EIGHTIES HAIRDO IN THE NINETIES

Scalzi's Monday Photo shoot is all about posting pics from the eighties -- I think. Sometimes I read too fast and miss the point. He might have said we were supposed to post eighty pictures. I better check.

Meanwhile, even though this picture is from the nineties, and maybe not eligible, it looks like me in the eighties. No really, it does. How can you tell?  THE BIG FROTHY HAIR. I started wearing my hair natural [curly] right after getting divorced in the seventies. Then I began sliding down the slippery slope into blondness. And big hairness. Not to be confused with hair-i-ness. Back then I had dark roots. Now they're silver. And my hair doesn't curl anymore, it kinks, so I blow it straight.

Meanwhile this nineties photo will have to do until I have time to scan something more authentically eighties. Haaa, I just checked the assignment again and the photo just has to SCREAM 80's, not actually be from the 80's. I think my retro hair does a good job of that.

By the way, in case you're wondering, that's me on the right.

Patrick's Saturday Six and a Fiver

Several years ago I found myself working with a video editor who was legally blind from a chemical accident that happened while he was shooting a film. WTF? I'm all for hiring the handicapped, but this was a little more than I bargained for. I noticed he had a hard time seeing subtle changes in the footage. Ya think? He missed things that make the difference between a good edit and a bad edit. A frame or two here and there. Unfortunately, when I pointed them out, he couldn't see them. Somehow the work got done. But it was painful.

Last week my job took another ironic twist. I was editing footage for a project with another editor who has visual problems. He suffers from retinosa pigmentosa, an incurable disease that causes blindness. On top of that, he is hearing impaired. Needless to say the two most important aspects of editing are hearing and seeing. I'm wondering if either one of these editors has a backup plan for their careers. Because they were sure messing with mine. Speaking of what's left of my future:

1. What is the most difficult aspect of your current job?
 
Doing my hair and make up.

2. What is the easiest aspect of your job?

Doing my hair and makeup.

3. How many keys are there on your keyring right now? Are you able to recall exactly what every key on your keyring actually unlocks?

I have two keys and two key rings. One has my car key.  The other has my house key.  The car key is always nearby. The house key is kept in a secret place.

4. Take this quiz (if you haven't already!): What kind of an elitist are you?

I am a reverse snob. I avoid people who drive Hummers, only drink Grey Goose, and wear lots of bling. But I'll take the test anyway.

5. What is your least favorite ethnic food, and what makes it your least favorite?

Whatever Asians do with puppies is number one on my least favorite ethnic food list. And if you don't know why it's my least favorite, I can't help you.

6. If you were a different person, but were to meet someone identical to who you are and how you behave right now, would you likely be friends with that person? Why or why not?

I like funny people, so I wouldn't mind hanging around  with myself. I make me laugh everyday already.

Here's another FIVE questions I found in my travels:

1. Have you ever "mooned" anyone? Tell us about it.  

No. But I remember the first time I got mooned. First of all, you have to understand when I was told what the art of "mooning" was, I didn't believe it. The concept did not compute, because it sounded so incredibly stupid to me. I was initiated with my first full moon within a week or two of getting to college. At a freshman mixer at some fraternity, I was twisting the night away in the quad when I noticed that EVERYONE was looking up at something. I finally turned around a saw a big hairy butt sticking out of the window of the frat house. The cheeks were so large that they filled the window area in its entirety. The other details have been mercifullylost to history. At that moment, I was no longer a virgin.

2. Did you ever toilet paper someone's house when you were a kid? 

Nope. I grew up PT -- Pre-Teepee. But one of my daughters got teepeed in high school. I was home and saw it all, but didn't call the cops. It was a compliment of sorts. In an obnoxious, immature, very messy way.

A few months later, I pulled aside one of the boys who did it, when the timing was right, and said, "Nice job with the toilet paper."  His eyes got very wide and I smelled fear on his breath, until he saw me smile.

3.  In your town where is the best place to get a really good hamburger?

Boston Blackie's. There are three of them in the Chicago area. One in my town. One in the town where I grew up.  And one in the city. With fresh made cottage fries. Hmmmm, deelish.

4. What is the worse movie you ever saw...and have you ever walked out on a movie cause it was so bad?

I've only walked out of one movie -- Robert Altman's The Wedding. It was supposed to be satire.  It was just stupid.

I couldn't walk out of Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut because I was with a whole bunch of people. To this day, I refuse to watch Clockwork Orange.

5. If you could change your eye color would you and what color would you chose? 

I have hazel eyes with a lot of green in them. They used to be dark brown. Go figure. Maybe in a few years they'll revert to blue. I have no desire to change the color, since they seem to do it all by themselves anyway.

Anybody got any other questions they wanna ask Mrs. Linklater?

Playing the Weekend Game with Scalzi

Weekend Assignment #100: Share 10 facts about yourself -- from the next five years. Imagine what you see happening over the next half decade and then tell us about it, in interesting fact form. You can be serious, or silly, or somewhere inbetween. But give it some real thought and then take a stab at your future facts. If you find 10 facts too much, just do five. Either way it'll be fun.


LET THE FUN BEGIN --
1. The grand opening of my newest Pony Espresso "Drive up for your coffee and drive your craving for caffeine away" is marred by a slight fender bender between one of the old hybrid electric cars and the new hydrogen fuel cell monsters. The vapor trail alone makes me long for an old fashioned SUV.

2. Speaking of which, those retro fitted Hummers are working out great for the rent-a cops who keep an eye on the middle eastern company that's been running our ports since 2006.  Amazing how a top mounted machine gun on those babies can keep out the riff raff. Especially when you never know when those trigger happy dudes might decide to fire. At least my brother has a job now.

3. Pizza Hut delivery guys have finally dropped their suit. The trouble started during the last promotion period when customers were offered "All the toppings you want including the kitchen sink" and there were several complaints of back problems. Apparently they will settle out of court at one of my cousin's massage parlors.

4. Which reminds me -- Camp Pendleton's latest porn site has broken all previous records with its 10 billionth hit. Recruits now have a choice of boot camp or booty camp, which has increased enrollment every year since 2006. The joint chiefs are careful to point out that no gays have been used in the making of this site. I cannot confirm or deny why I know this.

5. Donald Trump's hair has finally been declared an official disaster area. My sister-in-law has been working on the case since law school. But FEMA will no longer be sending help to aid victims of his combover thing, mainly because FEMA is still sending themselves memos about what to wear to meetings in New Orleans.  

6. After 83 tries, The Maury Povich show finally tracked down the father of Sissy Sleazebag's fourth child just in time to start work on DNA testing for her fifth. The whole family is glad that Uncle Ray finally came out of hiding.

7.  Lisa Rinna, who has been confused with me for years, parlayed her appearances on Dancing With The Stars II into a permanent gig at Madame Toussaud's in Hollywood, She has just been re-waxed for the upcoming season of "Dead or Alive?" This latest reality show from Mark Burnett pits real life cadavers against movie stars who just look embalmed.

8. The obesity crisis among American Teens has finally come to an end, along with all the companies that fed them. Coke, Pepsi, Mountain Dew and Yoohoo are just three of the soft drink giants no longer in business. They join Cheetos, Lay's, Jay's, and all the candy bar companies filing for bankruptcy. I have to say drinking milk is starting to get old.

9. Speaking of bankruptcy, Enron's latest ad campaign pretty much says it all -- "We're back!!" Apparently they showed the commercials at my daughter's annual reunion of former Arthur Andersen employees.

10. Bode Miller enters re-hab for real, he says. Maybe the sixth time's the charm. As his mother-in-law I try to be supportive.


Extra Credit: So, who's president in 2011?
Since Hillary shockingly lost to that byotch Condaleeza, I've lost interest. Unless that bill to allow an exception for The Governator finally passes. What is this -- the fourth try?

Olympic Events That Should Have Medals

Best National Anthem: 
Russia -- the grandest and most majestic music of them all, full of emotion and patriotism, rousing enough to wake the czars

Second Best:
Germany -- if you can get past their WWII screw up

Silliest: 
Italy -- it sounds like a song on Barney

Best Uniforms: 
Sorry, US uniforms are not eligible since they are made in Canada

Most Obnoxious Athletes: 
Let's see, uh, hmmm. . .I wonder

Biggest Flameout: 
Tie between Bode Miller who should probably have his own category and the hotdogging babe in the women's snowboard cross. I'd track down her name, but she isn't worth it.  Chad Hedrick is a close third.

Worst Nickname: 
Flying Tomato

Worst Uniforms: 
Any country competing in ice dancing

Worst Interview After Winning a Gold Medal:
Shani Davis doing his gangsta rapper imitation

Most Likely To Make The Box of Wheaties:
Female: The winner of the women's ice skating -- if the US wins
Male: The Flying Tomato or plain old Ted Ligity who quietly won a gold in the alpine combined, unlike some others

Least Likely:
Shani Davis, Chad Hedrick, Bode Miller, Michele Kwan, The Women's Hockey Team, The Men's Hockey Team

Best Up Close and Personal Profile:
Toby Dawson, the Korean orphan adopted by ski instructors in Vail

Most Gratuitous Racial Remark:
Bryant Gumbel -- "[The Olympics] look like a GOP convention"

Worst Winter Olympic Sport:
Curling


Any categories left out?

Something's Wrong with the Ice in Torino

First, no one is setting ANY speed skating records. There have been no new Olympic records or world records. None. Zero.

By contrast, at the 2002 winter Olympics in Park City Utah, every single men's speed skating race set a record -- four worlds and one Olympic.

From the beginning of the speed skating in Italy there has been talk about how slow the ice is. Commentators discussed it often at first, to the point of complaint. Skaters have been way off their personal bests, with few exceptions.

Second, Enrico Fabris, the Italian who recently won the 1500 meters, beating American rivals and archenemies Shani Davis and Chad Hedrick, is setting records for his country: He has three medals so far -- two golds and a bronze, all at these games.

The Italian team has never been as good as the rest of the world at the Olympics. A perusal of past Olympic speed skating records -- back to 1924 -- reveals that there has NEVER been a single medal awarded to Italy in speed skating at the Olympics. Not gold. Not silver. Not bronze.

Is it possible that the Italian success on this slower ice was calculated? The same way that baseball greenskeepers cut the grass longer or shorter. Or make the infield dirt loose and dry or wet and hardpacked depending on the strengths of the hometeam?

Maybe this slower -- softer -- ice is more to their advantage in speed skating. They're used to it for one thing. They've practiced on it. They know how to pace themselves on it.  

In Utah a few months ago there were world records set by the Americans in speedskating. Chad Hedrick holds two of them. Shani Davis has one that I know of. Clearly the ice in Utah was more conducive to faster times. And yes, the Americans were on home turf as it were, which is always an advantage in any sport.

Bottomline, the ice in the US was harder, faster, and better than the ice has been in Torino.

Which raises is a second question about why the Italian ice sucks: Is it melting?

And it's not just speed skating. Five different ice dance teams have suffered ignoble falls. Not little slips, but horrendous catastophes. Commentators were calling it NASCAR on ice. I don't think there have ever been so many terrible drops, slips, and partner tossing moments in the history of the competition.

The ice drags. It's like pulling extra weight. The skates are struggling against it. They aren't gliding on top of it, but sinking into it.  In speed skating, Chad Hedrick was ahead of the Italian for the gold medal in the 1500, but he ran out of gas in the last 100 yards, as did Shani Davis -- because, in my opinion, the ice was fighting them. One could argue that the additional effort threw them off, physically and mentally.

Or, in Hedrick's case, his reputation as the Paris Hilton of skating for his partying, just caught up with him. Bode Miller isn't the only miscreant on the American Olympic team.

The Italian ice dancing pair finished in sixth place last I heard. I also don't recall any Italian team ever doing as well in Olympic competition. Coincidence? I think not.

As someone who has competed in several sports, I know how the surface you play on can affect your game, throwing off your timing, changing your footwork, slowing your speed and reducing your quickness. Especially if you're used to one surface and you suddently have to compete on another.

Maybe the ice is bad because it's been warmer in Torino, as opposed to up in the mountains where the ice for the luge events is very hard. But the lower altitude venues are indoors, in a controlled environment. And a good Zamboni driver should be able to make any ice skate like glass.

What if that's the problem? A bad Zamboni driver?

Wake Up Call

One of the perks of living in the suburbs of Chicago is getting to drive into the city during the morning rush hour. The traffic is perfect for taking pictures of the sunrise, since it's moving at around 5 MPH. The morning above is an example of one of those opportunities that citydwellers miss.  I'm so blessed.

Happy Presidents' Day To You

It's Presidents' Day -- well what's left of it. I've never met a president up close and personal, although I was THIS CLOSE to President Clinton one day at lunch, when he and our beloved Mayor Daley, along with their entourage, sat at a long table near my group.

Mayor Daley made a concerted effort not to look around, for fear of seeing someone who wanted something from him, no doubt. But President Clinton was scanning the room and smiling like a rock star when people like ME swooned like teenaged girls at their first rock concert. I understood immediately why his Secret Service name was Elvis. He was a head taller than the mayor. Goodlooking too. And yep, he's a player. [It's all in the eyes.]

Another brush with presidential-ness happened when I went to a friend's graduation from a fancy Ivy League school in the sixties. The 1960's. There was this kid named Tweed hanging around all the time. He was short, barely five foot five, wore glasses, and looked a lot younger than twenty-one. In any other milieu he would have been a dweeb. Even in that milieu he was a dweeb.

Physically he looked nothing like my friend who was tall and athletic by comparison. He also wasn't graduating, since he'd taken some time off from school and had at least another year before he finished. He was pleasant enough, but didn't have much of a personality, although everybody was very nice to him.

Tweed invited a group of us to his family's cottage on Cape Cod after graduation. It was my first trip to that wonderful place. I still remember the ferry ride, his family's ancient blue touring car we used for driving around, and the spectacular view of the ocean looking out over Gay Head. 

The cottage was loaded with antiques and chintz. Quaint as shit would be an appropriate description. Clearly Tweed's family was Olde Money. That was most obvious in the bathroom where there were rows of family photos to peruse while one was seated on the toilet. I wasn't paying much attention to all the old black and white pictures until I looked a little closer and kept seeing someone who looked an awful lot like Teddy Roosevelt. He had a huge mustache along with that funny park ranger looking hat he used to wear, and he was always surrounded by lots of younger people. It finally dawned on me -- that IS Teddy Roosevelt.

Tweed was his great grandson. Since those college days he has spent his life as a professional relative of a president, as near as I can determine. He took a trip down a wild river in the Amazon or some other alligator infested place, following a map of the same excursion great grandpa made a long time ago.  He wrote about it in the New York Times Magazine. The last thing I found about him was via  Google. Tweed was presented with a posthumous Medal of Honor for his presidential predecessor by President Clinton. Apparently Teddy had quite a ride or two up San Juan Hill in 1898.

Another professional presidental relative I met was a direct descendant of the Harrisons. She used her DNA to get meetings with and work from folks in the White House.  Her real claim to fame was more interesting however. She had huge blue eyes and a cute curly bob. If her hair had been black instead of gray, she would have looked just like Betty Boop. There was a reason for that. Wouldn't you know her mother had been the original inspiration for Betty. The resemblance in her daughter was uncanny.

Aside from a family member who was married briefly to one of Ben Franklin's questionable offspring, I have no familial connections to our Founding Fathers or the Oval Office.

How about you? How close have you been to a president? Or a relative of a president?  And was he or she a professional presidential relative?  I think that should be a new job description.

Ask Mrs. Linklater New Entry

http://askmrslinklater.blogspot.com/

There's a new Ask Mrs. Linklater over at blogspot. And a golden oldie or two you might have missed from early last year. As usual, the comments are funnier than the entry.

Mrs. L decided to eat Ask Margo for lunch today. Margo's column is new at Yahoo.

You'll also notice how capricious the typeface can get over at Mrs. L's other bog. In the midst of everything suddenly the type gets HUGE. And nothing Mrs. Linklater tried [again and again] would get it to revert back to its proper size. Maybe that's just the nature of bogs. Blogs, on the other hand wouldn't do stuff like that.

Crapola. I hate AOL. But Blogger is just as bad, if not worse.

Whose Olympics Are These Anyway?

Am I the only one or do these Olympics seem more like the Yo, Dude, Like, Y'know, Totally, Whatever Games?

Bode Miller flames out. Not once. Not twice. But three times so far. Two to go. And that snowboard cross babe with a lock on a gold medal pulls a hotdog with mustard and falls. Il Divo speedskater Shani Davis refuses to skate in the new team pursuit competition, saving himself for the INDIVIDUAL events and costing the team a chance for a medal. This dude is full of 'tude. His mother is also a piece of work control freak by the way. From what I've read, she makes Joan Crawford seem like Mary Poppins. As for the Flying Tomato snowboard guy -- enough said.

Which brings me to Bryant Gumbel's outrageous comment about the quality of the athletes -- something about the Olympics looking like a GOP convention. In other words, there are no blacks competing to speak of, so how good could the athletes be?  And to think, just a few years ago, Jimmy the Greek lost his network job for saying that blacks were more gifted athletically. Ah the irony.

White people may have a lock on the Winter Olympics for some time to come. Who else would think that competing outdoors in freezing cold and snow was a good idea?

Scalzi's Weekend Assignment

Maybe doing this will jump start my frozen weekend.

Weekend Assignment #99: "What do others think they could do to make a difference? It doesn't have to be life-altering, as the smallest conception can bring the biggest results."

In addition to things one could do, Scalzi also adds in that if we are currently doing things we think make a difference, we can mention those, too.

Okay. Currently I'm doing nothing to give back to my community except shop as hard and as often as I can locally. I did spend several years as a battered women's advocate until the whole feminist philosophy of SHE HAS TO WANT TO DO IT HERSELF just finally pissed me the hell off one too many times and I quit.

Last year, one of my kids sent me a mother's day card that said, "A good mom lets you lick the beaters. . ." on the front. Inside it said, "Great moms turn the mixer off first."

Then she added:  "This card reminded me of being able to lick the beaters after mixing the cookie dough. . ."  I'm pretty sure I turned the beaters off.

It was nice that she remembered those times baking in the kitchen. Making chocolate chip, peanut butter, and oatmeal cookies and licking the beaters and the bowl. Brownie batter was good, too.

For some time I've been trying to think of a way to work with kids without going back to school for a degree in counseling. social work, or yuck, psychology. Not that I don't espouse all that stuff -- I just hate having to remember Jung's first name and anything about Freud for all the tests.

Now that I've reached an age when most women are grandmas, it occurred to me I could do a grandma thing and bake cookies with kids after school.

It wouldn't be babysitting. Housekeepers and sitters wouldn't lose their jobs. It wouldn't be therapy. I'm much better than that. It would be called Cookies and Milk -- a project for kids who were home after school. Or home alone after dinner some evening. When Mom and Dad can't be there.

I would supervise making and baking the cookies. They would supply the milk. They could help as much as they wanted. Or just watch and wait until the cookies were done. I could talk to them while I worked, find out what's making them tick. I could come back every week, every month, or once a year. Whatever worked.

After an hour, they'd get to enjoy a batch of warm cookies and cold milk and we could talk. Or not talk.

The second part of the equation would follow. We would have made a huge quadruple batch, so there would be enough to give away. We'd put them in a box, make a card and the kids and their parents could drop them off at the police station, fire station, park district, old folks home [where I'll be living], or bring them to school to share with their class. The idea is for the kid to hand off the box.

This would work with taciturn teenagers too, who are often left to their own devices after school. Chances of some teen helping bake cookies when he or she would rather be on the computer might be slim, but I've never met a kid of any age who didn't like EATING cookies with a tall glass of milk. To get them out of their rooms, they would only get to eat them while they were warm -- okay they could keep a few, too. Otherwise the cookies would all be donated.

Letting them decide who should get the rest of the batch might be a small step to getting the me me me generation to step out of themselves a bit.

Making cookies is like driving in the car. A lot of good conversation can happen. Sometimes just talking is all a kid needs. Nothing earthshaking has to be solved. It's all about listening. 

Just a thought.

ALSO -- I'd love to dress up as the Tooth Fairy and show up at a kid's house with a new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste plus a crisp dollar bill in exchange for that gnarly tooth that just fell out.

Parents love to read to their kids, but it might also be fun to dress up as Mother Goose -- okay, a bonnet and some glasses -- and come read to little children for a special occasion.

Finally, in the Chicago metro area there are seven or eight million people. Each day there are around two thousand domestic violence calls. Over two hundred thousand a year. In Chicago alone. However, In the entire metro area there are only 500 beds. I think there should be a safe house for every community in the city and each suburb. So a family can have a place to go overnight or for as longas a week or a month to escape from abuse. It would be nice if there were a Habitat for Humanity type project for this. 

Extra Credit: Name someone you know who you admire for making a difference.

There's some woman here who was profiled after Katrina. She is called the Shoe Lady. He organization is called Share Your Soles. She started collecting shoes a few years ago. After her garage got filled with donations and she couldn't stop them from coming in, she moved to a larger building.  Now she's in an enormous warehouse where volunteers take gently used shoes, clean them up and send them where they're needed -- to Africa, to local places hit by disasters, to any spot where shoes can help.

You could do the same with tennis rackets, basketballs, all kinds of sports equipment, too.  Who knows what else.

Okay, today I think I'll drive to Wisconsin for a Powerball ticket to fund all these ideas. After I heat up the car for an hour.

The Temperature

It is seven below zero here. I'm going back to bed. 

How Ta Speak Shecawga

This came in my email this morning. Some of it is new, some not, but it's always a fun read. 

CHICAGO SLANG

1. Grachki (grach'-key): Chicagoese for "garage key" as in, "Yo, Theresa, waja do wit da grachki? Howmy supposta cut da grass if I don't git inta da grach?"

2. Sammich: Chicagoese for sandwich. When made with sausage, it's a sassage sammich; when made with shredded beef, it's an Italian Beef sammich, a local delicacy consisting of piles of spicy meat in a perilously soggy bun.

3. Da: This article is a key part of Chicago speech, as in "Da Bears" or "Da Mare" -- the latter denoting Richard M. Daley, or Richie, as he's often called.

4. Jewels: Not family heirlooms or a tender body region, but a popular name for one of the region's dominant grocery store chains. "I'm goin' to Jewels to pick up some sassage."

5. Field's: Marshall Field, a prominent Chicago department store. Also Carson Pirie Scott, another major department store chain, is simply called "Carson's."

6. Tree: The number between two and four. "We were lucky dat we only got tree inches of snow da udder night."

7. Over by dere: Translates to "over by there," a way of emphasizing a site presumed familiar to the listener. As in, "I got the sassage at Jewels down on Kedzie, over by dere."

8. Kaminski Park: The mispronounced name of the ballpark where the Chicago White Sox (da Sox) play baseball. The new Comiskey Park was recently renamed U.S. Cellular Field (da Cell)

9. Frunchroom: As in, "Get outta da frunchroom wit dose muddy shoes. "It's not the "parlor." It's not the "living room." In the land of the bungalow, it's the "frunchroom," a named derived, linguists believe, from "front room."

10. Use: Not the verb, but the plural pronoun 'you!' "Where use goin'?"

11. Downtown: Anywhere near The Lake, south of The Zoo (Lincoln Park Zoo) and north of Soldier Field.

12. The Lake: Lake Michigan. (What other lake is there?) It's often used by local weathermen, "cooler by The Lake."

14. Braht: Short for Bratwurst. "Gimme a braht wit kraut."

15. Goes: Past or present tense of the verb "say." For example, "Den he goes, 'I like this place'!"

16. Guys: Used when addressing two or more people, regardless of each individual's gender.

17. Pop: A soft drink. Don't say "soda" in this town. "Do ya wanna canna pop?"

18. Sliders: Nickname for hamburgers from White Castle, a popular Midwestern burger chain. "Dose sliders I had last night gave me da runs."

19. Da Taste: The Taste of Chicago Festival, a huge extravaganza in Grant Park featuring samples of Chicagoland cuisine which takes place each year around the Fourth of July holiday.

20. "Jeetyet?": Translates to, "Did you eat yet?"

21. Winter and Construction: Punch line to the joke, "What are the two seasons in Chicago?"

22. Cuppa Too-Tree: is Chicagoese for "a couple, two, three" which really means "a few." For example, "Hey Mike, dere any beerz left in da cooler over by dere?" "Yeh, a cuppa too-tree."

23. 588-2300: Everyone in Chicago knows this commercial jingle and the carpet company you'll get if you call that number -- Empire!

24. Junk Dror: You will usually find the 'junk drawer' in the kitchen filled to the brim with miscellaneous, but very important, junk.

25. Southern Illinois: Anything south of I-80.

26. Expressways: The Interstates in the immediate Chicagoland area are usually known just by their 'name' and not their Interstate number: the Dan Ryan ("da Ryan"), the Stevenson, the Kennedy (da "Kennedy"), the Eisenhower (da "Ike"), and the Edens (just "Edens" but Da Edens" is acceptable).

27. Gym Shoes: The rest of the country may refer to them as sneakers or running shoes but Chicagoans will always call them gym shoes!

Last Year On Valentine's Day

This is an entry from last year.


Valentine's Day was a dream. I had a real dream about my first boyfriend who died of a seizure, after contracting malaria in Africa sometime in 1982. For some reason, I've never ever dreamed about him before. I hadn't given him a single thought even after I wrote about him a few months ago, when I finally tracked down his sister to find out why he died so young.

So I found it not a little mysterious, and certainly very mystical and magical that he chose Valentine's Day to show up in my life again. Part of me will always believe that this was his doing. Not some aberration from my subconscious self.

The most striking thing about his appearance in my dream was that he looked exactly like he did when I first met him on the beach. I was a 14 year old sophomore in high school and and he was an 18 year old sophomore in college.

NOTE: He thought I was older, and proceded to treat me like jailbait when he found out how young I was. However, he did tell my friends at the end of the summer that he was going to marry me when I grew up. Meanwhile, he let me write to him for three years at college, but our very first date was not until my graduation dance from high school.

Now after almost forty years, here he was in my dream, in person, in full color, and as clear to me as if he were standing in front of me right now. I have always regretted that for some reason I didn't have a picture of him to look at all these years. So the details of his face had faded somewhat. But in my dream he was as vivid as yesterday. And his features all came back to me.

His eyes were bright, electric blue; his hair was sun-bleached blond and curly. And his smile was as big and compelling as ever. All things which had faded in my memory like an old photo. So much so that I had almost completely forgotten how blue his eyes had been and how blond his hair was. But now I will remember, because no one has ever been that real to me in a lifetime of dreams.

The best part was when he asked me to dance. What a romantic idea. So he took me in his arms and we danced the rest of dream away. Around and around. Talking and laughing. Never taking our eyes off each other. Until I suddenly realized we were no longer on the ground, but dancing high in the air, floating in the clouds.



So I had a wonderful Valentine's Day. Some very special people remembered me here on the ground.

And so did someone I thought I forgot.

Valentine's Day Pressure Makes Men Do Stupid Things

I think there is too much pressure on guys to make Valentine's Day really special. Women can get by with making his favorite meal and/or providing sex, but guys gotta ratchet things up a bit. Food and sex are just for starters.

I'm as guilty as the next woman of having hopes and expectations. Luckily I once had a boyfriend who asked me what I wanted, instead of trying to surprise me and risk my disappointment. I told him flowers, candy and perfume. I'm nothing if not easy.

I was expecting a single rose, maybe some Russell Stover chocolate cherries and a handful of sample perfumes they give away at the make up counter. Maybe with a card.

He gave me two dozen roses he chose himself -- all different colors. PLUS -- three pounds of Godiva chocolates. Have you ever seen how big that box is? AND a bottle of expensive perfume, not cologne.

Off the top of my head, those are the only Valentine's Day gifts I remember getting from a guy. My evening was usually a variation on food and sex which all kind of blur together with the passage of time. Remembering those gifts just shows how easily I can be dazzled by chocolate, flowers and trinkets.

Wait a minute, I also remember a lovely unsolicited fushia stole I got years ago. I kept it until recently, when I realized that I had never, ever worn it. I had only saved it for sentimental reasons. I don't even know why I had any kind of sentimental attachment to it though, since the guy that gave it to me confessed long ago that he forgot to get me anything for that particular Valentine's Day. His dad had bought the stole to give to someone else and gave it to his son to give to me to bail him out. I saved it anyway.

There was also the gift certificate to a hardware store from another admirer who knew how much I loved browsing the aisles. You can never have too many can openers and measuring spoons.

Unfortunately too many women expect a ring, when her go to guy may not be ready to give her one yet. But there's so much pressure that he caves and asks her to marry him even though he's not feeling like marrying her at that point. 

A few years ago I got a call on Valentine's Day from a couple I knew. They had been dating for four or five years. He had confided to me on more than one occasion that they could never get married because she was too high maintenance. How high maintenance?  He was a successful doctor and he still couldn't afford her.

So I was really surprised to get their phone call. He said they wanted to tell me first about their engagement. I was thrilled for their happiness, but a little voice in my head was saying -- what changed his mind?  Did he win the lottery?

She wore a three carat diamond engagement ring. He gave her a new Jaguar. They bought a new house. Two or three hundred people came to their wedding and reception -- the second nuptials for both of them. A mother of grown children, she wore a white wedding dress, designed to her specifications. Okay, maybe it was off white.

Clearly she was still high maintenance, so she hadn't changed. Maybe he just loved her and that was enough to change his mind about getting married.

Before the wedding, I remember helping a relative of the bride set up a video camera in the choir loft to record the event. This relative was talking about the groom and said, laughing, "How is he going to pay for her upkeep?" 

The marriage lasted eight months. He had cracked under the pressure. The engagement ring was a fake. The Jaguar was leased. Her parents paid for the reception. She didn't want to move into their new house until it was remodeled. So they never moved in.

They received some expensive gifts. Yes, it was a second wedding where gifts are considered inappropriate. However, I was present when they received an ornate sterling silver coffee and tea service that included an enormous tray. Remind me to find out whether the set was ever returned. Or melted down.

The pressure builds and guys do stupid things to keep the lid on.

A couple of years ago a young woman I know was wined and dined by her longterm boyfriend at a very romantic dinner. Engagement was definitely on her mind. Her family's too as I recall. At the end of their candlelight evening, he presented her with a beautiful velvet box that sure looked like a ring box to me when I saw it later. However, when she opened it up there was an adjustable bubble gum ring inside. He thought it was a riot. Did pressure turn him into an idiot? Or was he just an idiot looking for a chance to reveal himself?

I couldn't believe she didn't break up with him then and there. It took another year, but she did, finally.

Maybe because I don't have a significant other, all the bling seems so superficial. Instead, I can look forward to a bunch of hilarious cards from my girlfriends around the country to keep my spirits up so don't hold a wake on my behalf.

From my table for one, though, perhaps I can appreciate other people's relationships better than they can. I know that tomorrow can be a special day or a nightmare. A disappointment if you expect too much and a joy if you appreciate what you have.

Being with someone who makes you laugh is worth so much more than champagne poured in a limo on the way to a concert.

In the end "I love you" scribbled on a napkin is worth more than any diamond.

A handwritten love letter lives forever in your heart.

Mrs. Linklater's Cockamammy Ideas In Bloom

The best part about having a journal of my own is that I have a place to unload some of my kooky ideas. And no one can stop me. That's one of the joys of being a loose cannon -- everyone just gets out of your way.

Listening to the radio a couple of days ago, I heard that eighty-seven per cent of people who get lung cancer are victims of something smoke-related.

I don't know whether that study counted miners and workers who suffer industrial carcinogenic exposure to coal, fiberglas and asbestos or not. But let's say it did.

So where do the remaining thirteen per cent not exposed to smoke or industrial hazards get theirs? Why are the innocent, if you will, hit with the disease for no apparent reason?

Mrs. Linklater's cockamammy coupla thoughts:

Maybe there ARE reasons for the unexplained lung cancer. Causes that aren't as obvious as smoke and chemicals. 

For instance: Radon gas causes lung cancer. Huh?  What's that? That's the silent, odorless radioactive gas that comes up from the ground and seeps into your house. Here's a short tutorial I found:

http://www.radonseal.com/radon-indoor.htm
Radon gas is found in homes all over the U.S.

Radon is an invisible and odorless radioactive gas. Elevated levels of radon have been found in homes all across the country. Any home in any state may have a radon problem: new and old homes, well-sealed and drafty homes, and homes with or without basements. Radon gas gets into all types of buildings, including office buildings and schools.

You and your family receive the greatest radiation dose in your home. That's where you spend most time - 70 to 75 percent, more for small children. The average person receives each year more radiation from radon than from all other natural or man-made sources combined. Over the years, the accumulated radiation exposure may exceed the exposure of uranium miners.

Basically, long enough exposure to high enough concentrations of Radon gas can cause lung cancer. You can get your house checked easily. I got a kit, set it out for awhile, sent it in and tested negative. I think it cost me two dollars.


Which brings me to another reason for lung cancer in non smokers. I've flogged this horse before. SV40 [simian virus 40] is the monkey bug that has contaminated polio vaccine, and who knows what others, since the fifties. About twenty years ago scientists began finding an aggressive lung cancer usually seen in workers exposed to asbestos in non smokers who didn't work with asbestos.

For decades labs have used SV40 to cause cancer tumors in mice. On inspection, ta-da!! SV40 showed up in those nasty lung cancer tumors of non smokers. So the hunt was on for how humans got exposed to SV40 and what other cancers would SV40 cause in people. They tracked SV40 down to contaminated vaccines from the labs. And lung cancer is just one of the cancers that SV40 causes.   

Needless to say, you can Google all this stuff yourself. I'm just the messenger of DOOM.

Mrs. Linklater continues with more cockamammy:
Sometimes when I'm home in the middle of the day and flipping channels to find something on regular tv to watch, I'll stop at Maury Povich, particularly if he's about to announce whether some loser guy is the father of some loser girl's baby. Is there nothing quite as momentous as the reaction of those couples no matter which way it goes?

The other day some biker babe wanted to identify the father of her fraternal twins. Identical twins are from one egg. Fraternal twins come from two different eggs.

In a moment out of Ripley's Believe It Or Not -- after Maury did the build up "When it comes to you, Unemployed Tattooed Loser Guy with Nose Piercings -- " he stopped to build the tension, "You ARE the father of -- ONLY ONE OF THE TWINS!!"

SHOCK!! GASP!!

Somebody else was the father of the other twin. Wow. Maury was flabbergasted. Only in America would something like this be on TV.

Haaaa!! Hey, if it can happen to dogs, it can happen to people, especially to women who pump out multiple eggs at a time.

Maury's incredulous comment was, "Do you know how fast you'd have to have sex with both of these guys for that to happen?" 

Actually, how long that window is open is surely a matter of debate, since there aren't many opportunities to study this phenomenon. But you figure the time frame has got to be long enough for one guy to get his pants back on before the other guy gets his pants off. Assuming it wasn't a threesome. Which, on Maury, you really can't assume.

I'm sure there are women who think that spermatozoa from two or more guys will cancel each other out. It's like those little swimmers fight each other to the death or something and she thinks she won't get pregnant by either one of them let alone both. Betcha.  

The chances of dropping two different eggs is pretty rare, but it probably happens more than we realize.

On the other hand, the chances of having them impregnated by two different guys is astronomical -- mostly because there aren't many women who are so willing and so stupid to provide an opportunity to get spermed unprotected by two guys in a row when the eggs are viable.

Think about it. Eggs can live for a couple of days. If two separate eggs hit the uterus at the same time, apparently there's time for them both to get fertilized by two different people.  She may have had as much as 48 hours to do the deeds. But it was probably within a couple of hours. Or less. Ah the possibilities.

Mostly I'm in awe. Fraternal twins conceived naturally by two different fathers gives new meaning to promiscuity.

Which brings me the long way around to the point of all this:

Women who CAN'T get pregnant. The ones who have test after test and there's NOTHING wrong with them or their husbands, except they can't make a baby no matter what they try -- including in vitro. 

So they adopt and within a year of adopting they're pregnant and have their own baby. Almost all of us know a couple who have been through that experience. The anecdotal evidence is great enough to speculate on the reasons.

Mrs. Linklater's Thought:
I say if a woman is having trouble getting pregnant even though she and hubba bubba are doing it pretty regular, she ought to start hanging out with women who have babies.   

Being around the babies and their mothers is key. Spend a couple of hours with moms and babes three times a week for a few months, maybe even less, will probably get the juices -- whatever those juices may be -- flowing. 

We know that women who work together get on the same menstrual cycle. So maybe there's something that happens to kickstart a women's fertility when she hangs out with women who already have babies. A fertility cycle.

After all, when a childless couple finally adopts, they suddenly have a full time baby in house 24/7 to stimulate whatever it is that starts them making their own babies -- finally.

Something happens pretty quick, since the natural baby is usually born within a year, So it probably only takes about three months for the effect to manifest itself.

Maybe it's a pheromone thing. If there are pheromones that can attract men and women sexually on a subconscious level, maybe there's a pheromone that attracts babies in a similar way.

Mrs. Linklater says READ THIS or Google pheromones and find this stuff yourself:

Pheromones are airborne chemicals which are emitted to attract the opposite sex.

Researchers at the University of Colorado have found that pheromones are detected through the Vemeronasal Organ (VNO) in the nose. The VNO functions as the distinct sensory apparatus that detects pheromones. All people they examined had two small holes on both sides of the hard divider in the nose. The holes are found just inside the opening of the nose. A group of clear cells lies just behind these holes. These cells are similar in appearance to nerve cells . These scientists have concluded these cells are responsible for detecting human sex pheromones. The pheromones then transmit a signal to the hypothalamus in the brain (the brain's center of emotions), sending a chemical message of sexual attraction.

Pheromones are believed to be detected on an instinctual, subconscious level. In other words, you don't know that you're receiving them, but you are.

Okay, everybody wants plenty of sex pheromones, but what if there are baby pheromones too? Any number of women will positively swoon when they tell you how much they love the smell of a baby.There may be something about sniffing the air around those little tykes that throws a switch.   

Unfortunately, many women having trouble conceiving are in the midst of their careers and they're trying to get pregnant while toiling in the baby-free world of business meetings and travel. No baby pheromones to kick start anything. At the same time they may also want to avoid women with babies because they're jealous and don't want to be reminded of the problems they're having.

Mrs. L says embrace the moms and tots instead. Just jump in and slather those baby scents all over you and see what happens.  

I'm on to something I just know it. Meanwhile for those of you who just think I'm ON something, I'll give it a rest for today.

Adjusting to Change

My favorite healthclub closed after twenty-five years. I was there almost every day. I'm not adjusting very well.

What I miss more than the pool, the tennis and racketball courts, the track, the basketball court, the weight room, the sauna, the whirlpool, the restaurant, the volleyball court, the industrial strength showers, the Pilates room, the obscene amount of equipment, the excessive number of those huge plastic balls with the nipples on them, the large TV in the lounge, my friends, and the spinning classes, was the spa.

Despite a pink neon sign which announced its presence in the main area of the club, THE SPA was actually tucked away in a secret place down a hallway, up a private stairway, at the end of a long corridor. I usually just took the shortcut through the women's lockeroom out the back entrance so I could get my hair done, my body massaged, my feet pedicured, my hands manicured, and have unwanted hair removed from my body with hot wax.

The Spa was like a separate community with its own distinctive, perfumy smells, longtime staff and club regulars, including myself. 

Over the years, I noticed as I aged and my body broke down again and again that I began to spend less and less time working up a sweat and more and more time working up a big bill for pampering. So sue me.

When the announcement of the club's demise was sent to all the members and staff, my main concern was where all the people who kept up my superficial appearance would be going. Unfortunately they scattered.

My favorite massage therapist went to work with her chiropractor brother in some distant suburb. Luckily my Russian manicure pedicure and unwanted hair removal lady landed at a new salon not far from me. It just opened so everything is freshly painted and the equipment still has that new car smell. I've already been there a couple of times and I'm making a happy transition to the chatter of women from the former Soviet Republic who all drive big black Mercedes sedans. And those are just the ladies who work there.

Unfortunately, the annoyingly chatty Armenian woman who has been cutting my hair for the past couple of years chose a different place. I used to put up with her incessant talking because it was so convenient to get my hair done after the rest of my body had been re-tooled, since all I had to do was get up and walk across the salon. 

Now that I've been to her new place a couple of times I decided today that I am not going back. In fact, I refuse.

The problem is that I like to call for an appointment, talk to someone who schedules it, show up, have the shampoo person wash my hair, have the stylist blow it dry and be on my way.

Now I have to call my stylist directly and make the appointment with her. Instead of just taking one call to accomplish this task, it takes three. Aside from her accent which makes it hard to understand her, she wants me to schedule time when it's convenient for HER not ME.

The other day I called her to schedule a haircut. After a long discussion we came up with a time that was good for both of us. She immediately called back to say that I could also have a manicure and pedicure too. "You vill luff her, she is fabulous." What's with the hard sell? I reminded her that I still go to my old manicure pedicure person at her new place. Five minutes later she called back again to say I could come in earlier or later if I wanted. I didn't want to.

STOP CALLING ME!!!!

In most salons, the other stylists don't talk to you. People speak in hushed tones, your coat is taken and hung up, a gown appears to cover your clothes, refreshments are offered, magazines are provided. You feel tended to, cared for.

Now, when I show up at my hair stylist's new place of business, I feel like I'm walking into an Armenian cafe. The two men who own the salon both jump up to greet me with a lot of noise and fanfare. I keep waiting for one of them to ask how many are in my party today, hand me a menu and tell me what the specials are.

My talkative stylist begins chattering like Ivana Trump on speed. In fact, today I noticed that she looks and sounds a lot like a shorter version of The Donald's former wife.

All the patrons, men and women, look up to see what all the commotion is about. I do not like to be the center of attention BEFORE hair and makeup, thank you.

Today I realized I also don't like going to a salon that caters to men and women together. I really don't like having my hair washed next to a guy who's having his hair washed at the same time. I also don't like looking in the mirror while my hair is being styled and watching some guy with his sweat pants rolled up to his knees get a pedicure behind me.

Things at Chatty Cathy's Armenian salon are just a little too casual for my taste. She must have sensed something was wrong because she offered me a free mini dermabrasian with her new machine. I've never had one so I said, FREE? Sure.

But I should have changed my mind when she took me to a cramped back room behind some old curtains. There was a table to lie on that was too short for me. I decided to sit instead of lie down, but first she had to move the paper plates, pistachio nuts and remains from an earlier meal off the chair. She left the room and came back with a plastic bag full of creams and lotions which she spilled out on the table. She switched on the machine and began to work on my face, sandblasting it with crystals that had to be removed with a teeny tiny vacuum when she was done.

After wiping my face with a damp handtowel that looked and, even worse, smelled like it had been used to clean the floor at one time, she gave me a perfunctory facial massage, using some of the creams from the bag. But she cut it short when her next client arrived and my hair wasn't styled yet.

For some reason she had the salon's new manicure and pedicure lady sit next to me while my hair was being styled. The owner came over and mentioned that I could have a pedicure and a manicure today and pointedly nodded to the woman sitting next to me. She just sat there like a vulture, doing nothing, looking at me with an obsequious smile. I smiled back politely and said nothing.

COULD YOU PEOPLE GIVE IT A REST?

Then came the straw that broke the camel's back. As I sat with my eyes closed in an attempt to keep her nonstop conversation to a minimum, I realized she wasn't just on autopilot, she had asked me a question. My crazy stylist wondered if I liked sushi. I opened my eyes and said yes, thinking that somebody was ordering out. But she said, "Let's haf lunch -- ve go and have sushi." She wanted to make a lunch DATE? EEEEWWWWW.

Spend time with her outside the salon? Like we're friends?  That tears it. I'm done. Do my hair and get me outa here. A line has been crossed. I thought my substantial tips entitled me to special treatment, not unwanted familiarity.

I left after I insisted on paying for that dreadful mini dermabrasian that left my face feeling like sandpaper until I slathered it with two coats of Nivea. I think I'll be doing my own hair for awhile.

I could use the peace and quiet.

The Bullshit Factor Strikes Marriage/Divorce Statistics

When my kids were growing up and living with their divorced mother, me, I was always aware of a statistic which is still being thrown out by the media as the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It's a fact which, in thirty years, hasn't changed -- that half of all marriages end in divorce. 

That's because each year about two million people get married, while one million get divorced.

So every year when I got my daughters' class lists I expected to see that half the families were divorced. But they never were. [If I were a real social scientist I would go back and check to see if all those families are still together, but I'm grinding another ax with this entry.]

Out of twenty five kids in each class, there were maybe two kids with divorced parents. Often I was the only one. From year to year it never changed. So I wondered if somebody had made a mistake about the divorce numbers.

Then a TV pundit pointed out that while approximately two million people get married every year and approximately one million get divorced, there's a huge number that hasn't been accounted for:

The giant pool of already married people that the newlyweds join.

So when two million people get married each year, they join a crowd of 20,000,000 who are already married.

[Twenty million is just a guess, because I haven't been able to find the actual number of married people in the country. But you get the idea.]

So if, at the end of the year, there are a total of 22,000,000 married people, but only 1,000,000 people are getting divorced, clearly half of all marriages aren't ending in divorce. At the same time, it's probably not just one divorce for every twenty-two marriages. Even though one divorce in twenty-two was closer to what my children's class list looked like.

The problem is that the media interpret the yearly statistics to make it sound like half of all marriages end in divorce EVERY YEAR.

But even that doesn't tell the whole story, because there are new statistics that show that marriages among the college educated are less likely to end in divorce at all, compared to marriages among the not so college educated. And that's just the tip of the statistical iceberg. I stopped reading when my eyes began to glaze over.

You can check out this one site I found and try to make sense out of everything yourself:

http://www.divorcereform.org/stats.html

Mostly, I think there's hope for people getting married. I think my children's generation may be getting married later because of what they perceive as the high number of break ups.

But that may be a statistic which turns out NOT to be true.

Ask Mrs. Linklater Receives Academy Award Nomination

I'm such a liar.

However, the following is really true: There are a couple of new Ask Mrs. Linklater columns over at Mrs. L's Blogspot bog -- hmm that was a typo, but she kind of likes it, considering how much slogging through grime she does over there.

Meanwhile, things are also still pretty primitive at the bog. Mrs. L still doesn't know how to post a photo or create links or other sophisticated techno operations. Maybe it's just as well.

If you travel over there, Mrs. L provides an instant replay from last year and a brand, spanking new column never before seen in the history of mankind. Just for YOU.

CLICK HERE:
http://askmrslinklater.blogspot.com/

Uh-oh, something's wrong with this link. I've checked it and it's correct. But that doesn't stop links from not linking as I've discovered. [IT'S WORKING NOW].

Go over to Other Journals and you'll find a another link to Mrs. Linklater's Blog about the second from the bottom. That one is working.

Sheesh.

Boy that hurt. The actual root canal procedure was a piece of cake next to the pain that set in after the Marcaine wore off.  I thought the nerves had been removed. So why did that tooth hurt so much afterward. As bad as before?

I wonder if it's like phantom pain people get after a limb is amputated. The nerves may be gone, but the pain that your brain remembered is still the same.  EEEEEWWWWWW.

For various reasons I was taking Tylenol instead of Advil.  After a day of pain that makes childbirth feel like shopping, I said, "SCREW THIS!!" And I went for the heavy duty Advil.  I didn't care if my arms fell off, I couldn't take the sensation of someone hammering a nail into my gums anymore.

In ten short minutes the junkyard dog ache barking in my face evaporated in a POOF. Gone. And it hasn't come back. Mainly because I keep medicating myself every eight hours with MORE Advil.

Just in time to meet a friend downtown for lunch. What's good to order when you're only supposed to eat on one side of your mouth?

Face Transplant or Root Canal -- You Be The Judge

That babe in France ain't got nothing on me. She had her face ripped off by her dog when she overdosed on drugs and fell asleep. I feel like I had my face ripped off by a school of piranhas at the endodontist. And I was wide awake.

Endodontist is another word for a dentist who says this is going to hurt you more than it hurts me. He was very soothing in his toothside manner, describing every gory root canal step along the way. In fact, he was so thorough I could probably perform the next one myself. May there never be a next one.

But first, the doc numbed me with enough heavy duty Marcaine to immobolize a large horse. I had warned them in advance, don't skimp on the drugs, please. Kind of like an alcoholic who can slam down a case of beer and not show any signs of losing consciousness.

So much local anesthesia isn't necessary for most people but my body soaks up the regular stuff like a sponge. This not only meant that the endodontist had to give me the extra strong stuff, he had to stop three times to give me even MORE. Because I could still FEEL what he was doing.

The root canal procedure took less time to get in there and take care of business than cleaning my teeth. Faster than you can say my face looked like I had had a stroke, especially when I tried to smile, he was into that aching back tooth of mine, reaming out the three nerve roots, filling them up with something like Play Doh, and pronouncing me ready to go home and take the rest of the day off.

All things considered, it was painless, well except for the painful part, a couple of times during the drilling, when I was absorbing Marcaine faster than he could pump it into me.

This was my first root canal. Before he started the doc said he thought I was about as relaxed as a person who is in an endodontist's chair getting ready to have a root canal can be. I thought so too. I often fall asleep during teeth cleaning, so why not a root canal?  Haaaaaaa.

I was still relaxed even after reading the long list of things that can go wrong during a root canal, which I was required to sign. My favorite was the one that said the instruments can break off and may be left in there.  EWWW.

In their favor, the dentists who do these things have created a whole new set of advanced procedures, a bunch of fancy new drills and other tools, all designed to get things done quickly. Since that's all these guys do all day, the process is rather streamlined. I wish I had a picture of all the stuff that was in my mouth. Retractors, suction, strange things I can't describe.

I was breathing through my mouth, then my nose, then my mouth, with a plastic surgical protective cover that obscured most of my face. I was also given a set of dark glasses so I looked cool from the eyes up.

Now that I'm home and the anesthetic is wearing off, I'm waiting for a pulsing ache to take its place. But, so far, nothing, not even where the needle stuck me at least a dozen or so times. I was in a lot of pain before the procedure. Throbbing from my left ear to my lower right jaw. All my teeth ached until the pain got bad enough to wake me up in the middle of the night when everything localized in that back tooth. 

Anybody got a hernia operation to share? 

So Much Water So Little Fish

I've lived on Lake Michigan all my life. When I was young we used to have water that was so polluted you couldn't see your feet when it was just two feet deep.

We also had alewives dying off by the thousands and stinking up the beaches with their dead carcuses every summer for years. I think coho salmon were introduced to eat them so, finally, you no longer need to shovel dead fish to put down your towel.

Last night after the Super Bowl I was in my car and turned it to a local talkshow station which has a bunch of weekend programs they put on early early or late late -- you know, garden guys, car guys, fix up your house guys, relationship guys, computer guys, and apparently, when I tuned in close to eleven last night -- fish guys. 

For ten non stop minutes, the fish guy read an obituary of sorts about the Great Lakes and the fish that swim in them. But first, in his preamble of death, he announced the impending demise of all Atlantic salmon except those grown in fisheries.  He said they are virtually gone from the ocean and rivers throughout the eastern half of the country.

Then he said that the Great Lakes are clearing up and no longer cloudy, which I thought was a good sign, but, according to the fish guy, it's a bad sign. I guess cloudy can be good and clear can be bad.

Apparently that evil little barnacle pest from Europe, the zebra mussel, has been proliferating like mad in the Great Lakes and eating all the algae in the water that the indigen ous lake trout normally feed on. There are ducks that like to eat zebra mussels, but we don't have enough of them chowing down yet to get them under control.

Meanwhile, lake trout need cloudy water for food and a place to hide. But they are disappearing because the water is clear and there's no more food. Now predators can see them and eat them.

That means that smallmouth bass, which are like sight hounds and very aggressive, are having a field day. They like clear water, so they're breeding like rabbits and overtaking the trout population.

The gangbanger bass are also eating all the little smelt, so that there are virtually no more smelt runs like we had in the past -- a family affair at the southern end of the lake in the spring or fall. I honestly don't remember when they were running, since I don't go out at night to catch things with scales.

I do remember that you could see lots of people out at night along the beaches and breakfronts for miles along Lake Shore Drive. Whole families set up their nets and carried flashlights to shine out on the water and attract the silvery little fish. Those days are pretty much a thing of the past.

Then the fish guy warned those of us still listening about the impending arrival of a real monster of the deep -- the big head Asian carp. The name alone should be enough to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who likes to swim or boat on the lakes.

Apparently this is a monster fish that is attracted to noise. So it likes to swim up to boats and close to the beaches. They are big enough to knock you down and sit on you until you drown. Or something. Apparently the Asian carp is so big they have tales of ninety pounders jumping into boats and knocking people into the water. Whether they can drive the boats away has not been confirmed.

The fish guy said it was only a matter of time before the Asian carp gets to the Great Lakes. It's already been seen in the Mississippi River. There are some electrified locks or something in the rivers that feed into the lakes which can help keep the carp out, but it costs $250,000 to turn on the juice. The government decided not to fund this year's jolt, so I guess we're doomed. 

I love listening to late night talk radio; you can learn so much in a fifteen minute ride home.

Who's Your Driver?

It's hard to believe sometimes, but cabdrivers have to have a chauffeur's license to run through all those lights, cut people off, and weave in and out of traffic. Despite the perils, I usually call our local suburban cab company to take me to the airport, ever since they started offering a really cheap rate. To feel safer, I just put on my Princess Diana memorial seatbelt for people sitting in the backseat, and close my eyes for the fifteen minute ride.

Before the lower airport cab ride prices, I always took a limo because there wasn't much difference in the cost, maybe one or two dollars. Now it's almost ten dollars.

That's a big difference for such a short ride.

On the other hand, the difference between riding in a swank and roomy limo and a-neither-one-of-those cab is also considerable. You don't see many cabs with a free newspaper, crystal decanters with matching glasses or wood paneling. Also the limo drivers all speak English, know where they are going, and drive impeccably.

The difference in the quality of driving is what is starting to bug me.

My last trip to the airport was pretty harrowing. The cabbie drove right in front of another car and never noticed the guy honking his horn at him. He also drove in the left lane on the highway right at the speed limit, with little regard for the lane markers, often getting pretty close to people trying to pass him on the right as they were flying by at seventy mph.

Yesterday I left my car with my Korean mechanic who bows when he presents me with his bill. I'm a sucker for people who bow. But he didn't have anyone who could pick me up when the car was ready.

That meant I needed to call a cab. So I called the company that's been driving me to the airport these days. Mainly because they're the only cab in town.

The foreign driver had to call my cell phone because he got lost driving the eight blocks from the cab stand at the train station to my house. I guess the straight line confused him. Somehow we managed to communicate even though he barely spoke English.

On the short ride back to the car place he managed to run two stop signs and drive in a manner that can only be described as casual, settling into the middle of the road unless there was traffic coming directly at him.

He then stopped in the center of the street at my destination. I opened the door and I was about ten feet from the curb. I asked him why we were stopped there and he told me that's where I could get out. Nope.

I made him drive into the driveway of the lot so that I didn't get hit by oncoming traffic, which had to stop anyway because the cab had been blocking everyone coming from either direction.

After noting the cab number, I called the police to ask what they did to check whether or not a cabdriver has the proper driver's license. They do keep a record. But it was after hours so I have to call back next week to confirm.

The dispatcher laughed and said I would be surprised at how bad some of the drivers are who get a chauffeur's license. Our former governor is on trial because of incompetent truck drivers bribing people to get their licenses. So the cat's out of the bag.

Same with checking things out at the cab company. I can only complain between eight and four.

I'm going to do two things the next time I am not happy with a ride. Aside from not tipping, I think I might ask the driver to take me to a different address -- the police station, since isn't that far from my house. I'll have the driver wait while I go in and get a police officer to come out and check his driver's license.

Or I may just ask the cab company when I call for a ride to confirm the name of the driver and that he has his chauffeur's license. Before he picks me up.

There are no female cabdrivers where I live by the way.

The real problem is that in my suburban area a driver doesn't have to have his name and picture posted in the cab like they do in the city. There's nothing except the cab number to go by, which means any mope could be driving.

I'm starting to think that they're all driving me.

Antonio Davis' Wife Charged with Coffee Tossing Rage

Basketball fans may remember Kendra Davis, the wife of Antonio Davis, the former Raptors' and Bulls' player now with the Knicks. He got a five game suspension, a slap on the wrist according to some, for running into the stands to protect Kendra from a fan during a Bulls' game.

At least he said he ran up there to protect HER.

Well, Kendra just got charged with a road rage traffic altercation yesterday outside Chicago. Last fall, it is alleged, she ran a stop sign and during the ensuing "discussion" about the incident, she threw a cup of hot coffee through the driver's side window of the other woman's car. 

Kendra claims the woman made a racist remark.

The woman didn't decide to report Kendra until she watched what went down between Mrs. Davis and a fan at the Bulls' game a few weeks ago.

Apparently an arrest warrant went out for Mrs. Davis yesterday when she couldn't be bothered to turn herself in.

AND IT GETS BETTER!!!

Ten years ago there was an $8000 judgment against  Kendra for something else traffic related. She neglected to pay it, so for the past few years she has been driving on a suspended license. They got her for that now, too.

In a comment forum following the recent Bulls' incident, a Raptors' fan claimed that Mrs. Davis sat behind him in the stands berating players of the opposing team for most of the game, when Antonio played in Toronto. Her behavior was so bad that her husband turned around and mouthed something to the effect of, "SHUT THE HECK UP" as she continued to heckle the players from her seat when one was about to make a free throw.

That's why when the Bulls' incident went down, there is a real possibility that Antonio may have been climbing into the stands to protect the fan from Kendra.

Stay tuned for more reports from The Bitch Patrol.

Mrs. Linklater's Twelve Step Program for Oil-a-holics

Mrs. Linklater is here to help. Ever since our president said the country was addicted to oil, she has wanted to do something to show each and every one of us how to deal with this national affliction. She considered several self help programs before realizing that the secret to conquering this problem is by taking Zoloft and blaming everything on genetics. Or you can try Mrs. Linklater's Twelve Step Plan. 

STEP ONE:  DRIVE YOUR SUV TO THE EDGE OF A CLIFF.

STEP TWO:  STEP AWAY FROM THE CAR.

STEP THREE:  TRY TO PUSH THE SUV OVER THE CLIFF.

STEP FOUR: WAIT A MINUTE -- GO BACK AND PUT IT IN NEUTRAL.

STEP FIVE: NOW PUSH THE SUV OVER THE CLIFF.

STEP SIX;  OKAY, THIS ISN'T WORKING. CALL SOME OF YOUR FRIENDS TO HELP YOU, BECAUSE THE SUV IS TOO BIG AND HEAVY FOR ONE PERSON TO SHOVE OVER THE EDGE.

STEP SEVEN: KILL TIME WAITING FOR YOUR FRIENDS TO COME HELP YOU BY PULLING BACK THE SEATS AND LOOKING AROUND FOR CHANGE.

STEP EIGHT: TAKE THE QUARTERS DIMES AND PENNIES YOU FIND AND PUT THEM IN THE CUPHOLDER FOR THE NEXT TIME YOU'RE ON THE TOLLROAD.

STEP NINE: HOLD ON -- YOU'RE GOING TO BE SENDING THE SUV OVER THE CLIFF, SO KEEP THE CHANGE FOR A WHOPPER WITH CHEESE ON THE WAY HOME.

STEP TEN: TURN ON THE RADIO. MIGHT AS WELL USE UP THE BATTERY WHILE YOU'RE WAITING FOR YOUR FRIENDS TO GET THERE.

STEP ELEVEN: CRANK THOSE TUNES REAL LOUD -- SING ALONG BADLY AND FAIL TO NOTICE THE ARRIVAL OF YOUR FRIENDS BECAUSE YOU HAVE BLACKED OUT WINDOWS.

STEP TWELVE;  FEEL THE SUV START TO MOVE AS YOUR FRIENDS USE THE BUMPER OF THEIR CAR TO PUSH IT OVER THE CLIFF THINKING YOU'VE GONE HOME BECAUSE THEY CAN'T SEE YOU INSIDE THE SUV.