a big long post about three little words

Last weekend was Super Awesome.

Even though he was red and peeling in a sunburntastic way that brown people usually only hear about and his tastebuds were still stunned, my brother happily carted his crap back to Alabama to start what will hopefully be his last year of college.

My high school peeps requested my presence at 5 pm Friday for a shindig in my honor, but they wouldn't divulge any details, except that Highcon wasn't going to be able to fly out from nyc that weekend after all. When asked about dress code, Ri told me to wear something casual "that doesn't snag easily." All day, my coworkers and I were trying to figure out what the hell it could be, but could only come up with that fad from a few years ago where people would jump on a trampoline and affix themselves to a Velcro wall. Don't laugh; I would totally get a kick out of that.

Unfortunately, there was a snag. Normally--except for those 14-hour days--I get to work around 8 am and leave around 4:30 pm. And it would have been the case that Friday too, but as you may remember, earlier in the week we discovered they're dissolving our jobs, which made it a little harder to concentrate and work ahead.

All of my colleagues had afterwork plans, so we were busting our collective hump to send the reports and get the hell out of there. Kaiya was supposed to pick me up at 5 in her cute new car and whisk me off to wherever, so by 5:30 the text messages started buzzing with growing urgency. We have far to go! We may lose out on our tickets! Sadly, it was two more hours before I finally emerged onto the street with an overnight bag, my seersucker dress flapping in the wind. I was searching around everywhere for the cute new car, until a less-new-but-still-cute car pulled up and Highcon leaned over and said, "It's ABOUT TIME, missy."

Ever since we could drive, I've known to hang on to my life when riding shotgun with Highcon. It's a good thing I grew up with a dad that accelerated at hairpin turns, so I was only slightly fazed when my chauffeur for the evening was texting, dancing and even reading me a Forward joke in a bad Indian accent from his Blackberry, all while zipping around cars on the highway. I kept trying to guess where we were going and he kept making me promise to close my eyes as we approached signs.

One missed exit, fourteen phonecalls in code (I'm passing the "L.C." Do I keep going until I see the Big W?" Should we park by the "B.G"?) and a shuttlebus ride later, we arrived at Ravinia, an outdoor music/park venue with loads of lawn seating upon which people set up elaborate picnics with candles and mini-tables and blankets, and baskets of food and wine. It's a must-do summer pastime in the Chicago area. I was very excited because I hadn't been there since the college girls and I went to see Celia Cruz shortly before she passed away a few years ago. By the time we got to the gate, we'd missed about 45 minutes of the show. And I shook my fists at the work gods when I found out that the people on stage were The Gypsy Kings, whom I have loved since I was about 16 but have never seen live.

It was such a perfect Cadiz evening:

We were sitting under a canopy of tall, shady trees.

The stage was very close and sparkly.

The other kids had gotten there early, staked out an excellent spot to the right of the stage and had a delicious spread of MiddleEastern delights, handpicked by Kaiya. And everyone was there, including my favorite mami, whom I rarely get to see!

Even the brussel sprouts were good!

We rocked out on the lawn near the stage.

After plenty of dancing around barefoot in the grass, silly photo-ops and running around for ice-down-the-back tag, we lazily packed up our stuff and headed home. This part of the evening is kind of blurry, because I'm usually passed out by 11 pm and riding in the car has always made me fall asleep at the end of the night, so I have no recollection of the long road back to Ri and C's place. I'm sure all that wine probably helped, too. I knocked out on their couch.

The rest of the weekend, I crashed with Ri and C. They showed me the gorgeous albums from their wedding and forced me to watch myself give their toast on dvd. I'm glad they did, too, because even though I spent months preparing for it, I didn't know what I was going to say until the words were coming out of my mouth and all I had remembered was trying hard not to let the champagne spill out of my trembling glass. But the speech was actually very good. I sounded exactly how I would have written it as a blog post, and I was surprised at the details I came up with on the fly, like consoling Ri on the loss of River Phoenix and that we served a 12-layer tropical Jell-O mold at Kaiya's 25th birthday party, where we first met C. I was pretty proud of myself.

Saturday we were supposed to go to the Air & Water show, or perhaps Chicago SummerDance at Grant Park, but honestly I had a much better time eating blueberry pancakes and catching up with the two of them all day. I love that I don't feel like a third wheel hanging out with a married couple, and we rarely get a chance to sit around and shoot the shit for an entire weekend. Besides, they live in a highrise right off Lake Shore Drive, so we were able to see a lot of the planes swing around to make their next passes over the show. Unfortunately, the only ones I was able to capture on camera in semifocus were a sprightly group of tricksters in formation.

They can do some fancy tricks, too.

Later we dragged ourselves out of the house for a great All-American meal at McNamara's and then to see Superbad, which H was reluctant to recommend because he hadn't seen it yet, but I think it was actually because he knows he's dating SuperPrude. I admit, a few "oh my goodness"es escaped my lips during the movie, but I've decided that I liked it. (I've come a long way from having covered my face through most of There's Something About Mary.)

On Sunday, Highcon picked me up at the suburban train station and we went to this Chinese restaurant shaped like a pagoda that had mesmerized us as children, with its fake bridge over a koi pond and fancypants decor. Now all that stuff seems a little dated. We made the tragic mistake of overemphasizing how spicy we wanted our Ma Po Tofu and Garlic Chicken, and spent the entire meal dripping sweat and downing gallons of water. To add insult to injury, we both got the SAME fortune when we cracked the cookies: "Happiness is sitting right next to you."

I got home and called my brother to find out how his journey and moving in had gone. He insisted everything was great and warned me against getting HDtv because it would chain me to the house, but I suspect he was really tired. Then he described the sweet bachelor pad he has with his friend Mark, with a bigscreen, Xbox 360 and lots and lots of grilling. He sounded downright giddy when he said, "You know Cadiz, life is good."

That was the perfect thing to hear at the end of an excellent weekend. Yes, baby brother, life is good.

To steal an idea from Alexandra, a shot of the booty.

Oh and this, which was stowed away in the bag that I take on the train.

completely against my nature

Last night I came home from work, talked to my brother on the phone, ate, passed out on the couch, talked to H (briefly before he told me, "Go to bed! I'll talk to you tomorrow!") and fell into a deep sleep--all before 10 p.m.

This morning, I tried to use my well-honed powers of rolling over and sleeping in, but the latest I could managed to stay in bed was 7:30 a.m.

I don't even recognize myself anymore.

Mourning period=one week

Anyone who has spent 2.5 minutes talking to me or 2.5 hours reading this blog knows that I get excited. Often, and vigorously. Sadly, a lot of the ruffled feathers is of the freaking-out-for-no-cause variety, which is a lot less interesting than the dirty kind that I'm sure a few of you immediately thought of after that second sentence. Sorry to disappoint.

So of course those who know me are expecting that I'd totally lose it over having to job hunt again only two months after I hung up that particular rifle and furry-earflapped plaid hat. Especially when I heard that H was also "restructured" out of his job. (Oh, I didn't tell you? Add one more member to the Laid-Off Club roster, Jon. Let's get T-shirts!). In all fairness, I did sort of royally flip out when I heard H's news. Wouldn't you? I mean, no one would bet on the chances that both of us would be laid off from our respective jobs in different fields within the same month, let alone any closer than that. Normally, this is when I would rant and rave about how terrible a situation I'm in and how everything in the world sort of sucks (which I still think), but for some reason, I have a sense of calm. Because H getting laid off right after I was is the single best thing that could have happened to me.

Stay with me now; I don't think that H losing his job is good. He doesn't even get to stay and finish stuff up for awhile like I do. And that puts a damper on the plan to save money and get ourselves into the same zip code. However, it also puts a damper on all the whining he'd have to hear from me about how much job hunting sucks and how there's nothing out there and how I'm going to have to move to Biloxi and join the circus so why am I wasting time on resumes and not focusing on regaining my flexibility? What face do I have to bitch about all that to someone who's going through the same thing?

But beyond all that, I really don't have that weighty sense of impending doom that I had at the beginning of this year when the dungeon began to run dry. The kind that made me not want to go out or even talk on the phone with my friends because that would take away precious time from my panicking about my impending doom while pretending to find something to stop it. Perhaps it's different because of the small cushion I have until the checks stop coming. Maybe it's because all my coworkers can commisserate and share contacts. I don't know. But I've got this deadly sense of calm and assurance that things will be okay because I gd said it's going to be, dammit. And I'm going to get that out in writing before the doubt creeps in and asphyxiates it like a poisonous gas.

you get what you put out there

I had such a lovely birthday. I woke up and went through the day showered with love from family, friends and coworkers and got so many warm wishes from you guys, too. And I got badass stuff in the mail! Oh, how I love getting nonbills/nonjunk in the mail! Especially with exotic postmarks like The Netherlands and California and The City of Chicago! H sent me way too much stuff, including one item he put together himself that probably took a very long time, which I adore. During the day my colleagues took me to Hop Haus, and though I was tempted to try kangaroo or ostrich meat, I went for the excellent beef Bistro cheeseburger and was not disappointed. After work, my godmother brought over the most impressive jasmine tree (yeah, it's that sturdy-looking) with fist-sized fragrant blooms, and my mom got me an ice cream cake just like she has every year since I was three. Yum!

However, all day I had this nagging feeling of guilt ab0ut yesterday's post. I was convinced that unveiling myself as a terrible horrible person to the world like that surely would garner some sort of karmic retribution. But those words came out my fingers to live forever on the Internet, and there's nothing I can do about it now.

Sure enough, it came. Swiftly, semi-unexpectedly and deadly-ly. We got back from that great lunch and had a meeting with the mother office to learn that our entire office is getting laid off, two months (and one day) since I started. Happy Birthday from The Man!

You know how us pessimists like to say they always think negatively because then even if things don't turn out well they can take comfort in knowing they were right? Yeah, I worried that something bad would happen, but I didn't reeeeeeally think it would. Contrary to popular belief, the validation was not all that comforting.

Confessions of a terrible, horrible person

Today is my birthday. As a gift to myself, I’m going to suspend the guilt trifecta (culture, religion, personality) that normally filters what comes out of my mouth but has no control over what goes through my head, and indulge in some self-absorbed brattery.

Yesterday morning I woke up feeling kind of crappy. So I called in sick with the justification that my brother will probably be going back to school sometime soon, and the more time I can spend with him the better. Plus, spending time would constitute lying on the couch, which would work well with the feeling crappy. It was a good thing I was around, too, because while things had been looking good all weekend, my brother woke up covered in a red (almost purple in some spots) and extremely itchy rash all over his body. Usually we would try to wait it out, but last year he had what turned out to be a severe allergy to a drug called Keflex that was pretty dangerous and had started the same way. So we went to the emergency room.

After several hours of shivering in the ER, they let the kid go and said that they'd stop the antibiotics (which make food taste like sawdust) and give him some pill for the rash. Unfortunately, that rash remedy is a steroid, which will lower his immune system's effectiveness, which makes him more susceptible to an infection, which is what they were trying to prevent at all costs with the nasty antibiotics in the first place. A vicious cycle to say the least.

The rest of the day went by as usual, with my brother claiming the BLT I'd made for him was the best he'd ever not tasted and showed his appreciation by not throwing it up. This was especially good because it was pretty much the second actual meal he's kept down in the last couple of weeks, and we're all very glad because he's not a big guy and has dropped 15 pounds since his surgery. (Bulimia must be a very powerful disorder indeed if people force themselves to live that way on purpose.)

At about 11 pm, he starts yelling and screaming that something is wrong with Mom. I guess she was having some sharp chest pains, so I went down the heart-attack checklist to figure out what to do next. The problem with having a nurse for a mom is that she is extremely quick to dismiss medical concerns because the rest of us are "laypeople" who obviously don't know what the hell they're talking about. Because of this, she is also a terrible patient. It turns out that she had forgotten to take her thyroid medication for the last two days (which my brother would NEVER be able to pull off without getting his ass kicked) and she said the pain was just a reaction to that, but that she'd wait and see if it came back enough to go to the hospital. So while I was one foot out the door in my pajamas to make a second trip to the emergency room, she calmly took her own blood pressure (is that even accurate?) and turned on a Hindi soap opera.

People like to tell me they think I'm overly paranoid and to "just chill out," "let it go," or "don't worry so much." But honestly, if a reminder that you could lose the things you care about most in this world smacks you in the face at least once a day, you'd start to clutch onto everything just a little bit tighter, too.

Here comes the part about how I'm terrible and horrible. Yesterday while I sat in the emergency room watching my mom rub my brother's feet to keep him warm under three blankets, I kept praying that he'd be okay and wouldn't have to get admitted. Of course, this isn't unusual. But even though I'm old and birthdays are just another day of the week to me now, part of that prayer was for not having to spend another August 14 at the hospital.

I’m not sure if it’s my bad fortune for having emerged into the world so close to the end of summer, or because my parents always made sure to get that day off from work at the beginning of the year and it ended up being convenient for his tests, but some of his same-day procedures, all-day doctor visits and one major surgery happened to fall on my birthdays. Hospital waiting rooms are not as fun as they sound, and I don't even want to think about how much the rest of my life would suck if--Thank God it didn't--something bad happened.

Don’t get me wrong--my parents have always tried to be fair and they made sure I had kickass parties sometime before or after the actual day. But when you’re a kid, it’s extremely tough being the sibling of somebody who needs a lot of attention through no fault of his own. Nonstop. Especially during those developmental years, when it's very difficult to grasp how hard it is on your parents. However, at the same time, they may never completely understand how hard it can be on you, either.

When a person has gone through a cardiac catheterization, the obvious choice is to ask that person what he’d like to eat for dinner when he hasn’t been able to eat for two days. But when you’re the sibling and it’s the actual date of your birth, it can be a real struggle to keep from yelling, “WTF?! Why does he get to choose? This is MY day, dammit!” at the top of your lungs. Of course you wouldn’t do that. Doing that would make your poor recovering brother feel worse about a situation nobody can control. It would also reveal that you are a terrible, horrible person. And the last thing you want to do is let that secret out of the bag.

So you graciously sign for the balloons that arrive at the front door on your day with a smile, or pretend that instead of Get Well Soon, the cookie bouquet somebody sent spells out Happy Birthday Cadiz. What does it matter anyway? You're still going to get to eat the cookies. Years later, you look back at your immature self and congratulate that kid inside for making the right call. Because with all the other stuff going on, the last thing your family needed back then was a whiny brat to make an already difficult situation unbearable.

If a spoiled princess like me had trouble relinquishing the spotlight a couple of times, I can’t imagine how terrible it is for people who are overlooked more often. Sure, they shrug it off as it's-okay-no-big-deal-don't-worry-about-it (always so agreeable, aren't they?) and never call their loved ones out for forgetting to invite them, or treating them unfairly, or not doing as much for them as they do for others. Perhaps they're content enough with themselves that it really doesn’t bother them. But honestly, I don’t buy one word of that crap. Nobody should feel like they are invisible, unless it's either buildup for a surprise party or else some tabletop canoodling a la Sixteen Candles. No matter how noble the reason, if you make a habit out of taking the back seat, it’s easy to start thinking you belong there.

Remembering people's birthdays is hard work, and the guilt of forgetting can be so pointlessly awkward. If you think about it, every date is pretty much the same anyway; they’re only made special when something is appreciated. Like just now, when my brother stayed up late to come down here, give me a hug and a kiss and wish me a Happy Birthday.

Let’s all celebrate this lovely day by calling up a person of value and telling them how cool they are, or giving somebody wonderful a big hug. You never know how many chances you're going to get to do it. And personally, I can’t think of a better occasion.

return of the smack

Yesterday, my brother had the IV line taken out of his arm, permanently. Hooray! This was a joyous occasion for all because it was the cause of much getting-up-at-all-hours-of-the-night, itching and overal misery for everybody: He needed to flush the IV by squeezing a syringe of saline into the line, hook up the medicine bag, let it drip into his arm, flush the IV again and and repeat, four times a day for the last couple weeks. He was always cold, had a temperature that spiked to 103F pretty often, and couldn't keep any food down. He was so miserable, all he did was lie down and sort of watch tv.

After the first few days the first PICC line in his upper left arm began to burn whenever the antibiotics were going through. And then it started to leak. So they removed it and put in a similar IV called a midline that didn't go so far into his vein in the upper right arm, which ended up doing the same the same burning/leaking thing after a few days. The home health nurse redid that one a few times, but they finally got sick of all that drama two weeks into it and took the damn thing out*. Now he's on oral antibiotics and MUCH happier.

Now that the IV is gone, he's better able to keep food down, but the antibiotics make everything (even Portillos!) taste like plywood. His temperature is still hovering around 100F, but he's walking around the house and up to his old shenanigans. The power cord on his new XBox 360 is defective, so he's been on the horn with customer service, and I'm sure it won't be long until the parade of his local buddies starts coming in with boxes of pizza to cause a most welcome ruckus again.

However, the reason I know he feels better is that he has resumed openly mocking me. Last night's target: my new "day" schedule.

"Yep. Right about 9:30, your head starts drooping and your pressing my legs becomes extremely half-assed. Then at about 10 or so, you go downstairs and sit on the couch with mom for a bit and start to drool. Then at 10:30 you'll get up and go brush your teeth and come back up here, acting like you're all awake because you're rejuvenated. But that never lasts long and you start dozing again. By 11 you're full-out passed out, and that's the ballgame."

"Whatever, smartass."

*Knowing he went through all that gave me the courage to sign up to donate blood next week, if for anything, so he won't call me a wuss.

cat got your blog?

I know some of you have been wondering; thanks so much for your concern. I stole the title of this post from an email I got from highcon. I don't think It's ever been this long between posts before, and believe me when I say it's not for a lack of trying.

It's just that every post I sit down to write ends up sounding like a big fat whinefest about all the crap that is happening to my brother and how it makes me sad. I feel too guilty to try and cover it up with something funny, because it's one of those things that will never go away. Which makes me sadder. And while I can acknowledge that complaining is certainly not something I shy away from, I do understand that it doesn't help anybody. Plus, I've come to intimately understand that no, life isn't fair. I get it. But that doesn't mean it doesn't really freaking suck. So I'm going to go ahead and bitch about it.

Everything about this past surgery is technically less bad than the other nine or so open-heart surgeries he's had before. Except that everything about this past surgery is also much worse than the nine or so open-heart surgeries he's had before. Let me explain, briefly:

1) Thankfully, this past surgery did not require that they saw through his breastbone, so technically it was not open-heart surgery, and the recovery is supposed to be easier and shorter. However, little kids tend to bounce back from physical trauma a lot more quickly than adults. Youthful as he is at almost 25, my brother's recovery isn't as springy as it once was and surgeries over previous scar tissue tend to take longer to heal, so it ends up being the same seemingly neverending amount of time to get back to life as normal.

2) He can't plan his life. This was supposed to be a pretty straightforward antibiotic annihilation (because that wound around his pacemaker had been open and covered with gauze for more than a year, they went in, took out the pacemaker, flushed the spot where it had been with the most powerful antibiotics, put in a new pacemaker generator, closed him up and put him on IV super-antibiotics for two weeks.) Now it's looking like healing may take longer, which will delay going back to school, which will drag out his already-six-year attempt to graduate even further.

3) He's tethered to an IV and was determined to still have a little fun, but had to turn down really-hard-t0-get baseball tickets because he can't seem to bring down his temperature or stop throwing up everything he puts in this stomach. Plus he's allergic to the adhesive tape they use to secure his IV line; the itching has been bad, but everyone telling him "just don't scratch it" is much worse--it's a hell of a lot easier said than done.

4) We're blessed that, save for the little "heart issue," my brother is pretty normal. He gets tired more quickly than others and has a complicated pill regimen, but he's your average college student who can do everything for himself. If you didn't know about his condition, he'd try to make sure it stayed that way. So because he's used to having a normal life, whenever these things come up and he's restricted from nearly everything, it sucks just a little bit more than if he had to incorporate bedrest and no fun into his daily life.

5) I know I'm biased, but he's really a very good kid. He's smart, responsible, caring, ambitious and has a good head on his shoulders. I hate to be nasty, but when I see a perfectly healthy kid his age fucking up his life beyond belief and throwing away his good health on stupid destructive shit, I just want to reach into his chest, rip out his heart and give it to somebody who will take care of it.

6) I get that healthcare professionals see this stuff all the time and so it's just a job to them. I worked in an emergency room and understand that people moaning over a nosebleed should see what just came off the ambulance and shut the hell up. Yes, he can handle the pain/hassle/uncomfort, and yes, he has been through a lot of this stuff before, but it doesn't mean that it doesn't suck any less or that he can be treated like a car in a repair shop instead of a person with feelings. (Fortunately, for the most part caregivers have been kind and generous with their time and effort.) He might be one of fifty heart patients, but he's the only brother I'm going to get.

7) They allowed him to come home and have home healthcare for the first time. However, it's the same as if he were still in hospital--he can't sleep because of pain or itching. So neither does my mom, because she's scratching his arms so he doesn't rip out the IV and massaging all the places it hurts all day and all night. That's the way it has always been, but they're both very very tired of it.

I want to emphasize that I am so lucky and grateful that we've had my brother in our lives for so long, and that I know that so many people in this world have it much, much worse. But it's really hard to come to grips with the fact that no amount of money, time or technology will make all this go away for him. He has been such a good sport and never once has used his situation to get pity or out of responsibility. So many others can't say the same. I don't even know if I would be able to say the same. I am immensely proud of him.

The part that gets me down--so much so that I have a hard time enjoying myself and then feel guilty because it really isn't about me--is that this time around I can see him getting weary. That above all else is the worst, because what has best kept him alive all these years are good vibes and his own amazing ability to withstand and fight. If it were me, I probably wouldn't have made it beyond infancy.

In the middle of yet another sleepless night a few nights ago, I was sleeping on the floor near him and my mom was on the couch pressing his throbbing forehead when he said in a small, quiet voice, "Mom, what did I do to deserve this?" Nobody has any kind of answer for a question like that.

If love could cure all, my brother would be a triathlete right now. But life just isn't that fair.

for once, i'm not talking about me. well sort of

It's no secret that I don't mind talking about myself. But when Jam recently tagged me to tell you eight more things about me, I couldn't come up with much. Well, beyond the fact that some lady on the train had on an almost identical shirt to the one I was wearing. The one with all the beadwork that my cousin had sent me from India. The only difference was color. And she was at my train station, getting on my car and sat down in front of me. Bizarre.

That perplexed me so much that I couldn't come up with anything else for a list.

However, partly to celebrate his gracing us with his presence for a couple of weeks and partly to shut him up for repeatedly telling me my blog sucks because I don't talk about him enough, I'll tell you eight things that have to do with my brother.

1) When we were little, there was a death match nearly every night at dinner about who would get to eat off the cheesy McDonalds plate. I'm talking about screaming, hitting, tears and vows of starvation, all over a stupid plastic plate about how Mayor McCheese was going to get some cold april showers. (It's the one on the bottom right. And no, I have no idea why we only had just the one, or what the hell the appeal was.)

2) This girl, Amy "The Kisser," would smooch my brother every day in kindergarten. But when she started touching him with her tongue, the engagement was off.

3) Every Indian kid has a real name and the pet name for which people will ridicule them for years. At age four, I was in charge of coming up with my brother's and resolutely decided on "Mickey Mouse." Later, because I was so frustrated with his always having to defer to his wishes, I dubbed him "Highness," which became a term of endearment. I've only called him by his real name (and only once in awhile at that) for the last two years, and he's still Highness on my cellphone. However, if anyone else calls him that, I will kick their ass.

4) We watched The Dukes of Hazzard every single summer morning, usually while perched on top of the "car ramp" my brother would build out of the couch cushions.

5) When I went away to college, I forgot to hide the Betamax tape my dad had recorded of Strawberry Shortcake: In Big Apple City off tv in the early '80s. This particular movie was the one tape i secretly treasured beyond belief. Plus it had these badass commercials for Star Wars action figures and the Sit-n-Spin, the toy upon which I built my fame of being fearless at preschool. I must have seen it hundreds of times growing up and sometimes I'd like to put it on when I wanted to forget that I was supposed to be figuring out how to pay for books or what I was going to do with the rest of my life. And, in my parents' house, it was the only videotape earmarked for me. All the rest were designated for the recording of Hindi movie songs or sporting events so my brother could rewatch games he already knew the endings of.

So I was away, and one weekend my mom refused to give him a new videocassette for that Sunday's football match. He couldn't bear to tape over any of his other precious games, so the kid obliterated Strawberry Shortcake and all her fruity friends with some Bears game that they didn't even win. And when I discovered the unforgivable offense, I was beyond irate.

He was sorry, but I didn't realize how much until the Christmas, when I opened my gift from him. This was a big deal, because as a 13-year-old in a pre-Internet household, he managed to figure out what he had destroyed and get an original by using only a telephone and his schmoozing skills. I haven't watched it since that Christmas Day, but I was very touched (I still miss those commercials, though).

6) His obsession with Dave Matthews Band is only eclipsed (as is everything else) by his die-hard devotion to the Chicago Cubs.

7) My brother is notorious for what he says under the influence of surgery-related pain medication. One time after he had come out of an open-heart procedure, his world-renowned surgeon was checking that everything was going according to plan. My brother asked what kind of car the doctor drove and then proceeded to ridicule him beyond belief about his Ford Taurus. The kid has threatened to pulverize men three times his size as well as romance all the ladies in the entire hospital wing (with commentary on varying degrees of hotness to their faces). And I'm sure he has no regrets.

8) He can't grow facial hair to save his life and he barely has any hair on his legs. That last part is particularly annoying.

I have no fear of retribution because he won't see this list until probably next week when they let him out of the hospital. He's having surgery tomorrow morning to move his pacemaker, which they put in his abdomen last summer. Apparently, his body had other ideas all year, as it has refused to completely heal around it all this time. Let's hope it likes the new spot better.

As always, any good vibes are always appreciated. We will be back to our regular programming soon.

i need to hold my hippogriffs

On some of your blogs recently, I've commented about how I stumbled upon the whole Harry Potter phenomenon--basically this law professor that I admired and feared closed a complicated lecture with a p.s. he prefaced with "Now, hear me out." It was a little after the first HP came out and he had been reading it to his kids at bedtime. He confessed that it was the first of their books that he looked forward to opening every night and consistently kept reading after they'd fallen asleep. He said that even though it's a "kids' book," HP is an excellent read for anyone. I was so curious, I went out and bought it right after class. I stayed up all night, didn't do any homework and finished it in nearly one sitting.

Granted, I had the benefit of being the first person outside of that class to get hooked on what would become a billion-dollar franchise. (I'm sure if I hadn't discovered it so early on, the hype would have been an automatic turnoff.) I saw the first movie, but because they left out one of my favorite parts, I've been sour on them ever since. I get it; it's tricky to condense 900 pages into two hours of screentime, and I sure don't envy that job. But I still prefer the books--pacing is at your own discretion and no amount of CGI magic can top your own imagination. Plus, it's well-written (can't say that about a ton of books these days), exciting, unpredictable, and--with the cost of movies today--you get more entertainment for your money.

The last of the series comes out tomorrow, and I plan to be holed up and inhaling it as fast as I can so someone doesn't spoil it for me (last time around, somebody gave away the climax to a whole line of people waiting to buy the book). To refresh my memory, I've been trying to read the two that came before it, but I haven't been doing a very good job. And I think the frenzy of finishing on time is addling my mind.

* This week has been extremely busy at work, with my putting in 15-hour days three times and collapsing in exhaustion as soon as I get home. Last night I actually fell asleep early with the book on my face and didn't even notice for a couple of hours.

* When the train stopped in the city this morning, I was so engrossed I couldn't remember if I retrieve my monthly train/bus/El pass ($140) until I was almost all the way to the bus and didn't see it in the pocket of my bag. I ran all the way back to the tracks and went through 2/3 of the cars searching for it until the conductor announced on the intercom, "You have exactly one more minute, young lady!"

When I got off, defeated that I hadn't found it, he gave me a stern lecture about how I should either keep the ticket on a lanyard around my neck or just hold it in my hand instead of putting it into the little clip on the edge of my seat. He went on to say that I'd made them late getting back to the yard which really pisses off the engineer and these days money is tight for everyone and the chances of it being returned to Lost and Found are slim. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, looked down and me and said he hoped I'd learned my very expensive lesson.

I'm usually very good about holding onto that sucker and I thought I remembered taking it off the clip and putting it into my bag-- especially because the head of the sleeping guy in front of me was lolling dangerously near my ticket and I had to wait for him to shift to get it. Upon further inspection, it actually WAS in my bag, tucked between the pages of my datebook, which is why I didn't see it earlier. I still feel like I had to go to the principal's office for no reason, but at least I didn't waste my money.

* All that drama made me miss my bus, and another one didn't come for forty minutes. After I got on I was so distracted by the book that I didn't realize I should have gotten off until three stops past my office.

* After all the chaos of this past week, today is a slow day at work, and it's going to take all my will power to leave HP in my bag and focus on reports. But I'm sure I'll find a way to justify taking it out to the park for some catching up during lunch.

Despite all that, I still recommend ignoring the hype and giving the books a whirl to those who haven't already. You've gotta admit there's something special about a story that has got kids putting down their PS3s to pay attention. But after today, I probably should add a warning: READING HARRY POTTER MAY PUT A HEX ON YOUR BRAIN.

step 4: get an emmy nod

The Emmy nominations came out today.

what you got in that BAG?

What is up with all the $1,000-plus spending on trendy handbags and shoes these days? Don't get me wrong, I love me some cool mules or a sexy purse as much as the next broad, but DUDE, how are people in my tax bracket affording the latest Coach or Christian Louboutin every few months? Mortgaging their kidneys? Foregoing trips to see grandma? Hiding sugar daddies in their closets?

Take this, for example. Basically, designer Anya Hindmarch is giving the U.K. snootietooties another reason to turn their noses up at disposable plastic grocery bags. But how many people who buy her bags actually get their own groceries in the first place? And you know it's only a matter of time before Americans jump on the bandwagon. Thomas Rogers pointed out, for Salon.com's Broadsheet, that another designer is capitalizing the frenzy and calling them out on it. Now that's what I call wearing your heart on your sleeve.

but it would have been cooler with the song

I'm not going to lie; I had a great childhood. And part of what made it so quacktastic is Duck Tales (you know, along with all the love and nurturing I got from my family). That fine-feathered program was only one of about 68* shows from those carefree days that I look back on with a great deal of fondness. My heart still melts just a little when I remember how I would dream about having enough money to take off my spats and dive into without worrying I'd get a concussion.

Sigh. Those were the days.

I love all my favorite shows from yesteryear in much the same way, and that cheesy sentimentality is probably what makes me a target demographic for Transformers: The Movie 2 (let's not forget about the original 1986 bigscreen adventure, Transformers: The Movie, which was animated). I saw that one and probably all of the original American episodes, too, because back then my brother and I just loved to watch those Autobots wage their BATTLE. to. DESTROY. the EVIL. FORCES. OF... THE DECEPTICONS.

H is a fan, too, so of course we went to see it when he was here, and I liked it. A lot. That has come as a surprise to a shocking number of people, in my opinion. So let me break it down (WARNING: MAY INCLUDE SPOILERS):



GRANTED:

* The girls were dressed like hoochies, which I have been told prepubescent boys (another major target audience) like to look at as well as technogeekery, things blowing up and elaborate car chases. And while I adore that last one myself, the whorified getup on the girls--peroxide/dark roots and stiletto heels ensemble doesn't really scream "government analyst," and skirts that are wider than they are long don't lend a lot of cinematic credibility when it comes to taking apart a carburetor--was irritating. But what do I know? Regardless, what are the young chickadees watching this going to think? You have to dress like a tramp if you want your brains to get noticed? Ugh.

* The CGI work was great. But sometimes, especially during the fight scenes, it was hard to differentiate Autobots from Decepticons.

* The battle scene was a little convoluted and went on too long. I understand that was probably an attempt for reality, but it didn't stop me from dozing off during part of it (I have a reputation to live up to, after all).

* Product placement? I'm not a big fan, but the truth of our Tivo World is that it's here to stay. Hell, it's been here for ages, even if it was subtler before. Besides, anything's gotta be better than seeing Jennifer Garner bark, "Get to the Ford-F150!" in Alias. How credible is a double agent who has the time to say all that when she's chasing a baddie or trying to avoid getting assassinated? Didn't she learn anything from Batman?

* Aside from a stuttering speech to impress the girl, there was no reference to the show's original kickass themesong. It was short, original and catchy, (something that is missing from television of today, but that's a post for another time). I thought they might've even used a little snippet of Gnarles Barkley's "Transformer," but no.

* Some of the main characters weren't even alive when the show came out in 1984.

HOWEVER:

* The girls were the ones who most reliably proved to have enough brains to save the day, and on multiple occasions. Ole girl analyst is the one who spotted the problem (thank God she wasn't reduced to flirting with somebody to get attention), and junior-hoochie proved to be very handy with mechanic stuff and had some impressive backwards-towtruck-driving skills. For reals.

* They had the sense to use the original voice of Optimus Prime. If they hadn't, the movie would have been total crap.

* Bumblebee has always been my favorite, and he still is. Answering questions with song lyrics is classic '60s Herbie-style fun. And I was still chuckling about the scene featuring No Mercy's "Baby Come Back" even as we left the theater. But I do think it's beyond creepy that people can feel comfortable making out on a car hood knowing that the car can comprehend what is happening on top of it.

* It was an improvement on the original. The television series wasn't known for its technology or the strength of its screenplay, and even though this film is a piggyback on something old--which i generally despise--at least it was better in all aspects save for themesong. It's not a corruption of something that was fantastic in its own right and should either be remastered and re-released OR LEFT THE HELL ALONE. I'm looking at you, Alvin and the Chipmunks remake: As cool as he is, Jason Lee is NO Dave Seville!

* I was sad when Optimus Prime died in the The Movie 1, so I'm glad they had a whole new story.

* Even though he's everywhere at once right now (can we say Jude Law in 2004?), Shia LaBeouf was very endearing. My heart went out to him in a very Boy Meets World kind of way. After the movie, H and I caught the tail end of an Even Stevens marathon in which a curly-headed Shia was eating a soggy philly cheesesteak in the ocean with his surfer buddy. Adorable.

Aside from all that, I probably loved the movie most because it took me back to those great days. I was surprised I remembered so much about the characters--even down to Decepticon names like Bonecrusher and Starscream. I wonder if people who never watched the show had any idea what was going on during certain scenes. For me, somehow, watching the robots transform in and out of disguise was comforting in a warm, fuzzy, nostalgic kind of way.

But the experience wasn't complete without going home and watching this on YouTube.




*One night when I was stuck in the dungeon especially late, H and I were e-mailing back and forth about the Scooby-Doo themesong. That discussion turned into a lengthy treatise and compilation of all the significant cartoons we watched as kids. I have searched high and low for the 2006 planner in which I recorded the list, to no avail and my great frustration.

every time i go outside, it rains

"This is turning into an epidemic."

"I'm telling you, write a letter to Mayor Daley..."

"No kidding! Last week there was an eight-percent-visibility monsoon when I was driving to the airport to pick you up, and as soon as you got in the car it was gorgeous the whole time--right up until your plane took off again five days later, when it promptly started drizzling. You really are magical."

"It's probably rained more in one afternoon there than it has all year in Southern California."

"Hmph. Let's see, Monday it was hot and sunny--until I left the office to walk to the bus stop when it rained only until I got onto the bus. Then Tuesday the same thing; as soon as I started shutting down my computer the Heavens decided to unload. That time I made it to a bus shelter, but then the bus didn't come for FIFTY minutes and there was half a foot of water in the street. And then this morning just as I stepped onto the platform to wait for the train, it began to pour! All these people stood out in it with their umbrellas so they could get on the train first, so the poor chumps without umbrellas got soaked waiting behind them while they stopped before getting on to close their umbrellas. All for what? To make that four-foot trek from the awning to the train without getting wet? What are they, made of sugar?!"

"Howcome you don't carry an umbrella?"

"You think I haul around that hugeass bag without an umbrella? I guess I never deem it worthy of opening because I either won't be outside long enough or it's not raining hard enough to make it worth the trouble."

"I didn't think so, but you kept talking about how you were getting dumped on... Have you thought about plastic work clothes?"

And the card attached would say

Now that I work during the DAY! (No it hasn't gotten old yet), I can check out all the cute little city shops that taunted me back when I was on dungeon duty. So to make up for lost time, I leisurely browsed around in Greer, weighing the value of each and every item in the store with my hands, my heart and my wallet.

There are so many clever little things in that store, among them a pack of tiny thank you cards. I thought they were cute, but didn't buy them. And then somebody gave me one.

The 1 7/8" by 2 7/8" card, on a stripedy bedspread.

And on the back:

"Please reuse"

You know how I like to follow directions, so I carefully tucked it away for just the right moment and have sent it along to a very deserving recipient. CC went to Greece and Cyprus and brought back a souvenir that was just perfect for me:

An age-old Hellenic symbol to protect me from haters.

Everybody knows how superstitious I am, especially cc, who researched and explained the how this symbol is used to ward off bad things, from curses to bad-hair days. And, while I haven't decided if I completely believe in that stuff, I do know that I need all the help I can get--especially in the departments of catching trains and matching clothing. Thanks cc, you rock!



Speaking of people who rock, Radioactive Jam says I'm a




How awesome is that?

YOU rock, Jam. You got an honorable mention and you're a boy.



I happen to think Jinius rocks. Recently, she nearly gave up on her blog but decided to give it another shot. Plus she can appreciate the subtleties of Golden Girls and has a near reverence for food. Keep on truckin', Jinius!

while the world plays

I am at the office.

H is in town and currently sailing down the Chicago River on an architectral tour.

I've finished up most of today's to-do already, so I had time to check this out:

Dance Dance Revolution

No, it's not the get-off-your-rump video game, it's about a traveling man and his happy dance.

It made me smile today.

one more for old times--and disco lights

They say that it's hard to keep childhood friends. Something about how you don't really know who you are when you're a kid so you can't make the best decisions about what's going to last you a lifetime. And while that may be true, If you go through enough crap with people--no matter how much they make you want to tie them to a chair and duct tape their mouths closed so you can beat them about the head and explain just how wrong they are--one day you'll wake up and they're part of your family. And everybody knows, no matter what you do, it's not easy to break away from family.

If you search this blog for Ale, or Ri, or Kai/Kaiya, or Highcon/High Contrast or even Chandler, you'll see that I'm still pretty tight with my high school peeps. And it's been a good while, now. In October we went to the ten-year reunion together and some of us have known each other since fifth grade, collecting the rest along the way.

We've been through a lot. There have been unproductive library meetups, school dances, aid to hide those *secret* highschool sweethearts, cross-country moves, inter-university visits, weddings, funerals, graduations, intercontinental moves and long long waits in hospitals. There have been eight-hour tournaments of how-long-can-we-keep-this-tennis-ball-in-the-air and 5 a.m. post-clubbing sing-alongs of '80s television theme songs. There has been puking in the street, screaming at top volume in public and bouts of the silent treatment. There have been long evenings of hanging out followed by long nights of sitting in somebody's driveway, discussing relationships. There have been out-of-state vacations, out-of-country vacations and out-of-mind vacations. There have been three- and four-person telephone marathons. There has been crying on shoulders and lots and lots and lots of listening. And then there was that time we all tried to share one tiny futon mattress in Buffalo. (Everyone sleeping with both their head and their feet hanging off a mattress just so nobody has to be on the floor is not a good idea, trust me.)

The beauty of a longterm closeknit group is that you learn what everyone's weak points are, but that doesn't make those habits irritate you any less. While arguments are never restricted to the two people directly involved, it also means there are more hands to mend fences and more pressure to make nice. And if there's one thing in abundance when that many people are that comfortable with each other, it is opinionated discussion. Plenty of it.

Our nongroup friends, families and even coworkers often hear more than they should about the group--sometimes simply from overhearing phone conversations over the years. That talk gained enough notoriety that someone I worked with suggested our group be featured by a suburban Chicago newspaper as the "real-life local counterparts" to television's Friends in the coverage of the show's series finale. We are nothing like that tv bunch but, then again, in some respects we are exactly like them.

As reporters sometimes do, he doggedly pursued ridiculous angles he wanted for the story: Did any of you have a pet monkey? No. Are any of you neat freaks or actors? Nope. Did any of you marry somebody who turned out to be gay? Uh, definitely not.

The story was cute and very short. (No, you can't find it online.) But to be honest, it would have been a lot better if the reporter wasn't trying so hard to squeeze us into Central Perk stereotypes. He should have focused on the best gems about our group instead. Like how Highcon and I once went toe-to-toe yelling at each other so loudly outside an improv comedy theater--screaming with the force and flying spit of a baseball manager and umpire--that when we paused to take a breath and realized the entire block was staring, Ri, Kai and Chandler thought fast enough to clap as though it was all just a "sketch." We took a bow and smiled even though we were livid. (I believe that fight was about shoes. Don't ask.)

For better or worse, one thing that's always brought us all together is a birthday. We've always done those up with style. Overpriced 30-person meals at some frou-frou restaurant? Sure, sometimes. But we've also thrown a dress-the-part murder mystery; a full-out luau with an island mural, leis and all kinds of tropical food/drinks; a Guy-Smiley This is Your Life gameshow (where are my Sesame Street fans?) complete with a big board and question cards; and a 40-person suburban houseparty with samosas and jell-o shots that somehow migrated to a field beyond somebody's back yard.

Unfortunately as the years went on, free time began to evaporate. People moved away, got longterm partners, were chained to dungeons or became 90-hour-a-week work dorks. These days, hanging out needs to be scheduled a month in advance and getting someone on the phone for a chat is tricky in itself. Gone are the days when you could call somebody up and say, "Hey I'm thinking about going to the movies; meet me in 20 minutes?" Even the annual post-family-11-pm Thanksgiving rendezvous at our favorite latenight diner may not be a tradition much longer. But we'll always have birthdays.

A couple weekends ago, Highcon was in town for his 29th. This was especially nice because he moved to New York last year and few of us have seen him since. We decided to keep the celebration small but loud and took him to a homey Thai restaurant for family-style face stuffing, followed by an evening of entertainment at a nondescript Karaoke place in Korea Town where you can rent a private room and rock out to your heart's content with an audience of only your best pals. And for a guy who--until he went corporate--was notorious for singing into everybody's voicemail at the top of his lungs, Karaoke was right up his alley.

The place was seriously high-tech, with a huge flatscreen tv showing lyrics, TWO microphones, and a songbook in English, Korean and Chinese. The remote control wasn't in English, so that took some getting used to, but soon enough we were all belting out everything from Guns 'N Roses to Shakira. The light-up tambourines, disco lights and free champagne all helped with the so-you-think-you-can-sing ambiance.

At the end of the night, we were hoarse and pooped. It had been just like old times in somebody's car jamming to the radio and singing along at the top of our lungs. Except now it's 12 years later and we can't stay up late anymore. We went out for one last drink, said our bon voyages and talk to you laters and went off in different directions into the night.

It was the best kind of oldschool fun. Who knows when we'll all be in the same place to cut cake and sing with abandon again. Maybe we shouldn't have taken it for granted back when we could.

The birthday boy, serenading the ones who know him best.

different day, sentiment the same

"Did you hear that the power is out in New York?"

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah, Highcon's office is on backup power and they've shut down the subways."

"Ugh, they finally do something right, BUT ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE COUNTRY! I could have used a break from work today."

"Well, maybe you can hope for a brownout or something."

fashion-impaired in the a.m.

One definite downside to this whole working-days concept is that for years, my brain learned to shut itself off between the hours of five and nine in the morning, which is exactly when some key daily decisions need to be made. Mission Critical choices, such as what I'm going to wear.

These days I need to be up at 5:45 a.m. at the latest to make the carpool to get me to the train by 6:45. The express is so packed, I usually have to stand and wobble around in the aisle,walk, then wait at least 20 minutes for the bus before riding to my stop between 7:45 and 8 a.m., from which I walk four blocks to the office. It's a trip with quite a few stops, and a lot of in-the-public facetime.

That's cool with me, because I like the tranquility of getting to the office an hour early and organizing my day. And I don't mind the standing around and watching people. But it also means that people can stand around and watch me, too. So imagine my dismay when, as I stood on the platform waiting for the train and taking note of all the cute clothes my co-commuters wore, I look down at my own ensemble and realize that it's hideous.

I must have been half asleep when I decided the gray herringbone trousers perfectly complement my purple-and-gray patterned silk blouse. Except at 5:30 a.m., the tungsten light of the closet can be deceiving; my shirt is actually brown and purple. So I was people-watched during the train ride, the walk to the bus stop, the wait at the bus stop, the bus ride, the walk to work, all day at work and the reverse home in an outfit that didn't really match.

Of course I exaggerate. The brown is only readily apparent when you're within fifteen feet. But just like in that generic sidewalk footage of "Americans" that nightly news often runs with a voiceover about obesity or heart-attack statistics, there are A LOT of people walking around downtown in Chicago close enough to have noticed how badly I see color in the morning.

But I was fine; I don't know any of those people anyway. I buttoned up the black sweater I keep in the office for chills and kept it on all day, even though it was 91 degrees F today and so humid we were practically swimming around outside. I was even feeling pretty good about it until I caught sight of an old Dungeon colleague on the bus to the train. I gave her a hug and found out she takes the same train to suburbia, so we sat together and caught up on gossip and she told me she's taking classes at the community college to pursue a degree in--wait for it--fashion design. I was mortified. Especially after we had a lengthy discussion about how hard it is to find pants that fit, and how much harder it is to draft patterns that flatter your figure. I am fairly certain she has now deemed me a coordination cretin who puts together not only unmatched ensembles, but ill-fitting ones as well.

Something has to be done about brain dysfunction in the a.m. Perhaps I should have pp come over every weekend and set my clothes out for the week, because getting up earlier is definitely out of the question and I cannot be trusted to dress myself.

cut to the chase, people

Ever notice that when someone opens a conversation with, "Hey, you got a minute?" they don't really care whether you actually have a minute?

like finding out they used a dance double for Flashdance

Hollywood is making an American version of this German movie I've been recommending for months-- Bella Martha or Mostly Martha-- starring Catherine Zeta-Jones, the guy from Thank You for Smoking and the kid from Little Miss Sunshine. And while that's a lovely cast, I liked the original just fine, even if I had to read the dialogue. They're also supposedly making an English version of the French movie I enjoyed-- Le Dîner de cons or The Dinner Game-- to be called Dinner for Schmucks.

I'm sure you've heard this before, but what IS up with all the remakes? Not only are they biting off films from other countries (The Last Kiss, Vanilla Sky, Shall We Dance?), they're remaking some of their own that aren't even that old and were good to begin with (Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Bad News Bears). There's even been talk about remaking Casablanca.

I understand that coming up with creative and appealing ideas all the time is really challenging. There's a reason that people who work in advertising have a surprisingly high rate of heart attack and that the divorce rate for journalists is sky-high. But I'm guessing all those people who move out to L.A. to try and "make it" probably have an idea or two that came to mind on the long bus ride in from Kansas or wherever. How about we give some of them a shot?

Okay, even if we do continue ripping off others, how about giving them a little mainstream credit? I found this list, and while I don't know how credible it is, I was surprised to learn some old-time faves were remakes, some of which I had thought seemed really very American. Twelve Monkeys? The Departed? Three Men and a Baby?!?

I feel a little cheated about that last one.

i can get back to inhaling now

Ri once described my appetite for books not in terms of reading, but "inhaling." It's always been that way, ever since I sounded out the adventures of The Poky Little Puppy for myself. Recently she asked me for a recommendation and I consulted my notebook (I list ones I've heard about and then when I've read them, I give each a two-line review and a grade. Shut up.), only to realize I hadn't read anything new since last October. That's a really long time for me, especially if you consider how many precious commuting hours I've saved by working from home this year. Unfortunately, I've spent most of that extra time on the world's worst hobby: worrying.

Approaching the end of year two on the dungeon contract, it became very clear that I didn't really want to work erratic night hours much longer. What with the fact that I interacted with my boyfriend more than I would have if he lived in my own time zone and my mother breathing down my neck to procreate, it seemed the grandchildren of her dreams just might stay there if I didn't join the land of the living. But I didn't know what I wanted: another great opportunity with night hours or a less interesting gig with a schedule that allowed me to see the sun?

For months I freelanced, working from home and paying out-of-pocket health insurance. I transitioned back to being awake during the day, talked to people in other states and different industries and tried to figure out where I belonged. And all that time I worried. So much that I didn't sleep well, wasn't productive, didn't follow through as thoroughly as I should have. And I rarely did anything fun because I couldn't allow myself to relax.

I went to Miami. Then Detroit. I courted people in New York. I e-mailed companies all over the place and called people who knew people. And suddenly some big-time decisions had to be made. I obsessed. I asked for more time. I obsessed some more. I ran it by my friends and family. Repeatedly. Some told me I'd be stupid if I did one thing. Some said I'd be nuts to go with another. I was paralyzed with indecision.

Right around then, Rolling Stone published its 40th anniversary issue. It was shiny and red and I read it cover to cover. I don't know if the discussion of the turbulent Sixties resonated with my turbulent state of mind, but I couldn't put that thing down. And then, on page 132, I got my answer. In an interview with Rolling Stone's Keith Richards, Kurt Loder asks, Any life lessons you'd like to pass on to that younger generation?

"First off, don't do anything if there's not joy in it, a sense of exhilaration. A day is a day, and each one is going bye-bye, and you've only got so many more in front of you. Friendship is probably one of the most important things in life. Apart from your immediate family, it's about friends -- the ability to make friends, the ability to forgive friends. And their ability to forgive you. It's just the ability to enjoy other people's company, really. Then you've got it all, man. The rest of it's gravy."

Right then I knew I'd have to turn down a wonderful job opportunity because if I had to work odd hours in a strange city where I didn't know anyone, at this point in my life it wouldn't matter how great the gig was. I decided to take my chances in limbo a little longer rather than be stuck and unhappy far away. And it worked out for me: A few days later I got an offer from one of the places I've been freelancing. They created a permanent position for me. Working during the day! Not on weekends! Not on HOLIDAYS, either! And I can take the train, which means no more parking!

I don't have to be able to see cc to know she's reading this and rolling her eyes that I got inspiration from a man who allegedly snorted his father's ashes, but someone who's been rocking as hard and as long as he has must know a thing or two about a thing or two.

Even though it's not a book, I decided that because of its heft, the front-to-back way I tackled it and what it did for me, Rolling Stone's The Fortieth Anniversary deserves an entry in my notebook right under the scathing review of Atonement:

5/07

The Fortieth Anniversary
Rolling Stone

Interview issue; what the greats went through in the Sixties is still relevant. Eye opening.

A

what hurts more than the pain

is knowing that I'm old.

I strained or pulled a muscle in my back this morning. This incident is beyond ridiculous, because it didn't happen climbing trees, roto-tilling, digging holes in the back yard or sleeping in an awkward position. I just leaned over in my office chair and reached for my purse. Now I can barely move and the drugs aren't working.

This does not bode well for my first day at the new gig tomorrow.

difficulty rating of 5/5 on first attempt? it's the cadiz way

"If I can't figure this out, I'm going to die."

"Uh, I did NOT spend all that time and money raising you just to die because you can't do a puzzle.*"

"Money? Since when do parents tally up the money?"

"Cadiz, nobody does anything without expecting a return."

"And that is?"

"To see you grow up and get your life established."

"You mean get some children."

"Mmmhmmm."

*I'm sure I should have made my first try with Sudoku with an easier puzzle. And yes, the fact that the paper said a Seventh Grader completed it in NINE MINUTES has nothing to do with why I tried it.

Okay, not really.

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the juiciest fruit: some hooking required

The cherry tree has worked overtime this year. In the last two decades, we have been able to gather fruit only a handful of times. That is mostly because the tree doubles as a meeting space for the local branch of the squawky bird club, whose members congregate every year at cherry time for a convention of gorging themselves and catching up on gossip. They often clean out the place before we even realize it’s that time of year, and by the time we get out there all that’s left are a bunch of hanging pits.

Fortunately, they must have found a better spot this year, or maybe our “Shut-up-and-get-the-hell-out-of-here” vibes actually worked, because it's quieter and they actually left a decent amount of fruit on the tree. Of course just to spite us, it’s all at the top, tauntingly out of reach. I’m talking 40 feet up and on the flimsy extremities, where even I won't venture for fear of falling with enough force to halve myself on the fence.

Never fear, the Cadiz clan is smarter than those birdbrains. My parents rigged a system with a hooked 13-foot pole, some kind of basket and a ladder, and have been winning friends and influencing people with fruit all week. My mom actually heard the curmudgeon across the street speak and got the teenagers (my how they’ve grown!) in the corner house to stop and chat. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the neighbor next door will bring over a pie as a thank-you for our acrobatic efforts to procure the filling.

Of course, I took some for the road. Ri, Kaiya and I chilled at the Chicago Blues Fest, listening to music and spitting pits at each other. For the record, covering your mouth and making it look like you shot a cherry pit out your nose is still funny, even if you’re turning 30 soon. Or maybe it's especially funny because you’re turning 30 soon. I can’t decide.

It's only a matter of time before the cherry craze is over. It's been a tasty bonding experience, no doubt, but the end will probably be for the best. Sadly, it'll be a long while before I can fully enjoy the taste of artificial cherry flavoring again.

just wait one cherry-picking second

Today I received a message on my cellphone that consisted of something to the effect of:

CADIZ! PICK. UP. YOUR. PHONE. PICK UP YOUR PHONE WHEN WE CALL YOU. PICK IT UP. PICK IT UP! PICK UP YOUR PHONE!

While this person is a close friend whom I love very much, I couldn't help but bristle. Sure, it was the third in a series of unanswered calls about making plans for meeting up tomorrow night, but DUDE

a) While most of those calls were placed, I was in my parents' back yard about 16 feet up in a tree picking cherries with my father
b) I was incapable of hearing the phone
c) Even if i did hear it, I wasn't about to climb down to answer it
d) I had already planned to return the earlier call I missed, you know, when I got down out of the tree and washed the cherry juice off my hands.

This is the type of incident--very similar to situations when I'm in the bathroom taking care of business and hear the phone ring, hear the house phone ring directly afterward, and then hear my cell phone ring again, all within two minutes--when one thing is abundantly clear:

I AM NOT GOING TO ANSWER THE PHONE RIGHT THEN NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU CALL ME.

Back in the day, I was the first to have a cellphone. However, it was one I was not allowed to use outside of emergencies or to inform my mother that I didn't end up in a three-car pileup on I-57 on the way back to college (yet somehow I still forgot and constantly got in big trouble). It was also one that took up almost half of my automobile's glove compartment. In terms of getting a minute-racking cellphone I could use to actually converse with my friends, I was the last to get one of those. And even though I withstood a lot of exasperated pleas to get myself into the new century, making that leap gave me great pause. Because frankly, I do not like to be trackable.

This mentality probably stems from Mickey Mouse Tie giving me a hot-pink pager in high school and demanding to know why it took me 20 minutes to call back when I was in class. His homing tactics went on to include driving three hours to sit outside my college dormitory and interrogate my friends, who feigned ignorance about how I was sneaking into the building through the the back basement laundry room as they spoke. I believe that pager ended up at the bottom of a lake, to be joined by the relationship shortly thereafter.

Maybe this is why I don't risk neck breakage to answer the phone. And often when I get non-message calls, I assume they are shooting-the shit type timefillers and don't always call back. (Btw, I do not buy into the b.s. reason, "you should see 'missed call' and call me back." Also, the house phone is strictly reserved for telemarketers or blood banks seeking donations.) Nope. Today's lesson kids, is: Leave a message and maybe I'll call you back.

If you want some sweet cherries, that is.

The bounty. This, largest mixing bowl has a 13-inch diameter and a 6-inch depth. (sorry a little blurry)

The artsy shot.

catching up with my queue

H has seen a lot of movies. Seriously, a lot. One night when I admitted I hadn’t seen any of the Terminator movies or (at that time) any of the Die Hards or Rockys, either, he seemed to be infected with a touch of cinematic superiority. He’ll deny it, but I could hear it in his voice. However, that was strictly Hollywood. As soon as we compared our numbers to incorporate Bollywood, my cumulative digits became a whole lot more competitive.

When I got a subscription to a mail-in DVD service, I felt like I could finally begin to keep up with everyone else in my demographic. Also, the "magic" mailbox in the lobby of my dungeon office made for a very fast turnaround. Back when I worked those crazy night hours, there were weeks where I'd put away a movie a day. As the statistics below show, I have used Netflix to regain the street cred I missed out on during all those formative years when I was forced to live without cable-- all the movies I'd only heard about. But really, those little red envelopes kept me sane while I couldn't hang out with any friends or family. Here’s the breakdown:

Movies that have come to my house, were seen and returned since December 6, 2004: 184

Movies to which I have awarded five stars (out of five): 20

Movies to which I have awarded 1 star: 12

Movies to which I wish I could have awarded zero or fewer stars: 1 (I'm looking at you, The Puffy Chair)

Sets of DVDS of television shows on this list (at least one season): 5

Movies that were actually released between December 6, 2004 and June 1, 2007 that I watched within that time period via Netflix: 12

Movies I watched not in English: 24

Movies I watched not in color: 16

Movies I watched that were musicals: 21

Movies I watched that were musicals not in English or in color: 6

I would sit there in the dungeon, browsing movies, rating ones I'd seen (currently at 836) and adding interesting recommendations to the queue to be sent to my house. I spent a lot of downtime doing this, which is probably why there are so many. But looking at the list, I felt guilty about having 317. So I vowed to keep it to no more than 3oo and I have culled the queue down to 294 upcoming and six that are saved for when they will be released on DVD.

I gladly work days now, but that means that my free time isn't all mine. Don't get me wrong, I love being able to pick up the phone and talk to people when they are actually awake, but it also means I have to share the remote control and must watch such interesting-but-not-what-I-would-have-chosen treats like a National Geographic's Dangerous World episode on lethal roads. Or cricket. Plus, with my hefty nightly Hindi soap-opera schedule, these days those little envelopes collect quite a bit of dust before I get to them.

But I'm not worried. Watching movies that have been out for a really long time puts distance between myself and the hype and often I've forgotten what I'd heard about them when they came out. Several old movies with twists have been killed by people because they assume everybody's already in the know. Citizen Kane is a fine example, but the worst was Chinatown, which I had to take off the list hoping that in ten years I'll have forgotten what I couldn't help but read on accident. (Putting SPOILER ALERT at the top of a list in small type isn't enough of a warning, Wired Magazine.)

Perhaps one of these days I'll sit down and take off all the movies that aren't readily recognizable to really cut into my list. Actually, probably not. There will have been so much time between when I made the picks and when I get the films that each envelope becomes a lovely surprise-- sort of like flipping through the channels late at night and catching a cool movie I'd only heard about right at the beginning. You know, except without the threat of getting sucked into an infomercial.

by the flickering light of my teevee

I am not ashamed to say that I multitask. I've always done mindless tasks like paint my toenails or arrange my sock drawer while I'm on the phone and I'm sure I would have tried to do my homework while watching Duck Tales after school if my mother would have allowed it. But these days I knit while I watch primetime soap operas.

Unfortunately, I might have to rethink that system. I spent the last couple weeks making a baby-bag jumper (a one-piece hooded suit thing with no feet) for my mom's friend's daughter's baby shower this weekend, and it took considerably more yarn than I estimated along the way.




After the initial two skeins I had to go back for a third and then a fourth. I thought I was in the clear because I got the same brand and color, but I didn't think twice about the little serial number on each one referencing "dye lot." Meaning different batches are dyed at different times, so if you don't get ones within the same batch, the colors don't always match. I'm already disappointed with the colorscheme on this thing--the yarn seemed a whole lot prettier wrapped up in a ball than it does to me in the finished product. But now I have a much bigger problem: Because I didn't check the dye lots (and waited so long between buying different skeins), the left side is slightly darker than the majority of the right side.

I didn't notice until I sewed in the zipper at the very end. What to do? Go to the baby store and get something else to save face? Try to pass it off as a "now-you-know-it's-handmade" quirk? Keep it on my teddy bear (though mintgreen/pink/purple really doesn't suit his coloring and he most certainly won't grow into it). Give it to them anyway because it'll probably get washed until it's all the same shade of faded, which is the purpose after all? My mother says you can't really tell unless you know what you're looking for, but I have a feeling that's because she knows how long it took to complete.

I'd rather have the unbiased opinion of the Internet. Thoughts?

***UPDATE***

My mom told me to shut up and took it to the baby shower. I missed the unwrapping, but was told that everyone passed it around and tried the zipper, flipped around the tassels (added later) and complimented it without even noticing the color difference. Phew!