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.

Boo!

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

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

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

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.