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.

I Wanna Be Made

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

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

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

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

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)

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.