics anything but 100% amusing. Most of our romance played out in the back of Jefferson County Schools bus #411, but he was an excellent folder of notes and he did jump off my parents' balcony to impress me once.

Anywho, if I could lend my 30-year-old brain to my 13-year-old self for a week or so, there are a few things I could easily accomplish:

1. Since my most cherished activity of all time is staring out the window, I would stage a walkout at Crosby Middle School, a stinking brown blob of a building designed in the '70s when the presence of windows was considered a menacing distraction for students. Little did those idiot architects know how many perfectly coherent sentences I would dream up while staring out of windows later in life.

2. I would provide myself with many deadly comebacks and various other knee-as-weapon moves to use on the vast array of young men who found it endlessly entertaining to suggest I was on the fast track to a successful career at Hooter's.

3. I would strongly advise myself against being dragged to Christian rock concerts and stadium revivals by various friends' mothers, who clearly thought I needed Saving. I mean, how close did I come to being brainwashed?! Well, not very.

4. I would throw away any jars of Noxema facial cleansing mousse that may have been lying around our house at the time. Noxema is the most drying chemical agent on earth.

P.S. I am SO MEAN to telemarketers who mispronounce my name. It really gets me going.

Telemarketer: (Long crackling pause): "Hello, is this Mrs. A-muh-lee Drew-key?"
Me: "No."
Telemarketer: "With whom am I speaking?"
Me: "Amalie Drury."
Telemarketer: "Well, Mrs. Drew-key,"
Me: "I'm sorry, but do you see a "k" anywhere in the spelling of my name?"
Telemarketer: "I see D-R-U-R-..."
Me: "So why do you keep saying it with a K? And what makes you think I'm married?"
Telemarketer: "I'm sorry, Mrs. Dur, I mean Drew..."
Me: "I think you've got the wrong person, and furthermore, I don't have enough cell phone minutes to indulge this conversation. Adios."

A Manifesto Kind of Mood

2008-12-11T08:24:00.000-06:00

Watching Jerry Maguire always puts me in a bit of a manifesto mood. You should have heard me up on my high horse last night, going on about high-rise living in a conversation with Jeff over a turkey burger at Marge's on Sedgwick. (Stay tuned for more on this topic in Jeff's upcoming book, Cool vs. Comfort: The Eternal Architectural Conundrum.) My passionate speech about the existential issues involved with living like stacked ants in overly imposing glass boxes reminded me of the intensity with which I used to approach my neighbor on Cherokee Road in Louisville to speak to him about his leaf-blower. Basically, I wanted him to:

1. Not blow leaves and sticks upon my freshly washed car, which was parked near his residence.
2. Not blow leaves when people were trying to get married in peace at the church across the street.
3. Not blow leaves when I was trying to study for the GRE.

The Quote of the Month goes to my friend Tim, who noted (upon having inadvertently attended the Magnificent Mile Lights Festival on Michigan Avenue):

"It looks like the suburbs exploded down there. Everyone was wearing Lucky jeans."

P.S. I go to a lot of trouble to text big words like "galavanting" and "cumulonimbus clouds," so please don't write back if your text vocabulary is limited to the letters R and U.

P.P.S. Happy birthday to my mammy!

I Am My Own Housewife

2008-12-02T22:22:00.000-06:00

Today was my first official day at home, since I abruptly became someone who Works From Home. (Photo: Working from home.)

I awoke and asked myself, What now? Well, I said to me, you might as well make yourself an egg, just like always.

I turned on the TV and searched my DVR recordings for something to watch. I decided on last night’s episode of The Hills, which I couldn't view during its normal airtime due to the draining, gut-wrenching emotion of the Britney Spears documentary, which I’d watched for two hours beforehand.

About seven minutes into The Hills, my brain began to shut down. I snatched the remote and pressed the “last” button switch to TV in real time. What do you think was on? The Hills. The very same episode. The very same moment in the very same episode, the one where Spencer chastises Stephanie about visiting their Nana. Poor Nana. What toolbags she has for grandchildren.

Later, I proceeded to my gym, Equinox, one of the loveliest places to kill an hour or two while boosting one’s sense of self-righteousness. It was noon. I warily assessed the other worker-outers, assigning each of them an excuse to explain why they might have time to do lunges in the middle of the day.

At Whole Foods, I filled a cardboard cup with spicy gumbo. I waited patiently for chicken cutlets at the meat counter.

Back at my apartment, I said to myself, You ought to dust those baseboards. You should mop (without moping, mind you), and later, you’ll throw away that super-sized box of oatmeal that expired in 07. You can replace it with a box of Quaker’s new Weight Control oatmeal.

Meanwhile, who decides to market a product using the term “Weight Control?” There is a similar tagline for a certain section of the menu at the Cheesecake Factory, I’ve noticed. Weight Management. As if anyone wants to announce to a group of dining companions and the waiter: “Yes, I’d like the Weight Management Pear and Endive Salad, please.” Yeah. And a box of tampons, while you’re at it.

Awkwardly Social (New People Suck)

2008-11-21T07:57:00.000-06:00

MNP stands for Meet New People, which was the title of a party I attended last night at Landmark Grill + Lounge across from the Steppenwolf theater on Halsted Street. Prior to MNP I was at the Michael Kors opening at the 900 Shops, where I talked to roughly 15 of the 200-500 people I always talk to. Prior to that, I had a margherita pizza at Frankie’s Scallopini on the fifth floor.

MNP was not supposed to be a singles party, but upon arrival my friend Graham (who agreed to escort me so I wouldn’t have to meet new people by myself) took in the mostly female crowd and said: “Yep, smell that desperation in the air?” Later, when we were surveying the scene from the second-floor catwalk, we also detected a hint of tater tots and possibly a note of funnel cake.

Anywho, though we were sorely tempted to converse only amongst ourselves (like we do all day every day at work), we forced ourselves to seriously Meet New People. A sampling of the conversations that ensued:

Amalie & Graham, approaching party of three: Hi! Are you guys meeting new people?
Two guys & a girl: Yeah. None of us know each other.
A&G: Cool, where do you work?
(Banking, doctoring, and one other thing I can’t remember)
Graham, to doctor: What hospital do you work at?
Doctor: A children’s hospital.
Graham: How nice. What’s your favorite part of your job?
Doctor: The patients.

Amalie & Graham, approaching dude frantically texting on iPhone: Hi! Are you meeting new people?
iPhone dude: I’m waiting on someone I already know to bring me a drink.
Graham: Well, is this seat taken?
iPhone dude: My friend’s coming back. (Continues to text, fully ignoring further conversational attempts)

Amalie & Graham, approaching guy in blue shirt leaning on wall: Hi! Are you meeting new people?
Blue Shirt: No, I’m setting my watch.
A&G: Fascinating!
Blue Shirt (fidgeting): It’s kinetic. It’s powered off the movement of my body.
Amalie: Oh, I’ve never heard of that.
Blue Shirt (appalled): What, you don’t know how a Rolex works? (Runs away. I kid you not. Literally exits the room at high speed.)

My arrival back at my apartment building held ten times more excitement, thanks to the fact that there was a mystery box addressed to me in the foyer. I had not ordered nor was I expecting delivery of any items, so my walk up the stairs was a fantastic exercise in imagination.

A gift from a secret admirer?

A bomb?

Fan mail?

Hate mail?

Popcorn? (That’s what it sounded like)

The reality: A three-month supply of prescription medication from the mail-order pharmacy my healthcare provider now requires us to use.

Oh.

Heavy Metal

2008-11-18T17:33:00.000-06:00

Today I was getting a manicure in a nice bluish-blackish-gunmetal-gray that I brought in myself (as always), and the manicurist asked, “So, what’s with the color? Is it for winter?” Well, what kind of a question is that? I mean, the only sensible answer is that I happen to like it, but that didn’t seem quite good enough. Should I have told her I don’t do pink? Should I have said dark nails are my best option for maximum wardrobe blending? Should I have explained that this is a nail strategy that is both cool and also avoids the overt trendiness of pure black? Here’s what came out of my mouth: “Actually, I’m a little bit rock ’n roll.”

What? I am! I used to love Metallica, and even to this day I naturally gravitate toward any item of clothing that features grommets.

Oh fine, so I might have a slight badass complex. This fact first occurred to me while in the Circuit City parking garage on North Avenue with my friend Jeff last weekend, when he tried to convince me that instead of new speakers for Black Beauty, what I really need is a new car. As usual, I was scoffing away. “Humph! What do I need with a new car? This one hasn’t overheated in at least a year! Don’t be fooled by all those check engine and brake light failure alerts; they indicate nothing more than a slight electrical problem. I can take it! Me and this car, we’re in it together. Fight to the end! The very, very end.” Yeah, I should probably get a Honda.

Anywho, I’m off to flower-arranging class. C-YA.

Taxicab Confessions

2008-11-11T17:47:00.000-06:00

Once in a blue moon I’ll take a cab to work so I can reduce stress by not having to look for a parking spot, but sometimes it’s not much of a savings. To wit:

Me (sliding into backseat of cab): Man, it’s really smoky in here.
Cabbie: I just got back from a run to O'Hare. Guy was smoking, but I couldn’t see him in my rearview so I didn’t say anything.
Me: Hmm.
Cabbie: My dad smoked for 83 years, lived ’til he was 96.
Me: That’s something.
Cabbie: But if you ask me, it’s selfish to stay alive past a certain point.
Me: Mmm.
Cabbie: I mean, if you’re old and you can’t do for yourself and you’ve got diabetes and you can’t go anywhere and all your friends are dead then waddya got left? The boob tube? No thanks, I’d rather walk off a bridge.
Me: Yeah.
Cabbie: Don’t know why they keep building new condos. Nobody’s buying in this market.
Me: The Spire’s on hold.
Cabbie: The economic crisis is good for a lot of people. People are cuttin’ up their credit cards. Buddy of mine had 21 credit cards. He hit hard times. Lost his six-flat. Told me he could get $250,000 in credit anytime he wanted, but I always told him then he’d have to pay it back.

I really wanted to change the subject but I was too tired.

P.S. Lately I’ve been catching myself talking to myself in terms of Facebook status updates. I think: “Amalie is eating M&M’s.” “Amalie is looking for a new favorite lip balm.” “Amalie has a lot of split ends.” Somebody please stop me.

P.P.S. If you absolutely must send me an e-mail with the subject line, “Fighting Dandruff Fungus!” then please refrain from sending it between the hours of 11:30AM and 1:30PM.

Spooked

2008-10-31T09:49:00.000-05:00

My Halloween costume for the past three years has consisted only of a headband adorned with two small and slightly off-kilter tiger ears, but this year I’m not a tiger. I’m a Liger. This is a new word I learned on the Today Show a few hours ago. It’s a cross between a tiger and a lion. Unfortunately, the subject came up because a Liger recently killed a volunteer at an Oklahoma animal sanctuary. No matter what its adorableness level might be, you cannot count on a 1,000-pound cat to behave in a domesticated manner. That’s scary.

In honor of Halloween, here are 5 more possible scenarios I fear, though they are admittedly less frightening than a Liger attack:

1. My quest for tickets to the Obama rally in Grant Park on Election Night will be foiled.
2. My personal life will never cease playing out like a particularly grating episode of Gossip Girl.
3. I will never find another pair of sunglasses with a frame shape as flattering to my face as my Chanel ones with the gold Cs on the sides, which are starting to seem a little garish to be wearing in this economy.
4. A co-worker will bring a bag of mini Kit Kats to work today, and that’s what I’ll have for breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner and linner (late dinner).
5. The Donald is going to surprise Mayor Daley by busting out some sort of huge Trump logo to slap on the moments-from-completion Trump Tower Chicago. Spire, schmire. I'll believe it when I see it.

OMG, Get Me to a Natural Setting ASAP

2008-10-30T14:15:00.001-05:00

Earlier this week, I clicked on a New York Times link titled "Natural Settings Help Brain Fatigue," and this picture popped up with the story:

All I could think was: OMG, get me to a natural setting ASAP. I looked out my office window at my River North view of concrete, glass, mechanical boxes and streetlights. The only trees I could see were the potted ones on top of the condo building next door, where this one blonde lady walks a yappy little white dog every afternoon.

I mean, I grew up in a place my high school friends liked to refer to as “BFE,” so far removed was it from the glorious used car dealerships and strip malls of Middletown, our Lousiville suburb. As a child, one of my favorite activities was forcing my younger siblings to meticulously maintain dirt trails we cleared in the woods, marking them every few feet with tobacco stakes. These days, I can walk along Chicago’s lakefront path and look out at the shimmering waters of Lake Michigan, but does it count as spending time in Nature if I can swivel my head and view six lanes of traffic whizzing by on Lake Shore Drive?

A lack of true Fall Activities coupled with my intense anxiety over the election might be the reason why I’m losing so much hair. Or possibly, my persistent use of Pantene Pro-V is finally catching up with me.

Either way, I’m antsy, and so is everyone I know. As a group we’re totally defining the “diss” in dysfunction.

Two recent conversations that really put me in my place:

(While riding in Black Beauty on a Sunday afternoon)
Me: (silently to myself in my head) Man, I sure would like to carve a pumpkin tonight. It sure would be fun if someone wanted to carve a pumpkin with me.
Best Friend Jeff: (abruptly and with malice, after viewing several pumpkins on stoops): I don’t give a shit about carving a pumpkin!

(While grocery shopping at Fox & Obel that same afternoon)
Me: I’m really on a French onion soup kick. I can’t get enough of that melted cheese. Yum.
Claire (my sister): Yeah, look, there’s some French onion soup right there. It looks like worms swimming in dirt.

Somebody Put That Baby in a Corner

2008-10-20T16:02:00.000-05:00

I’m only just now getting over my fury at seeing one of the greatest love stories of all time, Dirty Dancing, being made a mockery of in Broadway format at Chicago’s Cadillac Palace Theatre last night. The highlight was when a giant, distinctly phallic 60-foot log was lowered from stage left for Johnny and Baby to use in their over-the-creek balance beam scene. I basically wanted to gouge my eyes out. It was not the stuff on which my 4th grade perm was based.

Meanwhile, I didn’t recognize my own car on the street mere moments ago because my Kentucky butterfly license plate is, alas, a thing of the past. Legally, it probably would have been best for me to switch to an Illinois plate seven years ago, but the butterfly plate was a little piece of home I just couldn’t let go of. And then, the following conversation occurred last week as I was paying my registration taxes at the DMV in Louisville:

DMV Employee: You cain’t have that butterfly plate no more.
Me: But whyever not?
DE: It’s discontinued. There’s the new nature plate options over on the wall.
Me: Really? Those are the choices?
DE: You can have the polar bear, the waterfall, the hummingbird or the dragonflies.
Me: But what do those have to do with Kentucky? Aren’t there any options that have to do with horses or bluegrass or the Belle of Louisville?
DE: There’s this horse plate.
Me: No offense, but that horse looks disabled. He looks like he fell down and couldn’t get up.
DE: Or you could get the plain state plate everybody has.
Me: Bor-ing. Who’s in charge of these license plate designs?
DE: You could’ve designed your own plate online.
Me: What?! How come nobody told me that?
DE: Which one do you want? I’m not entering any number on my computer until you decide.
Me: I guess the dragonflies. No, the hummingbird. Don't you think that one's better on a black car because of the black lettering? No, the dragonflies, because they’re more like butterflies. No, the hummingbird. Final decision, the hummingbird. Although I would like to point out once again that hummingbirds are not the state bird of Kentucky, and in fact I always felt a little uncomfortable with the butterflies for the same reason.

Honestly.

P.S. I was just in the elevator with a UPS delivery woman who said she voted early today and the line was 45 minutes long. I cannot wait to vote, and if they don’t give me an “I Voted Today” sticker then I fully plan to wear my own “Voters Do It In A Booth” sticker.

Literally, I Die (Dialogue DilEMMAs)

2008-10-16T06:56:00.000-05:00

Even though I would prefer to present myself as more of a sophisticated adult, I still frequently use the word “like” in everyday conversation, which is so embarrassing. I try to control it when speaking with the over-60 crowd, but it’s hard. I guess because I think about words so much, I’m also particularly prone to picking up on, imitating, and sometimes inappropriately mocking other people’s speech patterns and catchphrases. I refuse, however, to add the following to my lineup (read in voice reminiscent of cardiac monitor flat-lining):

“Literally, I die. I’m not kidding, put me in those earrings and put me in a coffin in the ground. I die.”
“That’s bananas.”
“She is so shutting it down in that dress right now.”

That’s right, Rachael Zoe. I will not fall prey to your conversational gimmicks, and the only time I’ll ever repeat them is when I’m warning everyone I know not to get hooked on your show because they’ll be in danger of rolling their eyeballs right out of their heads.

When it comes to cuss words, as you know, I don’t often take it to the gutter, except when other drivers try to go when it’s my turn at a four-way stop. I swear sparingly in print and with even greater rarity in the office, except for those moments when I long for a pair of noise-blocking headphones due to grating conversations taking place a few desks over. But I tell you what, that Kathy Griffin had one dirty mouth on her last night at the Chicago Theater. The f bomb, the c word, the a-holes—she was letting 'em fly like there was no tomorrow. But there is a tomorrow, which is today, so I really hope I can control my language at a society luncheon later.

P.S. Why the hell did I ever think it was a good idea to get my ears double-pierced in college, with the extra cartilage piercing at the top of my left ear which got strangely hot whenever I talked on the phone too long? Idiot! Those dumbass holes will never grow back now. Talk about tack-ola.

A Tale of Two Cities

2008-10-01T13:00:00.000-05:00

Chicago was recently ranked the most stressful city in America by a Forbes poll with dubious methodology. In second place came New York City. Hmm.

Never have I been more stressed than after spending four days in New York last week with my sister Claire and her business partner, Jennifer. Together they own a shop, the Peacock Boutique, and on this annual spring buying trip we were scouring Garment District showrooms for Derby dresses with fluttery ruffles and cashmere sweaters whose sleeves did not give one’s arms a sausage-like appearance. (Question: Will boyfriend jeans like the ones Rachel Bilson wears here take off in Louisville? Let's hope so, since we ordered a LOT of them.)

While debating the merits of so many thousands of articles of clothing, we became warped to the point of repeatedly reassuring ourselves that $800 is really quite a reasonable price for any quality sweatshirt. I exaggerate, but still.

The U.N. General Assembly was in town, meaning that the routes to almost everywhere were barricaded in deference to the security of some president or other. One night at our hotel, the Women’s National Republican Club (don’t ask), the Prime Minister of the Netherlands was giving a speech, and I found myself in a very full elevator. The following conversation occurred:

Hotel chef (boarding elevator): “I can’t believe you’re wearing that shirt in here.”
Me (glancing down at “Obama Says Knock You Out” T): “I’m just going to get ice.”
Chef: “I’d watch it if I were you.”
Republican in navy skirt suit: “Oh, it’s fine. I think it’s cheeky.”
Me: “I’m from Chicago. You know, Obama mania? I’m not a Republican, I’m just staying here.”
Chef and other assorted Republicans: Silence/glares.

Anyway, if I believed in Botox I'd need a lot of it to repair the effects of September 2008. Not only did I turn 30, but after watching so much news about the economic crisis and book-banning VP hopefuls, I keep catching myself frowning in my sleep. But in an effort to think positive, here are two great things about NYC:

1. Many fast-casual dining options include calorie counts on their menus, making it ever so convenient to forgo corn salsa in favor of tomato (a 70-calorie savings).
2. All cabs are now equipped with do-it-yourself credit card machines, eliminating the Chicago ritual of being verbally abused for 15 minutes each time one presents a Visa card to a driver.

See It & Eat It (Poor Piggy)

2008-09-16T09:20:00.000-05:00

One recent morning I was hanging out with Oprah Winfrey and Gwyneth Paltrow (well, maybe I was only an audience member during an Oprah taping, but I did sit front and center and briefly chatted up Gwyneth backstage). Gwyneth was talking about her diet and saying how no one should ever eat anything that comes out of a package. I agree. Not even Healthy Choice with their new Café Steamers can convince me that something is good for you if you have to tear a flap off of a cardboard box, pull out a black plastic bowl, poke a hole in the film cover, microwave on high for six minutes, and stir to incorporate a sticky sauce.

Lately I’m more into “straight to the table” food, which includes the pig we ate at my 30th birthday soiree on the farm in Louisville last week. The pig arrived at the party in the back of my dad’s truck. He was ensconced in a plastic bag, but it was very loose-fitting. Nary a preservative had crossed his path.

We laid him to rest/roast in the ground early in the morning, and later that night we pulled him out by the light of tiki torches with the assistance of a large tractor and chains. It was a fairly barbaric sight, I must admit, so cover your eyes, because here is a photo:

A few of the party’s attendees couldn’t bring themselves to sample a bite of pork (when I did, my vegetarian friend Tim screamed “Death breath! You have death breath!”), but the truth is, that dear pig was probably far more nutritious than the many dubious passed hors d’oeuvres we consume on a daily basis.

Meanwhile, poor Jeff had to be traumatized by the pre-cooked versions of his dining choices twice in one week. Mere days after the pig roast, we were at a press dinner where he ordered a monkfish entree. He then went home and was astonished to find himself watching a segment about monkfish on Animal Planet. “I’ll never eat monkfish again,” he vowed, describing how the fish blends right in with the sand on the bottom of the ocean and consumes its prey via a hideously wide, flat mouth. “It looks like a rubber band and tastes like one, too.” He drew a little sketch to prove it.

P.S. Here are some more shots from the birthday weekend, many of them taken by up-and-coming photographer D.J. Corney:

The Numbers Game: A Birthday Blog

2008-09-04T14:37:00.000-05:00

I recently picked up the September issue of Glamour magazine to check out a little quote of mine they ran on their “Are You Normal” beauty page. I was shocked to see myself identified as: Amalie Drury, 30, Chicago. My eyes were riveted on the number. It was a few weeks before my birthday, and the reality of the situation hadn’t yet occurred to me with such inked, professionally bound intensity. But alas, a new decade looms. On my last day as a twentysomething, I herewith count the milestones of an era gone by.

20-29: The Stats

Cars Owned: 2 (Black Beauty #1 and Black Beauty #2)
Wrinkles Acquired: 7 (according to screening by laser institute)
Jobs Held: 2 (one 3-year college stint at Jacobson’s department store, with responsibilities including leaning on the counter, reading WWD and trying on bridal veils in the dressing room; 7 glorious years reporting upon all things modern and luxurious in Chicago)
Perceptible Hairstyle Changes: 0
Gray hairs discovered: 12-14 (mostly near right temple)
Apartments Occupied: 6 (Cherokee, Fullerton, Superior, Wells, Wisconsin, Mohawk)
Boyfriends of significant tenure: 4
Repeat Breakups: no comment
Number of times listened to Flunk song “Play”: 871 (most-played song as reported by my iPod)
Family Meltdowns: 207
Interviews with Sarah Jessica Parker: 1
Chipotle Burritos Won: 365
Quarters Fed to Parking Meters: $5,822
Cocktail Parties Attended: Countless

Well, you know what they say. Thirty is the new 21.

P.S. Graham, I can’t decide whether to thank you or smack you for introducing me to Nestle’s Flipz chocolate-covered pretzels. They are the first and last thing I need in my life.

P.P.S. I keep smelling something delicious. I think it’s my hair.

No Flybabies Allowed

2008-08-25T16:40:00.000-05:00

Last night I landed at Midway Airport after spending four 100% fun and 100% non-dietary days with my brother Lee in Vero Beach, Florida. He’s studying for his commercial pilot’s license, and he and his roommate and their many pilot friends also clock in a certain amount of time watching reruns of The Office on DVR and playing flight simulator games via computer. I could probably write the script for the movie Superbad 2 based on my notes from the trip, but since that’s going to take a few days to put together I’ll just start you off with some conversational snippets.

On chicks:
1. Dude, look at that hot chick over there smoking.
2. Check out that hot tall chick. She’s big-boned. I like it. I like girls with, like, size 13 feet.
3. Hey, why do you think there are no hot goth chicks?

On food:
1. Why would anyone eat snails? Sick.
2. Do you really think gummy worms are bad for you? No way.
3. I can’t wait until 49-cent hamburger day at McDonald’s.

On bodily functions:
1. I’ll be back. Gotta adjust the weight and balance.
2. I’ve never seen so much s*!% come out of that dog’s a$%.
3. There’s nothing better than a good puke.

I also picked up a new hobby when we went to Chili’s for 2-for-1 drinks one afternoon during a thunderstorm. Basically what you do is turn on the TV to the hunting and fishing channel and activate the closed captions. Hunting and fishing are so much more riveting on mute:

Fisherman 1: Look what we got here.
Fisherman 2: That’s a fish.
F1: That’s a big one.
F2: Yep. A big one.
FI: He’s puttin’ on a show.
F2: Look down there.
F1: Those are some big rocks.
F2: Ha ha ha.
FI: You can really see ‘em.
F2: Mmm hmm.
F1: Here he is.
F2: You gonna keep him?
F1: Yep. Gotta prove to my wife I’ve been fishin’.
F2: Ha ha ha.

P.S. Someone just sent me a Breast Cancer Awareness hula-hoop and it appears to be regulation size. I cannot WAIT to go home and see if I can still hula-hoop indefinitely.

Dots & Thoughts

2008-08-19T16:38:00.000-05:00

Last week a random phrase kept repeating in my brain and wouldn’t desist. Here it is: “My poor begonias.” I kept walking around saying it to myself. “My poooor begonias.” I have no begonias nor would I recognize one if I saw it (until now, when I did a Google search to find this picture), but there was something about the repeated “o” sounds that I loved.

Another ditty that gets stuck in my head from time to time is this one from Hee Haw:

“I searched the world over and thought I found true love…
then you met another and PFFT! You was gone.”

The attraction has nothing to do with the subject matter; I just like the hillbilly accent. Reminds me of the good old days.

P.S. Speaking of accents: Jeff! Happy Birthday dear Siiiirrr!

P.P.S. I wonder how many more times this year I can safely wear my polka-dot dress. Maybe today and one other day? Maybe three more days, including once in late September? It all depends on how summery things continue to be. I really do like wearing it, though. I've never had one fight in this dress (well, except for that minor scuffle with the cabbie). Ruffles + dots = good cheery fun.

Go for the Gold (Nail Polish, That Is)

2008-08-12T08:31:00.000-05:00

What have I done? New rule: Avoid any and all buffet situations. Last night at the Horseshoe Casino in Hammond, Indiana (which recently received a $500 million facelift and now contains arguably the most comprehensive collection of crystal chandeliers ever assembled under one roof in the universe), I actually sat down to a plate of the following:

Fried chicken
Pizza
Refried beans
Meatballs
Shrimp
Oysters
Asian chicken wings
Zucchini
Beef fried rice
Guacamole
Mini Tacos
Pecan Pie

It was utterly shameful, but Jeff ate pretty much the same thing plus sushi and a strawberry mousse cup so I can’t feel too bad.

Meanwhile, I am drafting a style memo to the Olympic athletes. Please review.

Dear Olympic Athletes,

You are incredible. Your strength and coordination astonish me. If I could do a synchronized dive like that, I probably wouldn’t be thinking about my hair, either. But since I do have a little extra time on my hands, I figured you might appreciate the following:

Fashion Faux Pas to Avoid When Competing in the Olympic Games

1. Glitter. On the eyelids, on the outfits, sprayed into hair. Ahem, gymnasts.
2. Goatees. Swimmers, I imagine facial hair contributes to drag, does it not?
3. Numerous white, pink or heart-shaped barrettes. If you feel compelled to control every flyaway in your ponytail, I suggest classic tortoise clips.
4. White iPod headphones. If you are a six-time gold medal winner with endorsements out the wazoo, one would think you might want to take the sound quality up a notch.
5. Unpainted toenails when standing at the edge of the Olympic pool and being photographed by every major news organization in the world. Suggested nail color: Chanel’s new Facettes D’Or in Gold Fiction.

Love,
A Fan

Winnie + Kevin 4EVR

2008-08-04T20:31:00.001-05:00

Whilst eating a peach and my usual one egg for breakfast this morning, I watched Danica McKellar (aka Winnie Cooper from The Wonder Years) being interviewed by Diane Sawyer and promoting her new book, Kiss My Math. I couldn't help but think to myself, 'Well, if that isn't the most wholesome, well-rounded former child star.' Her mission in life is to help teenage girls feel confident about calculating percentages; as far as I know she's never been in rehab; she made a yoga video with her mom; and best of all, she still looks JUST LIKE WINNIE COOPER. Dear Lord, how I wanted to be Winnie Cooper. I wanted flat hair that hung straight down my back and made a curtain over my face while I was doing my homework (come to think of it, I'm still chasing this look). I wanted a boy with puppy dog brown eyes to move in next door (impossible on the neighborless Drury farm, where the cable company wouldn't even run a line) and hold my hand while walking me to my locker. That would have been the best.

Meanwhile, I am pissed beyond belief that there's still no Wonder Years anthology available for purchase on DVD. Bogified! Wouldn't a bootlegged copy make the loveliest 30th birthday present?

P.S. One day during Lollapalooza last weekend, I wore my black T-shirt with the blinding gold letters that say, "OBAMA IS MY HOME BOY." In the crowd of 75,000, it conferred upon me instant celebrity status. Every person looked. People of all races, genders and ages smiled. Many commented enthusiastically. I got a couple of thumbs ups. One girl even asked to have her picture taken with me, which was fantastic. There was just one disturbing moment, when a man approached me and said, "You know that shirt is borderline, right? I mean, 'home boy?'" Hmm. Stalling as I prepared for a debate, I said, "The truth is, I'm pretty borderline myself." That seemed to satisfy him, and we both walked on. But I definitely need a better comeback for next time, so let me know if you have anything.

P.P.S. My friend Tim and I were just discussing our love lives over tater tots at the Old Town Pub, while I waited for Old Yeller to get a tune-up at the bike shop next door. Tim made an enlightening observation when he said, "People are just too scared to hit on the really hot ones. That's why we're both single." Mystery solved.

What Drives Them To It?

2008-07-29T12:42:00.000-05:00

Mere moments ago, my friend Jeff forwarded me an e-mail with a link to pictures of an infant child recently born to his high-school ex-girlfriend, who is now happily cohabitating with a fine gentleman back home in Louisville (“He cussed in front of the nurse!” Jeff marveled, after visiting the couple in the hospital post-birth).

Though I’ve never met this ex, I’ve heard many tales about her life and therefore feel somewhat connected to her, so I clicked through to view her new offspring. I saw the baby wrapped in a pink blanket, the baby wearing a hat, the baby drooling, the baby in a car seat, the baby with her hair twisted into spikey little points. Cutie patootie. Then suddenly, the most shocking image appeared on my screen: a close-up of THE BIRTH ITSELF. Gag me with a spoon! As Jenny Berg would say, I cannot. I absolutely refuse to. Why anyone would choose to expose such details I’ll never know.

Then again, I’ll never understand why people buy animals whose certain areas are not tastefully shielded by fluff and whose eyeballs might eject during a forceful sneeze. For instance, I once dated someone who owned a pug. (Previous to the pug, he had dachshunds, another questionable choice for a person more than six feet tall. He treated them all in the manner of “disposable pets,” handing them off to his parents when he tired of their puppyish ways. As one might imagine, this illuminating little habit crept into many other aspects of his character.) Anywho, whenever that dog sat on anything, all I could think about was Bacteria.

One more: There is a woman on the lakefront path whose workout ensemble is all the exact same pink as her skin. What would possess her to appear as if jogging in the nude?

P.S. Quotes of the Week:

Raquel, a particularly enthusiastic dental hygienist: “You know what I really can’t get enough of? That Johnson & Johnson floss. Not the wax; it’s woven, almost more like yarn. It feels so good to get my teeth real clean with that. Ooh! I can’t wait to go home and do it again.”

The aforementioned Jeff Corney: “Everyone is the same. They all want two things in life: an iPhone and true love.”

Various Conversations in a Variety of Locations

2008-07-22T04:59:00.000-05:00

In a cab:
Emma: "Excuse me, but could you please turn on the air conditioning?"
Cabbie: "Huh? It's already on. Oh man, my meter's broken."
Emma [one block later, fanning face furiously]: "Sir! Really! It is stifling back here. I'm about to expire."
Cabbie [Stabs distractedly at buttons on meter with complete disregard for surrounding traffic or navigational matters]: "The air is on, I told you!"
Emma: "Yeah, it's on YOU!"
Cabbie: "I can't hear a word you're saying."
Emma: "Forget about it."
Cabbie: "This day is a total wash. I won't make a dime. I guess I'll head back to the garage."

A teenaged granddaughter in the ladies' room at RL, the Ralph Lauren restaurant, whilst viewing herself in the mirror:
Girl: "Grandma, do you remember when I used to be really skinny? I mean, I was really tiny."
Grandma: "Yeah, I used to be really tiny, too. Everyone's tiny when they're four."

My dear friend Bunky Cushing, also at RL, while seated at Bunky's Table and nibbling Bunky's Cookies:
"You see, they come in here straight from the American Girl Place. They walk right on in wearing their Bermuda shorts and T-shirts. What do they think this is, Applebee's? There's one. Don't look. Right there." [Inclines head toward questionably attired tourist.]

Two lady friends, both wearing massive turquoise rings on every finger, dining at Cyrano's Bistro [yes, Graham, you beat me to the punch with this one, but I cannot withhold it from my readership]:
Friend 1: "Did I ever tell you about the time I laughed with Julia Child?"
Friend 2: "I think so. Tell me again."
Friend 1: "It was the best laugh of my life. She was demonstrating a recipe at the old Marshall Field's. We were both hysterical."
Friend 2: "Really?"
Friend 1: "No one got it but us. Me and Julia Child. I could barely breathe."

P.S. The other night I parked Black Beauty with the valet at a certain Boystown nightclub. Yeah, it was Sidetracks. Anyway, they left her right there on the street in front of the door, hazards flashing. That's because Black Beauty is an oldie but a goodie. She is timeless. I was never prouder.

A Stickery Situation

2008-07-14T21:35:00.000-05:00

Today I got Black Beauty washed and had them scrape off last year’s city vehicle stickers from the inside of the windshield with a razor. I needed to make room for the new stickers, which I recently purchased at the currency exchange.

Then I went home and began the excruciating process of positioning my new city and residential zone parking stickers IN THE EXACT RIGHT SPOT in the lower right-hand corner of the windshield. I can think of no activity more exacting, more nerve-racking, more likely to bring on a fit of self-inflicted rage. This is an entire year of sticker viewing we’re talking about. They must be perfectly perpendicular. They must be precisely aligned, straight as an arrow, with just the slightest and most symmetrical line of space between the two. My God, it is stressful.

And so, with one trembling hand holding the stickers inside the car, I twisted my torso slowly around to the front of Black Beauty to inspect placement. Every muscle tensed, I began pasting—millimeter by millimeter—the stickers onto the glass.

I stood back. I inspected the results.

For the rest of this week I will reflect admiringly upon my sticker placement skills while walking past cars with their new stickers haphazardly slapped on, bubbled, wrinkled and torn. I will tell myself that if a man picked me up for a date with his vehicle sticker so randomly applied, I would know everything I needed to know right then and there. If he also wore a gold rope necklace, I would probably just walk right back inside.

P.S. Quotes of the week:

1. My friend Tim Reilly, upon spotting an overly exuberant male guest at the annual sun deck party of a certain Chicago health club: "Wow, look at that. I bet he's hung like a Tic-Tac."

2. My brother Lee, signing off from a phone conversation last night: "Hey Emma, give me a call tomorrow when you're at work. I'm gonna be kinda bored."

P.P.S.

Dear Midnight Bandit,

Apparently Black Beauty was looking a little too stunning after her bath yesterday, and you couldn't resist the temptation to see what treasures might await within her super-shiny confines. I can't imagine why you didn't want the most recent issue of Cooking Light magazine from the passenger door panel, but I hope you enjoy the barely operational 2nd generation iPod with the scratched screen--particularly my extremely popular Haute Living playlist. Track 12 is really quite soothing. Toolbag.

Shown above: Black Beauty's driver-side window shattered on the ground, still mostly adhered by tint sticker.

All Signs Point to Something or Other

2008-07-10T10:57:00.000-05:00

I can’t stop thinking about this one sign I see every day at the Lincoln Park Zoo. (Yes, I go to the zoo every day. I stretch by the seals and hold my breath past the stinky flamingos.) Anyway, the sign says, “Siberian tigers can thrive in many different climates and habitats.” It makes me think I need to take a good hard look at my life. Am I maximizing my ability to thrive? Why do I fare so badly in extreme climates? Why do I cling so stubbornly to my current habitat?

Other signs that have recently left me perturbed:

1. A billboard on I-65 South in northern Indiana: HELL IS REAL. You know, I’m just trying to get from one state to another.
2. I-65 North in northern Indiana: JESUS IS REAL. Once again, the side of the expressway is not your personal pulpit.
3. The newish Indiana license plates: IN GOD WE TRUST. Clearly, separation of church and state was not considered in the creation of these government-issued decals. “The Sunshine State” is a fine thing to write on a license plate. Land of Lincoln. First in Flight. Stars Fell on Alabama. Come on people, let’s keep it light.
4. At Foodstuffs in the Merchandise Mart: JULY IS NATIONAL HOTDOG MONTH. Duly noted.

P.S. I feel dizzy. Possible causes:
1. Someone slipped something in my bottled water.
2. I’m experiencing an inner ear situation.
3. My new Paul & Joe belt with the large gold circles is cutting off my circulation.

Are You Kidding Me, Angelina Jolie?

2008-06-26T17:37:00.000-05:00

Dear Angelina Jolie,

No offense, but are you f-ing kidding me? Do you really have to name one of your new babies Amelie?

Now, I realize there’s a one-letter difference between my name (Amalie with an “a”) and your possibly infant/possibly unborn daughter’s (Amelie with an “e”), but trust me, problems will arise.

For starters, both of us are famous, and people are going to confuse us all the time.

Secondly, people will constantly hear little Amelie’s name on TV, and as a result they will start mangling my name even more than usual, I just know it. That’s what happened when the French movie Amélie came out. Not that I don’t adore both Audrey Tautou and Amélie to death and consider it a prized component of my own DVD collection, but the bottom line is that I do not pronounce my name the ooh-la-la French way. Now it's all I’ll ever hear.

Finally, you have just ruined what has thus far been an excellent writer’s name: instantly recognizable, memorable, somewhat confusing, with a hint of exotic flair. Now there will be screaming tiny Amelies all over the place, and even though Amalie hasn’t been on the list of top baby names since 1883 (when it was ranked 822nd in popularity), I’m sure all variations of the name will skyrocket in usage right away. I might as well just call myself Chrissy or Tanya or something.

Well, whatever. I guess there’s no turning back now. I’m flattered that you want to name your child after me, but you owe me big time.

Love,
Amalie (the original)

Extreme Good Sports

2008-06-23T17:15:00.000-05:00

My visiting mother had a splitting headache on Saturday, so I decided to go ahead and take her and her boyfriend Dewey (a political science professor at my alma mater, the University of Louisville) on the Seadog Extreme, billed as the “most horse-powered commercial vessel of its kind currently cruising the Great Lakes.”

“Oh, that’s the one where they take you out and slam you around for an hour,” said my sister Claire, when our mom told her about our Seadog adventure via cell phone prior to boarding.

Fully living up to the hype, the Seadog sped, it spun, it stopped on a dime. Welcome to the jungle!!! screamed Axl Rose over the sound system. In the end, though, the 30-minute ride proved surprisingly smooth. We were all soaked to the bone with 60-degree Lake Michigan water and I was curiously dizzy as we walked to Fox & Obel afterwards for double chocolate cookies, but everyone had tons of fun overall. There were just a few iffy moments—I think this picture pretty much sums things up:

Later that day, I took Mom and Dewey on what I like to call “Emma’s Obama Mania Tour,” a presidential candidate enthusiast’s outing which you may remember was developed in conjunction with my sister Liv back in March. The tour includes drive-bys of Barack Obama’s house in Hyde Park, his campaign headquarters on Michigan Avenue, his controversial former church, the University of Chicago campus where he taught and the South Shore neighborhood where future First Lady Michelle grew up.

As tour operator, I strive to maintain a certain level of professionalism while navigating the city streets and pointing out highlights, but this weekend, my concentration was challenged by conversations such as this one:

Mom: Sweetie, do you want a sip of my Diet Coke?
Dewey: No, that’s all right.
Mom: Well, I thought you might like a sip to go with your chips. This is a huge Diet Coke.
Dewey: But you know, I don’t really drink Diet Coke. It’s just so…I don’t know, it’s like poison or something. It’s so bad for you. But you go ahead and drink it, hon.
Mom: Well, not now that you ruined it for me!
Dewey: Now sweetie, I didn’t mean to, it's just that I don’t like Diet Coke. But you go ahead and drink it if you like it and that’s fine by me.
M: I do like it! Nothing could stop me from drinking it. You know I need my fizz.
Emma (swerving across four lanes): Please look to your right for a view of Buckingham Fountain, featured on the hit show Married With Children and scheduled to undergo a multimillion dollar renovation this fall!

Honestly.

P.S. When will I ever cease ascribing human emotions to inanimate objects? I cannot convey my depth of guilt at throwing away uneaten produce from my refrigerator. Imagine a bell pepper's dismay at being cruelly tossed into a Dumpster after waiting all its life to be part of a delicious meal. Tonight’s dinner shall be titled: Every Vegetable Known to Man with Rice.

Go Active! Emma

2008-06-15T17:34:00.000-05:00

My friend Graham (who is in fashion, so he should know) always says he likes my hair best when I’m working my Wild & Wavy look, which suits me just fine because it cuts about four hours in blow-dry time. But, have you seen Kathy Griffin in the new season of My Life on the D-List? If that’s what my Wild & Wavy hair looks like, then it might be time to reevaluate. I love you Kathy, but that ’do is a Don’t.

In other news, I can’t stop picturing myself as the star of a commercial for McDonald’s Go Active! Adult Happy Meal. Sometimes, when it’s the dead of winter and I’m watching Mean Girls on repeat while huddling under a purple wool afghan and eating chocolate-covered pretzels for dear life, I do feel a little lazy. But that has nothing to do with Summer Emma. I tell you what, if it’s a Saturday and conditions are balmy, then you’d better bet I’m going to be Making the Most of the Situation.

So seriously, I cannot believe there isn’t a camera crew following me around to film me riding Old Yeller past the planetarium, sprinting along the lake in a sudden shower (can you call it sudden when the National Weather Service issues a tornado warning?) or attempting a single pull-up on the bar by Diversey Harbor. At the end of the commercial, they could show me cheerily holding up a plain hamburger and a fruit cup while wearing workout attire. Why must I constantly be the one to think of everything?

Things I Am Into At This Very Moment:
1. Using capitals for emphasis. See above.
2. Listening to the Vampire Weekend song Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa 100 times per day.
3. Flip-flops provided as party favors at black-tie events. Put ’em on, walk home.
4. Considering the possibility that my new neighbors might be cute.

Can’t Mind My Own Business/Big Know-It-All

2008-06-05T14:47:00.000-05:00

When tourists ask me for directions in Chicago, I’m never content to point them down the street and be on my merry way. Oh no, I have to make sure whatever route I devise will provide them with the best opportunities for sightseeing, and I never want to send them on a journey that might be unpleasant (it’s stressful and dirty to walk under the train tracks) or affront their senses with bad scenery (it is clearly my duty to keep this city’s architectural reputation intact).

A few weeks ago, a group of strangers asked if it was too far to walk to Millennium Park from a street corner near my office. I pursed my lips and considered the weather (sun out, slight breeze), their footwear (tennis shoes, but not with ideal arch support), and how much it would cost them to take a cab (roughly $8). I recommended they walk, and furthermore instructed them to pause on the LaSalle Street bridge for a photo op and be sure to take note of the new Trump Tower. I then made them promise to re-visit Millennium Park at dusk for better viewing of the Crown Fountain.

This morning, I stopped at a water fountain on the lakefront and was approached by a bookish-looking teenage girl on a bike. She was clad in full racing spandex and clutching a hand-drawn map. The conversation:

Bike Girl: “Do you know where the chess pavilion is?”
Me: “It’s back the other way.”
Bike Girl (consulting map): “So I need to go back that way?”
Me: “Yes.”
Bike Girl (confused): “But do you know where the Lincoln Park Zoo is?”
Me: “What is your ultimate destination?”
Bike Girl: “The zoo.”
Me: “Well you’re here! Just ride up this street for a block and turn left into the parking lot. But you know, bikes aren’t allowed in the zoo.”
Bike Girl: “Oh. Well, I’m working there, and they said I could ride my bike.”
Me: “Then I’m sure you’re fine.”

There were so many other things I wanted to ask, such as: Who drew that map? How far did you ride your bike to get here? What kind of work are you doing at the zoo? What is your favorite zoo animal? I refrained, but just barely.

P.S. Speaking of bikes, I went on my maiden cycling voyage of the summer last weekend and took this picture (see above). Please be informed that because my bike has now completed one full year of service, she will henceforth be referred to as Old Yeller.

P.P.S. It is so prissy when my ponytail starts swinging during my workout. There’s nothing I can do to control it unless I wear a low ponytail, which is uncomfortably hot on the neck. If you see me with a swingy ponytail, please do not think I’m trying to put on cheerleader-ish airs.

P.P.P.S. I can’t believe I didn’t get my picture with Barack Obama a year ago, when it would have been a cinch. Now I get invitations to Obama fundraisers that require a $5,000 donation for a picture with the future pres (!!!). Since that’s probably more than the Blue Book value of Black Beauty, I doubt we’ll be posing together anytime soon.

Needed: A New Roof Over My Head

2008-05-29T08:59:00.000-05:00

Bob The Landlord is raising my rent because he says he’s ready to get out of the game, and higher rents throughout the building mean a higher sale price when he unloads the place later this year. As much as I want Bob to be able to retire in luxury, I’m not exactly cool with the price hike, so I’ve been putting some thought into alternative living situations.

Plan A: Move into the gazebo of a mansion being built one block south of where I currently live. The house sits on four or five combined lots, and word on the street is that it will soon be occupied by Michael Jordan (and now me). The gazebo is easily as big as my current apartment and far better insulated, I’m sure.

Plan B: Take up residence in the volunteer gardening cottage next to the Lincoln Park Zoo. This cottage has been recently refurbished and exudes coziness and rustic charm. It is convenient to many bus lines.

Plan C: TBD. Anyone? Bueller? Anyone? Please keep in mind that I refuse to occupy any abode that features carpeting, lack of a dishwasher or the necessity of chitchatting with strangers on elevators.

Meanwhile, a few things have occurred that are Very Suspicious Indeed.

1. This morning I was writing on my calendar, filling in the little day boxes of June with all the events I plan to attend and giving myself heart palpitations over the calories yet to be consumed. Suddenly, one of the plastic clips I use to hang the calendar near my desk popped off the wall and flew without warning toward the window, narrowly missing my eyeball.

2. For about one hour yesterday afternoon, I feared someone had stolen a large piece of chocolate in the shape of a toilet seat which was recently sent to me by a new plumbing showroom and which I was saving for all the editors to enjoy on a special occasion, like a Friday. I later discovered it wasn’t stolen, but it had transferred locations into a box of lip glosses and shave creams. So one mystery was solved, but another remained: is there a beauty bandit in our midst?

3. I swear there were four bananas on my kitchen table when I woke up on Tuesday. I took one to work. When I returned home that evening, only two bananas remained. BOB?

The Locks They Love

2008-05-21T12:16:00.000-05:00

Other than the Usher song “Love in This Club,” my obsession of the month is my own glorious hair. It all started a few weeks ago at a friend's birthday party when I received a tap on the shoulder with the greeting: “I’d know that hair anywhere!”
Indeed, I thought. Indeed.

Last week, in came an e-mail pitch with the subject line: New Bucktown Salon Has Long Hair Treatments and a Parking Lot! I could only conclude that the PR person had researched me online and discovered that A. I have long hair and B. I am easily wooed by free parking. In the body of the e-mail she pointed out, “Even Rapunzel needs a trim once in a while.” Do I enjoy being compared to Rapunzel? Of course. I wrote back and booked one of those long-hair treatments for next week. I will be driving myself there.

On Monday, feeling nostalgic for the lower gas prices and uncomplicated breeziness of the mid- to late- 90s, I headed to Best Buy and bought Say Anything, a late 80s classic that I considered an appropriate pick because I was still watching it frequently 90s. I modeled my own high school graduation hair on the character of Diane Court, so I wanted to check back after a decade’s absence for a little side-by-side evaluation. Whose cap-and-gown curls were better? See for yourself.

Today, I sat down with QVC “Million Dollar Man” and celebrity hairstylist Nick Chavez to hear the scoop about his new product line. “You have gorgeous hair!” he said. He couldn’t get over it. He reached out to touch it a few times during our meeting. Being an American Indian who owns a ranch in Arizona, he also admired my cowboy boots.

All in all, these occurrences served as a nice confidence booster where my hair is concerned…though I'm not sure I needed it.

P.S. Speaking of e-mail pitches, I got one today that tried to convince me Sunday is the new Saturday. Um, no. I can buy Thursday as the new Friday, but there is no way you will see me at a fashion show, in a nightclub or even ponied up at a neighborhood bar on a Sunday. Gross.

P.P.S. My only thought about the Ashlee Simpson wedding is this: Pete Wentz and Papa Joe are not going to get along.

The Haunted Derby

2008-05-07T10:30:00.000-05:00

Despite the prevalent sunshine and general overall floweriness of this year’s Derby weekend in my hometown of Louisville, I couldn’t help but notice an ominous cast to the proceedings. I was feeling a little morose when I drove into town, thanks to an incident in my personal life that I can’t recount here because it would be tacky to use too many cuss words in this blog. Suffice it to say, my state of mind was already leaning toward the dark side. The following only served to further disturb:

1. When I met my granddad at the Middletown Wal-Mart at 8AM on Friday morning (he was treating me to an oil change for Black Beauty), the place was deserted. We roamed the aisles killing time, he with a cup of coffee, me sipping from a Minute Maid juice box. Florescent lights hummed, Muzak echoed in the rafters, and all around, gigantic, gleaming, black plastic horses gazed blankly and unmovingly upon our progress.

2. Later, Liv and I were hustling up a hill while taking our exercise around the scenic loop at Cherokee Park. Suddenly, we heard strains of ice-cream truck music blaring from behind. I turned to see what kind of vehicle might be approaching, and it was not the usual white truck decorated with pictures of popsicles and sno-cones. Instead, it was a trundling, faded black Chevy van, likely an early 80’s model, its windows tinted and covered by curtains. Perhaps it was a genuine retailer of frozen treats, but it might as well have had the words “Kidnap-Mobile” stenciled on the side.

3. Still later, I found I needed a drink. We headed to a liquor store downtown, where we stood in line behind a man with a minimal number of teeth, his stringy hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail and his skin tanned to a dull, burnt orange that spoke not so much of years spent in the sun but of a force that darkens from within. He was buying the biggest beer I’ve ever seen, brand undetermined. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted to drink ever again.

4. Walking toward Gate 1 at Churchill Downs, we passed people selling ponchos, hot dogs, flip-flops, and race paraphernalia. Then we came across a man who hoped to sell us on God. His pitch involved singing and strumming along with the popular Sunday school jingle “This Little Light of Mine.” Remember the line that goes “Won’t let Satan blow it out, I’m gonna let it shine?” I don’t. I think we sang a lighter version at my church growing up. In any case, this guy was really growling out the word Satan, making sure to give it a special, menacing emphasis every time.

And then, of course, there was poor Eight Belles. I would like to dedicate this blog entry to her, the filly who ran her heart out against the boys only to meet an untimely death on the other side of the finish line. RIP, Eight Belles. I could cry just thinking about you.

Go Green or Go Home

2008-04-22T20:14:00.000-05:00

My childhood was vastly more sustainable than my big-city pre-post-adolescence. The evidence:

1. We lived in a house with solar heating capabilities (see left: me, mom and Claire during construction). Though I never truly understood why, this led us to stockpile mountains of empty plastic jugs in the basement. It was very futuristic.
2. That same house was supplied with water from our own pond, which made for the most earthy, aromatic showers.
3. We took our empty glass Coke bottles back to Kroger and turned them in on the self-serve rolling conveyer belt.
4. We had a milkman who delivered milk once a week from somewhere presumably not too far away. Our dogs enjoyed barking at him.
5. We consumed large quantities of vegetables from my grandparents’ garden, and many fish caught in nearby bodies of water.

Today, in honor of Earth Day, I’m wearing a tie-dye T-shirt from a designer who plants a tree with every purchase (supposedly), and organic jeans made from cotton grown without pesticides. But I’m definitely bogus. I don’t even know the rules of recycling, and I regularly throw away scandalous amounts of bubble wrap and packing peanuts. While reading an Earth Day article titled “Why Bother?” in today’s New York Times, my guilt was ratcheted up yet another notch—I don’t grow the slightest bit of my own food, which the writer suggests is the first step toward changing the cheap-energy mind. Not only that, but recently, I callously used Earth Hour as an excuse for a candlelit cocktail party. I’m so ashamed.

P.S. Shopping at my local Treasure Island grocery store is a refreshingly optimistic experience. At checkout, after one swipes one’s credit card, the machine flashes a big cheery “Congratulations!” instead of the usual grudgingly stated “Approved.” Also, as I noticed tonight in the greeting card aisle, they carry numerous birthday cards geared towards 100-year-olds.

P.P.S. I need tickets to the Kentucky Derby. Naturally, I want clubhouse seats for pennies on the dollar. That’s why I'm so tempted to believe the British gentleman with the broken English on Craigslist who claims he’s unloading six Derby tickets for a reasonable price because he’s stuck in London on business and he’ll FedEx them across the pond right after we conduct a private eBay auction. Surely this is legit. Right? RIGHT?

I Am A Person In My Neighborhood

2008-04-10T13:23:00.000-05:00

“Hey little mama, what you doin’ in a cab?”

That’s what the man who sells the Sun-Times on the corner of Wells and Grand said to me yesterday morning as I sat at a red light in the back of a cab with the window rolled down. I really liked the question. The fact that he knows I’m usually in Black Beauty made me feel like part of the fabric of the neighborhood. I also liked being called “little mama,” even though I’m not that little (unless we’re going strictly on height) and I’m also not a mama.

Meanwhile, what is this, the call-me-for-anything desk? A phone conversation that took place mere moments ago:

(ring ring)

Me (guarded tone clearly conveys disinterest in speaking to anyone not immediately recognizable by caller ID): This is Amalie.
Caller: Hi, this is a little strange, but I was referred to you by one of the concierges at the Four Seasons. He said you might be able to help me find something?
Me (with suspicion): Oh? What might that be?
Caller: Well, I’m looking for an etiquette coach. Not someone to tell me which fork to use; that’s pretty easy to figure out. I want to learn how to walk more feminine.
Me: (silence)
Caller: I just thought you would know someone like that.
Me: Hmm, I don’t know any etiquette coaches. Did you Google it?
Caller: No…it’s not like I want to be a model or something, I just want to walk and talk more feminine, more graceful, you know? I’m in the business world, and I tend to move fast.
Me (frantically Googling “Chicago etiquette coach” while gathering quarters for imminent parking meter feed): Here’s one. (Reads name of coach, found in newspaper article dated 1996)
Caller: OK, do you have her phone number?
Me: No! I have to go feed my parking meter now. Thanks. Bye.

I mean, honestly.

Time For a Dip!

2008-04-05T16:55:00.000-05:00

Isn't it gratifying when something you've been doing your entire life suddenly becomes the hottest trend available? For instance, in today's New York Times there is a story titled "From Europe, A No-Chlorine Backyard Pool," about the emerging popularity of pools that are self-cleaning by way of a special plantlife system called a "water garden." Also incorporated into the design of these pools are rocks, dirt, and occasionally, algae.

Growing up as I did on a (non-working) farm, I have been familiar with this "natural pool" phenomenon since toddlerhood, though I usually refer to it by a rather more pedestrian name: pond.

My extreme smugness after reading the NYT story leaves me tempted to begin a letter-writing campaign directed at the haughty Generica mothers of several of my childhood friends, who—while ensconced in McMansions some .2 miles away from my "heathen house"—sometimes discouraged their young from swimming in the Drury family pond lest their little girls A. encounter extremely dangerous water monsters, like striped bass B. get seaweed in their hair or C. drown.

Well, who's got the cool pool now, ladies? Come over for a dip anytime, but be sure to bring your own towel.

Obama Mamas

2008-04-02T14:00:00.000-05:00

So far I have collected four T-shirts related to the Barack Obama presidential campaign. My only lament is that they are slightly too political to wear to work. The selection is as follows:

1. Go Tell Mama… I’m For Obama! (white with inspiring retro orangeish drawing of candidate’s head)
2. Obama ’08 (navy with official campaign logo; ideal length for bedtime wear)
3. Obama Is My Home Boy (black with blindingly shiny gold letters—not a low-key item of attire)
4. Obama Says Knock You Out (green with black clenched fist graphic; purchased for St. Patrick’s Day wear)

Last weekend, my sister Liv and I undertook a plan to: A. research Barack’s home address online; B. Mapquest the location; C. don the shirts; and D. take pictures of ourselves in front of his house. It was a total success, except for the part when I thought my camera was about to be confiscated by the Secret Service agent lurking in the driveway.

Emboldened, we proceeded to Trinity United Church of Christ, where we stowed Black Beauty in a visitor parking spot directly across from the spot reserved for the controversial Reverend Jeremiah Wright. A security guard immediately approached and inquired as to the length of our visit ("We’ll be quick!" we promised), and as we entered the church we noted numerous signs forbidding the use of cameras ("Liv! Put it in your pocket!" I whispered). At the information desk, we asked if we were allowed to take a look around. "Not really," said the attendant. He kindly allowed us a brief glance into the sanctuary, and we commented that the choir loft looked as if it seated almost as many people as the regular pews.

Upon reflection, the church visit might have bordered on obnoxious, especially as we were clearly interrupting a youth group dance rehearsal. Anywho, you can view photos of this outing in the MySpace folder titled "Winter 08."

P.S. My desk calendar for 2008 features the Magnificent Moose. I selected it not for the subject matter but for its perfect smallish size (all the better to hang in my cube), thinking I would accessorize the moose and his woodsy surroundings each month with butterfly stickers, Vitamin Water stickers, Jessica Simpson stickers—basically any stickers I happened to come across. But, I have come to a realization: the moose is Magnificent on his own.

I Wanna Be Made

2008-03-19T10:51:00.001-05:00

Dear MTV,

Am I too old to be Made? I know the show usually features high-schoolers who want to be transformed from tomboys to beauty queens or nerds to cheerleaders, but what would be so different about, say, 29-year-old magazine editor to helicopter pilot? Isn’t that almost (if not vastly more) entertaining? If you don’t like the helicopter thing, here are some other possibilities for my emotional journey:

1. Ballet Dancer
2. Pool Shark
3. Bull Rider
4. Rock Star Groupie

You know how to find me.
ARD

P.S. The bull riding option is inspired by my sister’s boyfriend Jim, who once engaged in the sport on a regular basis despite the constant risk of having his head kicked in. A recent Jim quote:

Emma: "So what are you getting Claire for Valentine’s Day?"
Jim: "I guess those damn sparkle shoes."

P.S. I’ve been putting off a copious amount of writing for at least two weeks now, and the deadline is tomorrow. (The extended deadline, that is.) I’m about to get started on it in just a few minutes, but first I really, really need to:

1. Individually remove dog hairs from my black coat
2. Play 3-4 songs on my flute
3. Post this blog
4. Watch a few more American Idol performances
5. Investigate the reasons for malfunction in a pair of speakers, one of which I dropped on the floor last week
6. Investigate the contents of gift bags from parties occurring up to 18 days ago
7. Adjust the lighting scheme in my living room
8. Check the hour-by-hour forecast on Weather.com
9. Watch Dancing With the Stars (an hour setback!)
10. Floss

What's Hot, What's Not

2008-02-11T19:46:00.000-06:00

You know how some people take too big a sip of a slushie and then claim to have a brain freeze? Well, I’m having one of those (a brain freeze) right now and it has nothing to do with flavored high fructose corn syrup over finely grated ice. I know everyone’s sick to death of hearing me complain about the cold and go on and on with my winter superiority complex (my wind chill is lower than yours; my city has the higher snow accumulation total), but I just have to point out that when you can’t feel your upper thighs after brief contact with your toilet seat or you have to run hot water over your hands to unclench them after driving home, things have gone too far. I’m so glad I’m going to Iceland in March. It will be a welcome reprieve.

Meanwhile, I think my new Ugg house slippers might smell a little weird, like a pasture.

And now in my role as lifestyle curator, I’m about to tell you what’s hot for spring:

1. Navy nail polish. Now, everyone already knows about this trend, clearly, but I would like to report that I’ve test-driven the look and it’s brought me many merry times.
2. Meredith Viera. She’s getting close to that year-and-a-half mark on the Today Show and she’s just about to hit her stride and settle into conducting interviews without interrupting, I can feel it.
3. Daffodils. Last year Marc Jacobs came out with his ‘Daisy’ perfume, managing to make one of the most annoyingly sweet flowers in nature suddenly cool. This year I predict something similar will happen for the daffodil, which is a retro gem long neglected due to its early bloomer status.
4. Hair down to there. I’m only predicting this because I haven’t had one of my two-inch trims lately and my hair is almost long enough to loop around my neck multiple times in a scarf-like fashion.
5. Beer. I’m telling you it is about to replace Champagne as the black-tie beverage of choice. The other night I was at an event where they were serving endless Champagne as usual, and right out of the blue I craved, ordered and drank a beer. People will follow my lead, don’t worry. When I know, I know.

Inaccuracies Abound

2008-02-05T19:12:00.000-06:00

One of the major difficulties I encountered while voting today was the fact that they were not handing out “I Voted Today!” stickers. Why don’t election officials in Illinois appreciate the pure fun involved with wearing a sticker? It’s like when Prius drivers wave at each other—I want to be able to recognize my fellow voters with some kind of salute or possibly a peace sign. As long as everyone’s going to be campaigning around all over the place, I just might start my own movement—to get a sticker in November.

In other news, there’s nothing better than reconnecting with an old song that truly beats to the tune of one’s heart. A few months ago I was dining with a group of most attractive people at Ping Pong, and one of Henry’s renowned music mixes began booming from the speakers overhead. When the song in question was played, I realized I knew every word—and so did everyone else at the table—but I couldn’t place the title or group. All I knew was that it reminded me vaguely of babysitting. Jeff was dispatched to the front desk to inquire as to the tune’s origin, and was informed we were hearing “Never Ever” by the 90s girl group All Saints. Well, what do you think I did? I went home and downloaded it on iTunes, and since then I’ve been singing along as if “Never Ever” were pre-programmed into my very soul.

So they say it’s going to snow five to fourteen inches in Chicago tonight. Honestly, this sounds like a fairly bogus forecast. Five to fourteen? I’m pretty sure I could make a more accurate prediction if I analyzed the Doppler myself. And as long as we’re discussing both music and snow, I would like to point out that if you listen to the lyrics of “Jingle Bells” closely, you’ll realize it’s not purely a holiday-oriented song. It is therefore permissible to listen to and sing along with Jingle Bells at almost any time a snowy situation occurs—like right now.

Lobster for Lunch, Wild Boar for Dinner

2008-01-26T10:09:00.000-06:00

As one might imagine, the title of this blog entry refers to the assorted foods I consumed over the past eight hours. The circumstances that led to my enjoyment of these menu items are, quite frankly, fascinating, but still too fresh in my memory for me to recount without a certain level of fatigue. Today's musings, therefore, have more to do with the fact that the artic weather in Chicago is driving the city's residents and visitors alike to madness. Behold the evidence:

1. A senior citizen from California has filed a lawsuit in which he claims to have suffered emotional and physical distress after having a camera shoved down his throat during a Blue Man Group performance at the Briar Street Theater. I always thought the so-called "esophagus cam" looked painful, but it never worried me as much as the Twinkie cream spewing from gaping wounds in the chests of nonverbal men whose skin has, alarmingly, congealed into blue rubber.

2. Last weekend I observed the following: A woman sitting in a parked car on Wells Street in front of my office building opened the door of her car to reveal a large pile of garbage resting in her lap—McDonald's bags, cigarette cartons, plastic cups and crumpled paper. She proceeded to slowly and deliberately shove all of it out onto the curb—fully aware, I'm sure, of my hands-on-hips stance and disbelieving stare—then drove calmly away, leaving the detritus to float down the sidewalk on a breeze. Litterbug!

3. I find my consciousness besieged by two jingles I haven't heard in years. One is: "LET'S go Kro-gering, Kro-gering, Kro-gering. LET'S go Kro-gering, you can al-ways count on US!" The other goes: "Ba-con's, time after tiiiimme…it's for YOU!"

I swear there's something in that salt they keep spreading.

P.S. The quote of the week goes to Jeff, who last night lamented his inability to do architecture-related work at his desk over the past few days because of more pressing concerns, including planning a dinner party, paying bills, downloading inspirational R&B songs on iTunes, and maintaining various friendships via e-mail. With a sigh, he said: "It's like a full-time job just to be me!"

The Frontier Life

2008-01-15T10:03:00.000-06:00

When I was in second grade at Jane Hite Elementary, I used to pretend I was blind like Mary on Little House on the Prairie. I didn't think about the possibility of offending anyone, I just closed my eyes, stuck out my hand and used the grooves on the concrete block walls to find my way. Mary was the oldest sister and so was I, so I felt very connected to her. I wanted to experience her dark but 100 percent virtuous world, and that's also why I forced my little sister Claire to play school every afternoon once Mary became a teacher on our favorite show. Claire wasn't thrilled by this activity, but it was a lot better than too much Nintendo and she did learn to read at an early age.

The reason I bring this up is because my routines carry a lot of Little House overtones these days. I think of the frontier life when I'm carrying my laundry down ice-covered stairs to the basement, and when I'm pulling on double layers of socks before bed. I feel like Ma when I'm opening my oven to let the extra warmth from cooking into my apartment, and I shake my head like Pa as I review my utility bills and try to think of ways to supplement my household income. Winter is harsh. I really don't know how they did it without space heaters.

Ahem. Sorry for the abrupt signoff, but I have to get back to my regularly scheduled programming: a blend of American Idol and the Democratic debate on MSNBC. Could prime time be more patriotic?

P.S. Breaking news from Chicago: Dirty Dancing has been made into a Broadway musical which apparently will open right here where I live in September. Can you believe it?!?! Many hoorays.

Beware of Blog (A Multifaceted Complaint)

2008-01-10T09:59:00.000-06:00

As revealed to me only moments ago by a colleague at the next desk over, seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is ruling my life. With each passing day of cloud-covered gloom, I come to resemble Oscar the Grouch more and more. My hair is sticking out in all directions. My eyebrows are continually furrowed. I say mean things to strangers on the phone and think about how much they deserve it. Just now, for instance, I hung up on an operator at the Bloomingdale's call center because he couldn't pronounce my name. Maybe I'll be overcome with remorse when the first ray of sun filters through, but at the moment I'm pretty sure my irritation is justified.

Other targets of my wrath:

1. Hannah Montana. I don't get it. I can't stand it. The other night I tried to watch five minutes of this show and all I could do was mutter "Robots!" under my breath, repeatedly and with malice.
2. Dr. Phil. Seriously Dr. Phil, you need to quit meddlin'. This is an A and B conversation, so you'd better C your way out.
3. My desk phone. How rude of it to keep blinking even though it knows I can't possibly muster the strength to listen to messages. How completely disrespectful.

This must be why they call it the Windy City. Because it blows. Anywho, I'll just be here waiting on a delivery of brownie bites or Swirlz cupcakes—the only things that could possibly revive me at this point.

Disagreeably yours,
ARD.

P.S. I just dropped my Sharpie on the floor. Great. Now I have to reach down and pick it up.

Boo!

2007-10-31T09:47:00.000-05:00

Herewith, my annual list of scary things.

1. Yesterday's five o'clock realization that I'd forgotten to apply deodorant that morning.

2. Toilets that flush forcefully and automatically, quite often when one is still perched upon them.

3. My meeting later today with my new personal trainer, who will be revealing my "metabolic age." (Please, please don't let it be older than 29.)

4. The amount of bubble wrap that certain people find necessary to protect a thimble-sized sample of cheap perfume. The environment cannot sustain my FedEx intake!

5. The CTA's "Doomsday" fare hike/route-slashing scenarios, which I suspect continue to be publicized not because of the lack of state funding but because everyone enjoys the word "doomsday" so intensely.

6. The moment when one's cell phone—which is by no means protected by Sprint's scam of an equipment replacement program—hovers in midair before plummeting with a sickening SMACK to the concrete below.

7. Reviewing my online bank statement and counting the number of times the words "Potbelly's" and "Chipotle" appear on the list of charges.

8. The moment in the hairstylist's chair when the following conversation inevitably occurs:

"How much do you want to take off?"
"Just an inch or two. You know, a trim."
"I think we could go a little more than that. There's a lot of hair here."
"Yeah, but I still want to keep it long."
"But we could do more layers."

9. Pulling an armload of clothes from the flaming hot industrial-strength dryer, only to discover a pair of already-somewhat-snug, lay-flat-to-dry jeans in the mix.

10. One day, Black Beauty will die. Then what?

A World of Opportunity

2007-05-30T09:37:00.000-05:00

Last Friday I saw one of the most enlightening TV commercials ever aired, and since then I've been waiting and waiting for them to play it again so I can be sure I wasn't hallucinating. But it's starting to seem like that commercial was a once-in-a-lifetime viewing opportunity, so I'll go ahead and impart its wisdom in a message to all of my current, former and future interns, as well as to my little sister Liv:

If you want a fun job where you get to spend time with your friends, travel, work in magazines and be on TV, then hear this: there is NO REASON to go to college. Who needs the stress? Who needs the 30-year student loan repayment plans? The solution to your life's ambitions can be found in one elegantly suggestive two-syllable word: Hooters.

That's right, ladies, the Hooters restaurant chain is on the prowl for reliable new employees. In the recruitment commercial (aired on E! during a rerun of The Girls Next Door), an optimistic college student visits her guidance counselor and describes the qualities she's looking for in a grownup job (fun, magazines, travel, friends, etc.). The counselor gets in just one derisive snort before the co-ed suddenly remembers Hooters and flounces out, ready to begin her new life.

And why not? Hooters has a lot to offer. For one thing, you get unlimited free tube socks. You get a meal plan that includes all the wings you can eat (the resulting cellulite is easily hidden by flesh-toned dance tights), and one voucher per year for a round-trip ticket to Vegas on Hooters Airlines (you do have to serve peanuts during the flight).

It's too late for me to get on the Hooters fast track, since I already went to college and developed a wrinkle on my forehead. Plus, orange isn't really my color. But it's a pretty sweet deal, so all I'm saying to the next generation is: give it some thought.

Family Ties

2007-05-16T09:28:00.000-05:00

My family and friends are a bunch of excellent people, they really are. Creative, soulful, funny, gossipy, good with dogs, and of course, great hair—basically they have it all. But if for some reason I was forced to trade them in for characters from my current rotation of favorite reality TV shows, my list would go something like this:

Dad: Hands down, the coolest dad on TV right now is Rev Run of Run's House on MTV. Who wouldn't respect a man who texts inspirational messages to his congregation while soaking in bubble baths? Also, it was great when he proved an important point by dressing up in a gorilla suit to pick Russy up at the bus stop, after Russy complained of embarrassment over the family Bentley (I used to feel that way about the Drury Volkswagen Vanagon, until the hippie kids told me it was awesome and begged to buy it off us).

Mom: Oprah. Even though she's never been a mom, she'd obviously be good at the job. If there were a McDonald's-esque sign outside the Harpo studios advertising Oprah's maternal-style successes, it would read: "Billions nurtured!"

Big Sister: Definitely Leila Ali from Dancing With the Stars. She would totally have my back and beat up any toolbags who dared cross me.

Boyfriend: Clearly, Ian Ziering of Dancing With the Stars (and 90210) fame. Did you see how sweet he was with Cheryl, his dancing partner, when they got voted off last night? He kept giving her all the credit for how far they made it in the competition and slipping in favorable comments about her looks. He also gave her numerous lingering hugs. I swear there's something going on there.

Little Sister: For this I'll go with American Idol's Jordin Sparks. She's sassy, but not bratty. Plus, family members always get to be in the American Idol audience.

Little Brother: I'm used to the "wild child" variety of brother (and I mean that ever so affectionately, LCD), so I'd probably have to go with Jason Wahler, the bad boy of Laguna Beach. Granted, he's an insufferable a-hole, but he'd be a cute addition to the family. I probably could've set him straight before he ended up with an extended jail sentence.

Best Friend: Ryan Seacrest. Due to his apparent asexual status and the fact that I would still be shorter than him in heels, we could carry on a completely platonic relationship in which I would be his standby date for the Grammy's, the Oscars, the American Idol wrap party, etc.

P.S. This morning I had a bit of a confrontation with a transient who was feeding Rainbo bread to the geese and their little chicks in the park. This is a strictly forbidden activity, and there are plenty of signs indicating as much. Anyway, as I approached the feeding frenzy, there were so many giant birds blocking my path I feared for my life. I literally could not pass, so I pointedly removed one of my Ultimate Ears UE-5 professional mold earphones and noted sternly: "This is ridiculous."

"It's Nature," the man replied.

"Well," I huffed, concealing my terror as I navigated the throng of flying feathers and ominous-looking beaks. "They're SUPPOSED to be in Canada!"

Who knows if that's true, but it sounded great. They are, after all, Canadian geese.

Blue-Eyed Girls

2007-04-09T08:18:00.000-05:00

Like most people, I spent the last few hours of Easter Sunday flipping back and forth between an episode of Run's House on MTV2 and the Family Channel's presentation of one of my Top 10 favorite movies of all time, The Sound of Music. I figured it was an Eastery lineup because Reverend Run, after all, is a man of the cloth, and The Sound of Music is all about morals and family bonding.

I'm always enthralled by the scene in which Liesel sneaks out to meet young Rolf for a midnight rendezvous on the grounds of the Von Trapp family estate. Rolf, though clearly a controlling a-hole in the making, is unbelievably dashing as he twirls Liesel around the conservatory, where she leaps like a unicorn from bench to bench in her pink chiffon dress. I can't say the lyrics of their little serenade hit home for me—particularly when Liesel sings, "I need someone older and wiser telling me what to do" (um, no thanks)—but if they would just dub in a nice Oasis remake from The O.C. soundtrack and put Rolf in a linen suit instead of that Nazi uniform, the encounter would play out to near perfection.

It was that scene featuring the ocean-eyed Liesel that led directly to my ill-advised quest for non-prescription color contact lenses during the summer before my sophomore year of college. My sister Claire and I spent a blazing hot afternoon driving from Lens Crafters to Lens Crafters in my un-air-conditioned sauna of a car (Black Beauty #1), desperately seeking an ophthalmologist cool enough to sell us blue contacts on the spot so we could wear them to a raging keg party at my apartment later that night.

We finally finagled a few pairs at a price we could ill afford ($60), and we giddily made our way home to see how great we would look. After about 45 minutes of wide blinking and painful eye watering, we concluded that we did indeed look fantastic. We completed the effect with just a few pounds of eyeliner and mascara. (In retrospect, I'm not sure one could draw a direct comparison between us and Liesel...Marilyn Manson, now that I can see.)

There were a few hours of carefree blue-eyed fun, made all the merrier by the fact that we were taking shots of wine from a cardboard box throughout the evening. But in the end, the experiment failed because A. I couldn't see shit and B. I find it impossible to touch my own eyeball. The prized baby blues dried up in their case and that, darlings, was the end of that.

Two by Two

2007-03-26T16:49:00.000-05:00

Ah, Sundays in Chicago. Couples' day. The one day of the week when the city suddenly becomes a modern-day Noah's Ark, and every activity is performed in pairs. Two by two they hold hands and stroll down the sun-dappled streets. Two by two they ride bikes on the lake and wait in hours-long lines to share omelets at neighborhood brunch spots. Two by two they slurp Starbucks and march through the park clutching leashes attached to pairs of drooling pugs. The city is a Match.com commercial come to life. Love is all around. It's just too adorable for words—that is, until you witness the one pastime that always sends me straight over the edge: couples' jogging. The matching outfits (MICHIGAN. HARVARD. PURDUE.). The sweaty stoplight shoulder massages. The out-of-breath pep talks about picking up dog food at Petco and painting the guest room in the new condo. It is all much, much too much.

In other news, I've been working on a thank-you note that I intend to send to Tara Connor, the outgoing Miss USA who, incidentally, hails from my home state of Kentucky. Let me know if you think this is OK:

Dear Tara,

Thank you for using your reign as Miss USA to show the world exactly what kind of nice girls are born and bred in Kentucky. As you know, the Bluegrass State sometimes gets a bad rap. For instance, I'll never forget the first time I saw the movie Clueless and heard Alicia Silverstone say (in reference to teenage brides): "As if! This is California, not Kentucky!"

But, despite your highly publicized stint in rehab and other Spearsian antics, overall you have represented our state well. The Donald was right to give you a second chance instead of stripping you of your sash. I was impressed by your graciousness last Friday night during the telecast of the 2007 Miss USA pageant, when you had the difficult task of passing on your cultured-pearl crown to a new American princess. Remember when you were hanging out with the girls backstage and you gave the camera a sideways peace sign and said, "Word?" I could tell it made everyone feel more relaxed, and in my opinion, that moment was a significant indicator of just how cosmopolitan Kentucky has become in recent years.

And even though I'm not sure if they should become your trademark, you took a real risk by getting those shaggy bangs. Although truthfully—and I mean this in the most helpful way possible—you kind of looked like a kitten who'd just escaped from a pillowcase thrown in the pond out back.

Anyway, have a nice year. Take some time off. You deserve it.

Yours truly,
A fellow Kentuckian

MTV Guide

2007-02-23T16:47:00.000-06:00

Due to the aforementioned unpleasant weather conditions in the city of Chicago, I've been watching highly detrimental quantities of MTV. In fact, studies show that my brain has withered to half its normal size over the month of February. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that there's a lot more to MTV programming than the TV Guide capsule descriptions imply.

As a latecomer to the realm of digital cable, I remain fascinated with the control-it-yourself TV Guide feature and the "Info" button, which allows one to read the premise of a show before it is aired. But, if I were allowed to write the "Info" for some of the MTV shows I watch regularly (OK, repeatedly), I would really try to get my facts straight. See below.

MY SUPER SWEET 16

TV Guide premise: Teens plan elaborate 16th-birthday parties.

Emma's premise: Suburban youths make regrettable formalwear selections and emulate gangsta behaviorisms/porn-inspired dance moves at parties costing more than it will take to elect a new president in 2008.

THE HILLS

TV Guide premise: A reality series following Lauren Conrad from 'Laguna Beach' as she moves to Los Angeles, where she tries to break into the fashion industry, starting with an internship at Teen Vogue.

Emma's premise: A succession of blondes in designer sunglasses pine over unattractive sub-par love interests and practice the art of the long pause.

MAUI FEVER

TV Guide premise: A reality series following the lives of seven young people in Kaanapali, Maui.

Emma's premise: Against a lush tropical backdrop, people tanned to the point of crackling and in severe need of Blistex engage in elementary relationship-oriented dialogue using such key phrases as "I'm like, way bummed," "I'm super stoked," and "are you sad?"

ENGAGED & UNDERAGE

TV Guide premise: Following young engaged couples (ages 18-21) in the final weeks before their weddings.

Emma's premise: Mere children don bridal attire and make public declarations of love to fiancées for whom they have previously expressed extreme dislike.

Every Millisecond Counts (Conversational Shortcuts)

2007-02-02T16:44:00.000-06:00

For those of you who can't be bothered to utter complete words in everyday conversation, please refer to this list of my favorite and most often used acronyms:

T.C. = Time Check OR Temperature Check
Usage 1: "Isn't American Idol coming on any minute now? Let's get a T.C., please."
Usage 2: "I know! Let's go around the circle and guess how cold it is outside; then we'll turn on the Weather Channel for a T.C.!"
Usage 3 (advanced): [To person with remote] "Can I get a T.C. on channel 96 and a T.C. on 99?"

P.T.H. = Ponytail Holder
Usage: "My hair's suffocating me to death. Does anyone have an extra P.T.H.?"

G.C. = Good Call
Usage: "Let's stop at Starbucks for hot apple ciders." "Oh, G.C."

V.R. = Volume Reduction
Usage: "Good Lord, I'm trying to concentrate on my crossword puzzle! Let's get a V.R. on that State of the Union address!"

V.I. = Volume Increase
Usage: "Are we watching this or not? V.I., please! I can't tell if they said Marissa DIED or she needs a RIDE."

B.T.S. = Back to Sleep
Usage: "My insomnia was so bad last night I was forced to watch an episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County to help me get B.T.S."

R.O. = Roll Out
Usage: "I can't listen to that Beyonce song again, and plus, my feet hurt. It's time to R.O."

G.P. = General Public OR Gently Priced
Usage 1: "There's no way I'm paying cover. That is sooo G.P."
Usage 2: Q. "What kind of wine should I get?" A. "Just grab something G.P."
Usage 3 (advanced): Q. "Where should we go for dinner?" A. "I'm in the market for somewhere G.P. but not too G.P."

To Do and Not To Do

2007-01-01T16:41:00.000-06:00

Well, another New Year's Eve come and gone. I honestly have no idea how anyone lives up to the pressure to have so much Fun! Fun! Fun!, seeing as it's a close second to Valentine's Day for Most Overrated Night of the Year. But, rather than relive fiascos of New Year's Eves past (fights, tears, hours spent waiting for cabs, bad champagne, itchy sparkle sweaters, etc.), I think we'd all be better off with a few lists:

Five Things I Shall Do in 2007
1. Eat strawberries straight off the vine (something I just had an uncontrollable craving for due to the fact that I'm drinking a raspberry-apple Vitamin Water, which is somewhat reminiscent of a melted strawberry smoothie).
2. Go on a trip that does not involve taking Lake Shore Drive South to I-55; then 90/94 to Indiana; then the Indiana Toll Road to I-65 South; remaining on I-65 South through Indianapolis and stopping at O'Charley's for a chicken salad; counting down the last 100 miles; and taking I-71 to the Zorn Avenue exit in Louisville.
3. Wear colors other than black.
4. Pay off my Bloomingdale's and other similar charge accounts and shred the cards into a million little pieces.
5. Somehow, some way, get tickets to Oprah.

Five Things I Shall Not Do in 2007
1. Stare at various illuminated screens for more than half of a 16-hour day.
2. Forget people's names immediately upon meeting them.
3. Live under the assumption that people who have met me more than three times do not know my name.
4. Answer 4AM calls from notorious drunk dialers, especially on weeknights.
5. Become addicted to an array of new and incredibly tempting MTV programming, including shows with such titles as "I'm From Rolling Stone" and "Maui Fever."

Five Things I'm Not Desperate to Do Ever Again
1. Eat at Steak & Shake.
2. Forget there's a large but hidden hole in the floorboard of my car; take car through the automatic carwash with the "undercarriage spray" option; spend the next two days waiting for the bubbles to recede.
3. Be startled awake and momentarily placed under the impression that the city is under siege when my upstairs neighbor drops what are probably 50-lb. blocks of steel onto the floor directly above my head at 3:23AM.
4. Pay $75 for a single bag of groceries at Whole Foods.
5. Stand on my bed, frantically trying to hold the vacuum close enough to the ceiling so that it sucks up a swift-moving, 8-billion-legged centipede before the insect can fall on me in the dark and take refuge in my hair.

Ho Ho Ho

2006-12-25T16:39:00.000-06:00

It's Christmas, and this morning I experienced one of the best "your mammy" moments of my life. Here's how it happened:

Mom: The coffee cake just overflowed all over my oven! The house is going to reek of smoke all day!

Me: I told you it was a bad idea to leave out the baking powder.

Mom: Well, it's not like the grocery's open today. What was I supposed to do? Anyway, this bundt pan is too small for this cake... it overflows every year. Next year, I'm giving up and ordering a chocolate pan roll from Plehn's [bakery].

[Silence, as I attempt to scrape an edible bite of half-cooked dough out of the pan]

Mom: It's sticking something awful... I don't think I got the bundt greasy enough.

Me: Your mammy's bundt's not greasy enough!

It just doesn't get any better than that. Merry Christmas.

Your Mammy

2006-11-28T16:37:00.000-06:00

For at least the past year (and possibly since childhood), I have found myself unable to discontinue use of the phrase "your mammy." (It is occasionally written as "yer mammy," though I prefer the more formal variation.) This phrase is constantly popping into my brain as a response to almost any item of conversation. For example:

Mom (with meaningful glance at brother lounging on sofa): I wish people would get off their butts and help me put away these dishes.
Me (gleefully): Your mammy wishes people would put away dishes!

Anonymous friend: I'm parched. Let's stop for Vitamin Waters.
Me: Your mammy needs a Vitamin Water!

Surprisingly, not everyone is amused by these exchanges, which often carry a slightly vulgar subtext.

Meanwhile, who agrees that the Pamela Anderson/Kid Rock breakup won't last? Those two are meant for each other. I saw them at a Derby party in 1999 and I could tell it was love.

A Temptation, a Prize and a Dispute

2006-11-13T16:34:00.000-06:00

It is sapping every ounce of willpower I possess to refrain from buying the third season of The O.C. on DVD. If I were to do this, I would likely neglect my work, friends, family, bills, blog, etc. until all 25 episodes have been viewed. Oh, Seth and Summer. Oh, Marissa and Ryan. I miss you so.

Last night I was at a truck stop in Who-Knows-Where, Indiana, and I asked the clerk to check a Powerball ticket I've been carrying in my wallet since my birthday in September. Shockingly, I won $100. It was my biggest Lotto win to date and a thrilling moment, to be sure. Powerball tickets provide such endless entertainment during the long, flat drive up I-65. There are so many moneyed possibilities to consider.

I'm currently enmeshed in a dispute with my sister Claire over a pair of dangly gold earrings. A former boyfriend purchased them for her, and soon after the two parted ways I transferred the earrings to my own jewelry box and began wearing them regularly. That was several years ago, and the statute of limitations on borrowed accessories now renders me the rightful owner (don't you think?). Anyway, I believe Claire to be the perpetrator of a plot to regain possession. The earrings mysteriously vanished from my bedside table whilst I was visiting the homestead in Louisville this past weekend, and when I asked her if she'd seen them, she said: "You better not have lost those earrings, Emma!" Hmm. I searched her room to no avail, but I am still convinced MY earrings are in there somewhere.

The Fate of a Fish

2006-10-04T16:31:00.000-05:00

One moment you're walking by the lake, watching dark clouds roll in and suffocate the skyline; the next moment there's a small flopping fish at your feet. It happened this morning when a fisherman accidentally tossed one of his bait fish onto the path in front of me at approximately 7:20AM. What a sucky start to the day for that fish--first, stabbed by a hook, then, tossed onto blacktop.

I am experiencing a surplus of umbrellas. There are two in my apartment--both compact and black, both from gift bags. At my desk there is the indestructible Wind-Pro Deluxe, with a system of strings underneath that causes it never to turn inside out (especially useful in the Windy City). In the trunk of my car there are three more: a silver umbrella with "Bloomingdale's" written all over it; a white one printed with comics from the Louisville Courier-Journal; and a faded red one with a curved wooden handle. Is that more umbrellas than a normal person needs? Severe weather be warned: I am armed.