A cop got killed on a firing range yesterday. The news reported that the officer who died had "bumped" into another officer on the range. [Don't they have partitions?] Apparently the "bumped" officer's gun discharged as he fell down on the ground.
And I'm the Easter Bunny.
On a travel show this morning, I learned that indigenous tribes in places like the Amazon are giving tourists a taste of their primitive civilizations in an attempt to raise money so they don't become extinct. Yes, you can pay money to watch them perform native dances, paint their faces with native plants, and here's the best part -- you get a chance to eat their native food. One particular drink caught my attention. It is made from the root of the yucca and mixed with "human spittle." I actually screamed "NO" out loud as I watched some soccer mom take a big swallow. Hmmm deelish.
Steve Fosset is still missing. After calling a halt to the search, they've resumed their efforts since getting some new clues -- thanks to radar, satellite imaging, and money to gas up four thousand more search planes. They've actually found a number of other missing wrecks, just not his. I wish I could muster up more sympathy, but I can't. He didn't file a flight plan. Even worse he didn't carry any kind of GPS tracking equipment on his person or the plane. Meanwhile, a woman was just rescued after a week of lying in her wrecked car. They found her by tracing her cell phone signal. Wait a minute. They couldn't have tracked the signal a little faster? I guess if a spouse reports a husband or wife missing, he or she has to pass a lie detector test and have the house searched for a body before law enforcement will initiate a search these days. Somebody's been reading too many Scott Peterson books.
Notre Dame is now 0 for the season. Worst ever start, plus one. They have the most recruited player in the country at quarterback. Too bad he had to step in as a freshman. I can't wait to see how this plays out for Coach Weis. If he were Ty Willingham, he'd be gone by now. Some ND alum should be made to eat the rest of Weis' eleven year contract for insisting that the university give it to him in the first place. Oh, sorry, alums don't run football programs. . .
Rex Grossman finally got benched. Everybody has talked about how much better Brian Griese looked way back during the pre-season. Well, I talked about it. Every time he came into a game something good happened. Someone else pointed out that the Bears have had thirty something quarterbacks while Bret Favre has been at Green Bay. It helps to have perspective.
Oh yeah, the Cubs have won the central division. Everybody talks about how weak the division is. Like the Mets don't look weak these days. May I remind people that the Cardinals won the World Series last year with the worst record in baseball. Maybe the central division isn't weak, it's just more competitive. Anybody buying this? Meanwhile you can stick a fork in my White Sox.
This just in -- University City High School in Missouri elected a boy as their homecoming queen. Is this a great country or what? Yesterday I was at the 95th football game between my old high school and its biggest rival. We won 49 to zip. You'd never know their team leads the rivalry fifty something to thirty something with four ties. It was also their homecoming game. From across the field I could have sworn that one of the girls nominated for queen was a guy. She was as tall as the guys, had an androgynous hair style, and she was wearing a t-shirt with warm up pants. After they announced her as this year's queen, she ran over and jumped on the homecoming king like bachelorette Trista did when she married Ryan. That was girly enough for me and I felt an enormous sense of relief for some reason.
Time to get something to eat. And check out the house that burned in the light of day.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
No Medication Please
I have a teeny weeny bit of OCD. I have been known to get into my car, close the door, fasten my seat belt and start the engine, only to shut off the engine, unfasten my belt, and go back into the house to make sure I've turned off the stove, unplugged the iron, shut off the faucet, locked the door, etc. I have even driven several blocks and returned home on more than a few occasions. However, unlike regular OCD folks, I don't tend to rinse and repeat the process.
Today I left at 10 AM to go to a tailgate party before a football game. While I was getting ready, I had turned on my curling iron to straighten my hair, but I finally decided not to bother, since my hair was going to be out in the sun and the wind all day anyway. So I turned off my curling iron. I remember watching the red light go out. I even set the iron on something non flammable and checked it to be sure that it was cooling off.
That didn't matter of course. When I got to the party I began to obsess a little bit about whether I had really turned the thing off. I reassured myself that I had. Are you sure? Yes. Really. Shut up. Not wanting to go home, I called my insurance company's 800 number to make sure my insurance was up to date, just in case. If I had been only five blocks away I would have left the party and gone back home to be sure the curling iron was off. Even though I was already sure.
But there I was, a good five miles away, and I didn't want to miss having brats and sauerkraut. Or being late to the game. In my case, food and fun tend to get in the way of going back to double check and re double check for danger.
After the ball game I even went out to dinner. By the time I was finally heading home, it was after seven in the evening. I was no longer worried about the curling iron. My house was either standing or not.
That is why I had a moment of panic as I was coming down the road that leads to my street. From several blocks away, I saw flashing lights up ahead. Then I began to see emergency vehicles in the road. In fact, they were blocking part of the entrance to my street. And there were three big pumpers idling very close to my house.
Even better, I smelled smoke as I turned the corner to negotiate my way past the multiple firetrucks, emergency personnel, and yellow tape. Since it was getting dark, I wasn't sure my house was there until I actually got to my driveway. Wasthis just a wellness check disguised as a fire?
Nope, it was a real fire, only not at my house, thankfully. It was at the house where there are always lots of little boys playing outside. I can't wait to hear that one of them was playing with matches. Or building rockets in the basement.
No curling irons I'm sure. I checked. Mine was off.
Today I left at 10 AM to go to a tailgate party before a football game. While I was getting ready, I had turned on my curling iron to straighten my hair, but I finally decided not to bother, since my hair was going to be out in the sun and the wind all day anyway. So I turned off my curling iron. I remember watching the red light go out. I even set the iron on something non flammable and checked it to be sure that it was cooling off.
That didn't matter of course. When I got to the party I began to obsess a little bit about whether I had really turned the thing off. I reassured myself that I had. Are you sure? Yes. Really. Shut up. Not wanting to go home, I called my insurance company's 800 number to make sure my insurance was up to date, just in case. If I had been only five blocks away I would have left the party and gone back home to be sure the curling iron was off. Even though I was already sure.
But there I was, a good five miles away, and I didn't want to miss having brats and sauerkraut. Or being late to the game. In my case, food and fun tend to get in the way of going back to double check and re double check for danger.
After the ball game I even went out to dinner. By the time I was finally heading home, it was after seven in the evening. I was no longer worried about the curling iron. My house was either standing or not.
That is why I had a moment of panic as I was coming down the road that leads to my street. From several blocks away, I saw flashing lights up ahead. Then I began to see emergency vehicles in the road. In fact, they were blocking part of the entrance to my street. And there were three big pumpers idling very close to my house.
Even better, I smelled smoke as I turned the corner to negotiate my way past the multiple firetrucks, emergency personnel, and yellow tape. Since it was getting dark, I wasn't sure my house was there until I actually got to my driveway. Wasthis just a wellness check disguised as a fire?
Nope, it was a real fire, only not at my house, thankfully. It was at the house where there are always lots of little boys playing outside. I can't wait to hear that one of them was playing with matches. Or building rockets in the basement.
No curling irons I'm sure. I checked. Mine was off.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
September 21st is the First Day of Fall. Or Else.
As I recall from my childhood, September 21st was the beginning of fall. Year after year, in an unbroken chain, September 21st was opening day for leaf burning season. Until that whole sensitivity to quality of air initiative kicked in. Now it's the beginning of Halloween.
When September 21st was the first day of fall, there was an order to things. The 21st of March was the start of spring. June 21st was the start of summer. And December 21st was the first day of winter. Every three months there was an acknowledgment of a new season. Always on the 21st. For those who preferred a more elegant transition, the moment was designated as a solstice among the cognoscenti. And people who practiced witchcraft. Or hung with the Druids at Stone Henge.
So what the heck is the beginning of fall, or if you're British, autumn, doing on Sunday the 23rd? That's two days late. Not that it matters to the weather around here. For instance, neither March 21st, 22nd or 23rd bears any resemblance to things that are springlike, if you're into birds chirping and outdoor growths that look like flowers. Around here we have snow in April.
On the other hand, by June 21st we've usually been suffering from the hot humidities for weeks. Same with September 21st. We may have the threat of cool weather for a moment or two after Labor Day, but usually it's like now -- close to ninety degrees. Actually, if we divvied up the change of seasons to reflect them more accurately, Winter would start on November 21st and end in May. Spring would start May 21st and last until May 22nd.
But I'm more concerned with what seems to be this recent trend of moving what I thought was an immovable date. I recall that the 22nd has been invoked in recent years, but I chalked that up to the inexperience and youth of our whipper snapper local weather people.
Now I realize that something more insidious must be taking place. I don't care if astronomers have decided to make a correction to accommodate the earth's rotation. Leave the 21st alone. It was good enough for my childhood; it should be good enough for a few more generations.
Change sucks.
When September 21st was the first day of fall, there was an order to things. The 21st of March was the start of spring. June 21st was the start of summer. And December 21st was the first day of winter. Every three months there was an acknowledgment of a new season. Always on the 21st. For those who preferred a more elegant transition, the moment was designated as a solstice among the cognoscenti. And people who practiced witchcraft. Or hung with the Druids at Stone Henge.
So what the heck is the beginning of fall, or if you're British, autumn, doing on Sunday the 23rd? That's two days late. Not that it matters to the weather around here. For instance, neither March 21st, 22nd or 23rd bears any resemblance to things that are springlike, if you're into birds chirping and outdoor growths that look like flowers. Around here we have snow in April.
On the other hand, by June 21st we've usually been suffering from the hot humidities for weeks. Same with September 21st. We may have the threat of cool weather for a moment or two after Labor Day, but usually it's like now -- close to ninety degrees. Actually, if we divvied up the change of seasons to reflect them more accurately, Winter would start on November 21st and end in May. Spring would start May 21st and last until May 22nd.
But I'm more concerned with what seems to be this recent trend of moving what I thought was an immovable date. I recall that the 22nd has been invoked in recent years, but I chalked that up to the inexperience and youth of our whipper snapper local weather people.
Now I realize that something more insidious must be taking place. I don't care if astronomers have decided to make a correction to accommodate the earth's rotation. Leave the 21st alone. It was good enough for my childhood; it should be good enough for a few more generations.
Change sucks.
Banks Make Change
Bank of America is about to wrap its evil tentacles around the financial institution where I store my five dimes and four nickels. This is not unlike the phenomenon that occurs in hospitals around July. Bascially, things can go wrong. July is when freshly minted doctors, newly hatched from diagnosing tumors in rats, become certified as medical geniuses who can mess with real people. That means they now have permission to make life and death decisions about your health and charge you large sums of money. Coincidentally, and this may just be rumor, the hospital mortality rate in July suddenly rises across the country.
Same thing when one company takes over another. There is bound to be collateral damage during the shakedown cruise. Since I'm dealing with a lame duck bank right now I've been wondering when it would start.
Recently I ran out of checks. I also wanted to change my address to my post office box. And use my initials instead of my full name. So I made the extra effort to go to the bank with my requests, along with the little form provided in your checks when you're getting down to the nub.
I talked to a very nice woman who made sure I filled out everything properly. Then I received two follow up calls from two different people to make sure my order was exactly as I asked. The one thing the bank people all had in common was a foreign accent. Russian, Bosnian, Chinese, Latin American, Somalian, take your pick. Not that foreign accents can't be charming, but dealing with people who speak English as their second language does not bode well for good communication in financial transactions.
About two weeks ago I got a phone call from a different person with a foreign accent, "Please call Ms. So and So at your lame duck bank, we have 'something' for you." Even though I didn't remember the name of the woman, my branch is small, so I figured someone could tell me what that 'something' was. I was on pins and needles. I gave my name and I was told that there was nothing there for me. "But I was told there was 'something'." No there isn't. "So why did you call me then?" The person (did I mention her foreign accent?) had no idea.
Yesterday, many days later, I called again, because my checks still hadn't arrived at my PO Box. I was told by another person with a foreign accent that the checks had not only been at the bank since early in the month but they had already called to tell me. "Yes, but when I called back somebody said there wasn't anything there for me. Besides, why didn't you call me again?"
Naturally, when I made a special trip to come in to get the checks, they were not what I ordered anyway. The color was wrong. What is it about GREEN that you didn't understand? The size was wrong. I want the EXACT SAME SIZE I had before. Apparently the bank had changed check making companies. They could have suggested that I come in and completely re-do my order. But no, they thought they knew best.
However, the incorrect checks were nothing compared to what happened when I went to get some temporary checks to tide me over.
The lady in line next to me was ranting and raving. After leaving the bank she discovered she'd been shortchanged by the teller. A teller who had a foreign accent by the way. For some reason her story was believable enough that the teller gave her the money she claimed she didn't receive. I'd never seen that before. In the past, only an act of God could move a bank to acknowledge that you even existed, once you'd left the premises. Step away from the window and you're SOL.
That got me thinking about banks making mistakes. In the old days when people could do math with a pencil and paper, banks never seemed to screw up. With computers came errors. Little ones at first. A bank I formerly used had made a one penny mistake in my favor. That was when balancing my account each month was my religion. I was so proud of myself I couldn't wait to tell them. They couldn't have been less impressed. Then I noticed that their mistakes became a matter of policy. It was as if they were daring you to catch them siphoning off your pennies and nickels. I finally switched banks when I got charged twice for the same ATM withdrawal. Now I hear that's business as usual.
The only people who've ever shortchanged me work as cashiers in the parking facility at O'Hare airport, a job description where you might expect "mistakes" to take place. I have since learned not to pay with a one hundred dollar bill. Even though the cash register tells them how much change to give me, they can't seem to count it out right. Hmmm.
But the lady next to me who got shortchanged by the bank wasn't the only one with a problem. The guy behind her had had his money deposited into the wrong account. He got home, checked his receipt and came running back. Next to his meltdown, the shortchanged lady was quite serene. Screwed up checks, shortchanged customers, money deposited into the wrong account. Foreign accents. Uh-oh, is that brown stuff I see about to hit the fan?
Or am I just not adjusting very well to the exponential speed of change?
Meanwhile, how do I know that the six hundred incorrect checks have been destroyed?
Same thing when one company takes over another. There is bound to be collateral damage during the shakedown cruise. Since I'm dealing with a lame duck bank right now I've been wondering when it would start.
Recently I ran out of checks. I also wanted to change my address to my post office box. And use my initials instead of my full name. So I made the extra effort to go to the bank with my requests, along with the little form provided in your checks when you're getting down to the nub.
I talked to a very nice woman who made sure I filled out everything properly. Then I received two follow up calls from two different people to make sure my order was exactly as I asked. The one thing the bank people all had in common was a foreign accent. Russian, Bosnian, Chinese, Latin American, Somalian, take your pick. Not that foreign accents can't be charming, but dealing with people who speak English as their second language does not bode well for good communication in financial transactions.
About two weeks ago I got a phone call from a different person with a foreign accent, "Please call Ms. So and So at your lame duck bank, we have 'something' for you." Even though I didn't remember the name of the woman, my branch is small, so I figured someone could tell me what that 'something' was. I was on pins and needles. I gave my name and I was told that there was nothing there for me. "But I was told there was 'something'." No there isn't. "So why did you call me then?" The person (did I mention her foreign accent?) had no idea.
Yesterday, many days later, I called again, because my checks still hadn't arrived at my PO Box. I was told by another person with a foreign accent that the checks had not only been at the bank since early in the month but they had already called to tell me. "Yes, but when I called back somebody said there wasn't anything there for me. Besides, why didn't you call me again?"
Naturally, when I made a special trip to come in to get the checks, they were not what I ordered anyway. The color was wrong. What is it about GREEN that you didn't understand? The size was wrong. I want the EXACT SAME SIZE I had before. Apparently the bank had changed check making companies. They could have suggested that I come in and completely re-do my order. But no, they thought they knew best.
However, the incorrect checks were nothing compared to what happened when I went to get some temporary checks to tide me over.
The lady in line next to me was ranting and raving. After leaving the bank she discovered she'd been shortchanged by the teller. A teller who had a foreign accent by the way. For some reason her story was believable enough that the teller gave her the money she claimed she didn't receive. I'd never seen that before. In the past, only an act of God could move a bank to acknowledge that you even existed, once you'd left the premises. Step away from the window and you're SOL.
That got me thinking about banks making mistakes. In the old days when people could do math with a pencil and paper, banks never seemed to screw up. With computers came errors. Little ones at first. A bank I formerly used had made a one penny mistake in my favor. That was when balancing my account each month was my religion. I was so proud of myself I couldn't wait to tell them. They couldn't have been less impressed. Then I noticed that their mistakes became a matter of policy. It was as if they were daring you to catch them siphoning off your pennies and nickels. I finally switched banks when I got charged twice for the same ATM withdrawal. Now I hear that's business as usual.
The only people who've ever shortchanged me work as cashiers in the parking facility at O'Hare airport, a job description where you might expect "mistakes" to take place. I have since learned not to pay with a one hundred dollar bill. Even though the cash register tells them how much change to give me, they can't seem to count it out right. Hmmm.
But the lady next to me who got shortchanged by the bank wasn't the only one with a problem. The guy behind her had had his money deposited into the wrong account. He got home, checked his receipt and came running back. Next to his meltdown, the shortchanged lady was quite serene. Screwed up checks, shortchanged customers, money deposited into the wrong account. Foreign accents. Uh-oh, is that brown stuff I see about to hit the fan?
Or am I just not adjusting very well to the exponential speed of change?
Meanwhile, how do I know that the six hundred incorrect checks have been destroyed?
Saturday, September 15, 2007
It's a Lovely Day, But I'm in a Mood
You know how you can wake up in a funk, but you're not sure if it's because of a dream that you don't remember, or something happened that you don't want to think about, or you're just regretting the bag of Raisinets you polished off in the middle of the night?
Well, that's how I woke up today. But first the good news:
My daughter across the pond just celebrated her first wedding anniversary. I sent her and my wonderful son-in-law a thoughtful [for me] anniversary card with a "paper" gift in it. Hmmm, what's made of paper that would fit into a card? I wonder. Since I didn't send the card until last Sunday, I thought it might not arrive on time, so I emailed her in advance to get proper credit for my thoughtfulness.
She emailed back this morning from an exotic spot in Morocco. They are spending their anniversary at a charming place owned by Yves St. Laurent of all people. I wonder if he answers the door and changes the sheets? I even looked up the location on Wikipedia and there are at least a dozen lovely pictures. So I feel like I've been there too. If only in a pretty postcard tacked up on the bulletin board kind of way.
They're definitely living life the way you're supposed to, making some wonderful memories to enjoy throughout their marriage.
I have no memory of my first anniversary. I had a ten day old baby that was mewling and puking in my arms, so I don't think much more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep was planned.
Meanwhile, back in the Midwest, my friends' son ran for three touchdowns in a 62 to something rout at my old high school's first home game last night. This is his senior year. The team is 3 and 1. They lost a non conference game earlier to a team they beat last year. And they beat a team they had lost to four years in a row. Go figure. The game they lost featured the most biased play by play announcer I've ever heard.
Most of them will limit their remarks to "Number 34, Joe Blow, for three yards, tackled by number 35, Joe Schmoe." This guy was screaming with glee with announcements like, "Number 54 just squashed their quarterback!" "Number 45 stopped number 24 in his tracks!!" "The defense just buried number 8. He's not going anywhere!"
Then there were the phantom flags. A forty yard touchdown run by my friends' son was suddenly called back for holding. I was shooting video in the stands. We checked the footage from all the cameras. No flag. Not even a late one.
This season is also the 100th anniversary of the football program at my old high school, so they invited football alums to come to the first home game to be honored.
Colleges might do something to honor old players on the field at halftime. Maybe with an announcement of their names and a little commemorative trophy. And a free hot dog. High schools, at least my old high school, just made the old guys stand up where they were in the bleachers and wave. Lame-O.
Today my friends and their son are at one of the Big Ten schools meeting with the coaches. Manwhile, I'm making a video to show the team before their next game. We'll do highlights of the first four games with a SportsCenter theme. The announcer for their games has agreed to play the part of Stuart Scott or Kenny Mayne.
One of these days, I'll have to do one of Mrs. Linklater's infamous football columns. Do I hear clamoring? I learned a new term and I'd like to use it correctly in a sentence -- EMPTY SET. The high school team in the town where I live, which features Jim McMahon's kid as one of the QBs, just knocked off the Number 3 ranked team in the state, lining up lots of times with an empty set or maybe it's "in an empty set." Regardless, it doesn't sound like anything I'd use in the same breath as football, but watch me try.
Now for the bad news. I knew if I wrote long enough I'd realize why I'm in a funk. It's mainly because I have to work this weekend. I have to review a bunch of footage. I have to write a five minute script. I have to do a layout for a website. All for Monday meetings. Crapola.
At least the sun is shining and the sky is blue. I think I'll go to the deli for nova lox, onion, tomato, and chive cheese on a toasted sesame bagel. Oh wait, Notre Dame plays Michigan don't they? That should be good for grins. While I'm working, of course.
Well, that's how I woke up today. But first the good news:
My daughter across the pond just celebrated her first wedding anniversary. I sent her and my wonderful son-in-law a thoughtful [for me] anniversary card with a "paper" gift in it. Hmmm, what's made of paper that would fit into a card? I wonder. Since I didn't send the card until last Sunday, I thought it might not arrive on time, so I emailed her in advance to get proper credit for my thoughtfulness.
She emailed back this morning from an exotic spot in Morocco. They are spending their anniversary at a charming place owned by Yves St. Laurent of all people. I wonder if he answers the door and changes the sheets? I even looked up the location on Wikipedia and there are at least a dozen lovely pictures. So I feel like I've been there too. If only in a pretty postcard tacked up on the bulletin board kind of way.
They're definitely living life the way you're supposed to, making some wonderful memories to enjoy throughout their marriage.
I have no memory of my first anniversary. I had a ten day old baby that was mewling and puking in my arms, so I don't think much more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep was planned.
Meanwhile, back in the Midwest, my friends' son ran for three touchdowns in a 62 to something rout at my old high school's first home game last night. This is his senior year. The team is 3 and 1. They lost a non conference game earlier to a team they beat last year. And they beat a team they had lost to four years in a row. Go figure. The game they lost featured the most biased play by play announcer I've ever heard.
Most of them will limit their remarks to "Number 34, Joe Blow, for three yards, tackled by number 35, Joe Schmoe." This guy was screaming with glee with announcements like, "Number 54 just squashed their quarterback!" "Number 45 stopped number 24 in his tracks!!" "The defense just buried number 8. He's not going anywhere!"
Then there were the phantom flags. A forty yard touchdown run by my friends' son was suddenly called back for holding. I was shooting video in the stands. We checked the footage from all the cameras. No flag. Not even a late one.
This season is also the 100th anniversary of the football program at my old high school, so they invited football alums to come to the first home game to be honored.
Colleges might do something to honor old players on the field at halftime. Maybe with an announcement of their names and a little commemorative trophy. And a free hot dog. High schools, at least my old high school, just made the old guys stand up where they were in the bleachers and wave. Lame-O.
Today my friends and their son are at one of the Big Ten schools meeting with the coaches. Manwhile, I'm making a video to show the team before their next game. We'll do highlights of the first four games with a SportsCenter theme. The announcer for their games has agreed to play the part of Stuart Scott or Kenny Mayne.
One of these days, I'll have to do one of Mrs. Linklater's infamous football columns. Do I hear clamoring? I learned a new term and I'd like to use it correctly in a sentence -- EMPTY SET. The high school team in the town where I live, which features Jim McMahon's kid as one of the QBs, just knocked off the Number 3 ranked team in the state, lining up lots of times with an empty set or maybe it's "in an empty set." Regardless, it doesn't sound like anything I'd use in the same breath as football, but watch me try.
Now for the bad news. I knew if I wrote long enough I'd realize why I'm in a funk. It's mainly because I have to work this weekend. I have to review a bunch of footage. I have to write a five minute script. I have to do a layout for a website. All for Monday meetings. Crapola.
At least the sun is shining and the sky is blue. I think I'll go to the deli for nova lox, onion, tomato, and chive cheese on a toasted sesame bagel. Oh wait, Notre Dame plays Michigan don't they? That should be good for grins. While I'm working, of course.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Price of Beauty
In volleyball a "facial" refers to someone, usually a guy, who takes the full force of a 100 mph hit [or "kill"] in the face. It was, and still is, I think, the ultimate humiliation for a player. Suffering a face plant doesn't mean it was a really great hit, since at the upper levels, they're all great hits. Nope, it means that you've lost a step. You couldn't react fast enough to dig the ball, or just get the hell out of the way.
The end result is everything from embarrassment to dislocated noses, cheeks, teeth, anything breakable that might have been in the way. The other evidence of chagrin is often a lingering, stinging redness from forehead to chin.
That pretty much describes how my face looked and felt yesterday. And I paid to have someone do that to me. Never mind how much. For over an hour my face was in the hands of my faithful Russian cosmolopagus who specializes in making me look like I skidded on a patch of gravel, for the express purpose of maintaining my youthful good looks.
First she moved my hair out of the way with a headband -- all the better to launch her attack on my skin. Next she poked around my face like a chimpanzee looking for bugs. Occasionally I heard signs of "Aha!". And the offending ugliness would be dispatched. Meanwhile, hot steam pumped into my pores cleansing them of evil impurities, while opening up holes big enough to park a car.
Then she started massaging my face with and array of creams. I lost track after the cucumber, avocado, and citrus blends. My eyes were next, covered with moist, soothing pads. Then, while my face soaked up the goop, she creamed my hands and feet and covered them with heated gloves and booties. I was tryinig to enjoy the new age music and the aromatic smells, but I kept thinking I must look pretty silly lying there, especially with those booties on my feet.
Suddenly, she left the room. What now? Meditate? Contemplate what I'd look like running outside if there was a fire?
Somehow I managed to fall asleep. I guess she returned when my hands and feet had baked long enough. After removing my heating elements, she put an icy cold cloth on my face, a final layer of cream and I was good to go.
As long as I didn't mind the cries and whispers.
The end result is everything from embarrassment to dislocated noses, cheeks, teeth, anything breakable that might have been in the way. The other evidence of chagrin is often a lingering, stinging redness from forehead to chin.
That pretty much describes how my face looked and felt yesterday. And I paid to have someone do that to me. Never mind how much. For over an hour my face was in the hands of my faithful Russian cosmolopagus who specializes in making me look like I skidded on a patch of gravel, for the express purpose of maintaining my youthful good looks.
First she moved my hair out of the way with a headband -- all the better to launch her attack on my skin. Next she poked around my face like a chimpanzee looking for bugs. Occasionally I heard signs of "Aha!". And the offending ugliness would be dispatched. Meanwhile, hot steam pumped into my pores cleansing them of evil impurities, while opening up holes big enough to park a car.
Then she started massaging my face with and array of creams. I lost track after the cucumber, avocado, and citrus blends. My eyes were next, covered with moist, soothing pads. Then, while my face soaked up the goop, she creamed my hands and feet and covered them with heated gloves and booties. I was tryinig to enjoy the new age music and the aromatic smells, but I kept thinking I must look pretty silly lying there, especially with those booties on my feet.
Suddenly, she left the room. What now? Meditate? Contemplate what I'd look like running outside if there was a fire?
Somehow I managed to fall asleep. I guess she returned when my hands and feet had baked long enough. After removing my heating elements, she put an icy cold cloth on my face, a final layer of cream and I was good to go.
As long as I didn't mind the cries and whispers.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
But, Your Honor, I've Got Evidence
I was so disappointed today. This morning was my court date for the infamous parking on the sidewalk ticket. I spent a couple of hours last night putting together all my evidence. I had a picture album full of 4 x 6 photographs showing how my car was NOT parked on the sidewalk, unless you were really being picky. And I had pix of other cars parked all over the sidewalks, none of which got tickets for the same or worse infractions. I also had a list of addresses where I saw ticket free cars parked on the sidewalk. Clearly, law enforcement had selected me for special treatment.
Right after I got that ticket, I had gone to the police station to find out when and where to appear, because I refused to pay the $25.00. A very large breasted, and yet, very butch officer took several minutes to find out what time and in what courtroom I was expected to show up. I was so mesmerized by her hermaphroditic appearance that I wasn't paying a lot of attention to what she was actually doing. Apparently she wasn't doing much.
This morning, after sitting through four cases where the defendant was pleading guilty to violating an order of protection, it dawned on me that I had been sent to the wrong courtroom.
I hailed a passing lawyer and said, "Excuse me, but this seems to be domestic violence court." He confirmed my suspicions and I left that courtroom and started hunting down a traffic courtroom. I found a police officer from the town that ticketed me and asked him where their cases were being heard.
He did what most men do and checked to see if I had read the courtroom right, because he noticed I was blond and assumed I couldn't read. Oh, look, I can read. Somebody else made a mistake. However, despite the cranky look on my face, he did steer me in the right direction.
Since I was late I just found a place to sit while the judge was laying down the law. Or handing out fines. Or dispensing justice -- whatever they do. There was a sign by the clerk that said not to come up while court was in session. So I couldn't check in. However, when the judge ran out ofcases he looked up and asked, how many of you still need to be heard? About ten people raised their hands, along with me. Well, why didn't you check in with the clerk? Catch 22. Because it says we are not allowed to, your honor, since court was in session. Look, if you want your case heard you have to step up and be counted. Yessir, whatever you say sir. But we're not allowed to step up when you're busy -- oh nevermind.
I was called up and the judge said loudly, "It says you were parked on the sidewalk -- how do you plead?" "Not guilty." "Okay, hold for trial." So I sat down again with my plastic bag of photographic evidence ready and waiting for my Perry Mason moment.
The next thing I know my name is being called again. I stood up ready to make my case. Ready to defend the rights of the little people against THE MAN. Suddenly, I was being told I didn't have to come up in front of the court. "But I have evidence to show the judge."
"Case dismissed -- what did you say?"
"I said, uh, thank you, your honor."
For some reason the cop decided that he wasn't going to go up against my bag of evidence. He scribbled something on the ticket, handed it back to the prosecutor and in a heartbeat I was a free woman. No $25 out of my bank account. I win. I win. I win.
Unless you count how much it cost me to have two rolls of pictures printed and buy an album to put them in. But money means nothing -- not when there's a principle at stake.
Part of me still wanted my day in court. My chance to have the last word. So I was sorry I didn't have an opportunity to go toe to toe with the prosecutor as I made my case for truth, justice and the American Way.
But soon I began to realize there was an upside to not having to fight for anything. Somehow, some way, I had made the police officer from the Town Without Pity flinch. When push came to shove, he blinked.
It must have been the lip gloss.
Right after I got that ticket, I had gone to the police station to find out when and where to appear, because I refused to pay the $25.00. A very large breasted, and yet, very butch officer took several minutes to find out what time and in what courtroom I was expected to show up. I was so mesmerized by her hermaphroditic appearance that I wasn't paying a lot of attention to what she was actually doing. Apparently she wasn't doing much.
This morning, after sitting through four cases where the defendant was pleading guilty to violating an order of protection, it dawned on me that I had been sent to the wrong courtroom.
I hailed a passing lawyer and said, "Excuse me, but this seems to be domestic violence court." He confirmed my suspicions and I left that courtroom and started hunting down a traffic courtroom. I found a police officer from the town that ticketed me and asked him where their cases were being heard.
He did what most men do and checked to see if I had read the courtroom right, because he noticed I was blond and assumed I couldn't read. Oh, look, I can read. Somebody else made a mistake. However, despite the cranky look on my face, he did steer me in the right direction.
Since I was late I just found a place to sit while the judge was laying down the law. Or handing out fines. Or dispensing justice -- whatever they do. There was a sign by the clerk that said not to come up while court was in session. So I couldn't check in. However, when the judge ran out ofcases he looked up and asked, how many of you still need to be heard? About ten people raised their hands, along with me. Well, why didn't you check in with the clerk? Catch 22. Because it says we are not allowed to, your honor, since court was in session. Look, if you want your case heard you have to step up and be counted. Yessir, whatever you say sir. But we're not allowed to step up when you're busy -- oh nevermind.
I was called up and the judge said loudly, "It says you were parked on the sidewalk -- how do you plead?" "Not guilty." "Okay, hold for trial." So I sat down again with my plastic bag of photographic evidence ready and waiting for my Perry Mason moment.
The next thing I know my name is being called again. I stood up ready to make my case. Ready to defend the rights of the little people against THE MAN. Suddenly, I was being told I didn't have to come up in front of the court. "But I have evidence to show the judge."
"Case dismissed -- what did you say?"
"I said, uh, thank you, your honor."
For some reason the cop decided that he wasn't going to go up against my bag of evidence. He scribbled something on the ticket, handed it back to the prosecutor and in a heartbeat I was a free woman. No $25 out of my bank account. I win. I win. I win.
Unless you count how much it cost me to have two rolls of pictures printed and buy an album to put them in. But money means nothing -- not when there's a principle at stake.
Part of me still wanted my day in court. My chance to have the last word. So I was sorry I didn't have an opportunity to go toe to toe with the prosecutor as I made my case for truth, justice and the American Way.
But soon I began to realize there was an upside to not having to fight for anything. Somehow, some way, I had made the police officer from the Town Without Pity flinch. When push came to shove, he blinked.
It must have been the lip gloss.
Let's Not Party And Say We Did
Every year for the past ten years at least, I have wanted to have a Labor Day party by the lagoons in the forest preserves near my house. There's a very nice paved 17.5 mile bike trail that makes a five mile loop around the lagoons before heading south through miles of shady woods. You know you're at the end when you suddenly find yourself at a busy intersection on the northwest side of Chicago. Luckily, it's a two lane path, so you can turn around and go back.
Up where I live, you can canoe, kayak or fish for bass in the lagoons and there are myriad stone shelters and wide open fields for picnics and playing Frisbee. The birdwatching is good too. I've noticed several blue herons living around two of the islands in the lagoons. Considering that there haven't been any blue jays, very few robins, no grackles and not a single crow around here since the West Nile Virus decimated the bird population a few years ago, I watch those gangly blue birds poke around in the water with new appreciation for what we've lost.
I also remember that this idyllic scene exists because the Army Corps of Engineers came in and killed all the bullheads, catfish and carp with chemicals to make the water safe for bass and the people who fish for them. The herons were just a lucky strike extra, since I think the lagoons are on their flyway to Florida.
There's also a Good Humor truck parked conveniently at the elbow of a right turn in the bike path, for hungry cyclists in need of some sustenance. I'm usually hungry from a hard day of watching the bikes go by so I fill up on an Oreo cookie ice cream bar with an ice cream taco chaser, a confection which bears little or no resemblance to tacos as nature originally intended them.
Since today is the day after Labor Day, I've obviously missed another opportunity to have the party. I'm sure I'll keep thinking about it and making plans. I suppose I could have a "Chili" pot party at the end of October to celebrate my birthday. "Chili" being a play on "chilly", since that's usually how the weather is that time of year. Maybe we could steam some veal brats in beer and grill them afterward. I'm liking this idea. In case it's too chilly to ride bikes, people could bundle up and hike the trail. Or huddle around the Weber.
Or I could wait until the first blizzard and have a softball in the snow tournament with old tires for bases.
Or I could wait until next year and think about planning another Labor Day party I won't have.
Up where I live, you can canoe, kayak or fish for bass in the lagoons and there are myriad stone shelters and wide open fields for picnics and playing Frisbee. The birdwatching is good too. I've noticed several blue herons living around two of the islands in the lagoons. Considering that there haven't been any blue jays, very few robins, no grackles and not a single crow around here since the West Nile Virus decimated the bird population a few years ago, I watch those gangly blue birds poke around in the water with new appreciation for what we've lost.
I also remember that this idyllic scene exists because the Army Corps of Engineers came in and killed all the bullheads, catfish and carp with chemicals to make the water safe for bass and the people who fish for them. The herons were just a lucky strike extra, since I think the lagoons are on their flyway to Florida.
There's also a Good Humor truck parked conveniently at the elbow of a right turn in the bike path, for hungry cyclists in need of some sustenance. I'm usually hungry from a hard day of watching the bikes go by so I fill up on an Oreo cookie ice cream bar with an ice cream taco chaser, a confection which bears little or no resemblance to tacos as nature originally intended them.
Since today is the day after Labor Day, I've obviously missed another opportunity to have the party. I'm sure I'll keep thinking about it and making plans. I suppose I could have a "Chili" pot party at the end of October to celebrate my birthday. "Chili" being a play on "chilly", since that's usually how the weather is that time of year. Maybe we could steam some veal brats in beer and grill them afterward. I'm liking this idea. In case it's too chilly to ride bikes, people could bundle up and hike the trail. Or huddle around the Weber.
Or I could wait until the first blizzard and have a softball in the snow tournament with old tires for bases.
Or I could wait until next year and think about planning another Labor Day party I won't have.
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