Extreme Good Sports

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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!

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

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.