See It & Eat It (Poor Piggy)

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

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

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

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)

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

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?

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

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

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

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.