I think I've finally lived long enough to become an embarrassment to my children. Not the kind of embarrassment that every child suffers when they hit thirteen and never want to be seen in public with you. At that age, it is the concept of being with a parent that's so awful, not necessarily the parent herself.
The kind of humiliation I'm referring to occurs when the parent reaches a certain age and his or her unique personality traits suddenly lose their charm and become alarming eccentricities that require explanation, usually accompanied by an eye roll and a huge sigh. At this point, it is no longer the concept of a parent that afflicts the child, but an acute, terrifying awareness that the parent really is a dork after all.
One of the treats of this year's holiday, besides having both of my daughters and my son-in-law in town, was attending a family brunch at a tres swank hotel, hosted by my younger daughter and her husband.
Several years ago, before marriage or careers took my girls to far flung spots around the world, the three of us enjoyed an opulent Easter brunch at the Four Seasons. Since my appearance at a house of worship has been limited to marriages, funerals, christenings and several years of driving my kids to Sunday school, any religious holiday experience was replaced long ago by platters of food.
At the end of that long ago brunch, I thought I had been to the mountaintop of culinary extravaganzas, between the array of delicious gourmet dishes we consumed, and the emptiness of my wallet afterward. In fact, until this Christmas, I thought nothing could ever top that Easter feast.
But I'd never had a holiday brunch at Chicago's latest fancy pants hotel, the one with a name that I can never remember. The Proscenium? No. The Pendulum? Nope. The Pandemonium? Nah. The Penultimate? Not likely. The Prodigal, the Prognosticator, the Pasturizer? No. No. And no.
THE PENINSULA, dammit.
Ever since this Hong Kong-based luxury hotel dared to open a Chicago location, smack dab in the middle of Hyatt's home turf, I've heard nothing but wonderful stories about what a truly lovely place it is -- from its rooms and its spa, to its restaurants, and most of all, its service.
Now I was going to go there for a Christmas brunch. Hot diggity dog.
The morning of the food fest, I loaded up the car with gifts, and packed an overnight bag, since I was staying downtown with family until the next day. My plan was to get to the hotel a little early and change, so I wouldn't have to drive all dressed up and worry about ruining my shoes or my outfit in the dirty, slushy snow. Especially since I'd given my pretend chauffeur the day off.
With my clothes for the brunch safely packed, I dressed in polar fleece and sensible shoes for my ride downtown, a fashion statement more suited to driving a Zamboni than for going to a well appointed hotel with telephones AND TVs in the bathrooms. Not to mention that I would be pulling up to the curb in a high mileage, unwashed Jeep Cherokee, covered from bumper to bumper with salt streaks -- a vehicle some people [can you spell REMO?] have referred to as a piece of shinola.
Truthfully, I hadn't given any thought to the effect of my arrival at the hotel. I was mostly concerned with not being late. Kudos to the doorman, who didn't bat an eye when he saw the well worn Jeep on its final approach, coming in for a landing in front of a pearly white Mercedes and behind a something so sleek and new I didn't recognize it.
I might have looked like I just finished shoveling a driveway, but as far as the doorman was concerned, I would be treated like the Queen of England. because I was coming to his hotel. I called my younger daughter to tell her I had arrived, while the doorman started loading up a cart with a selection of items from my vehicle, being careful not to let the spare tire fall out when he opened the way back. He even laughed heartily -- ha ha ha -- at my half joking suggestion to detail the car while I was at lunch.
My daughter, whom I hadn't seen in a year, came out to get me, looking absolutely gorgeous. After we hugged and kissed, I noticed that the doorman became more formal with me, since she actually looked the way a guest at the hotel is supposed to look. I came to the realization that between the rode-hard-and-put-up-wet auto and my industrial strength clothes, I was only one Siamese cat short of becoming a family oddball. My daughter whisked me inside, since I was as anxious as anyone to change into something a tad less K.D. Lang.
Brunch was superb, I never wanted to stop eating. In fact, I was one thin wafer away from a possible Monty Python moment, when I finally called it quits.
I got to the table about fifteen minutes after everyone else, looking more female than lumberjack for a change. In the center of the room was an enormous two story Christmas tree, circled by a staggering buffet that included seafood, rack of lamb, roast beef, ham, roast turkey, made to order omelets, lobster bisque, all kinds of sushi, chestnut and other dressings, mashed and other potatoes, roasted Brussell sprouts with bacon and other vegetables, plus indescribable desserts. Really. I can't describe them. Plus a server who filled our glasses and cleared our plates with great flourish and a pleasant smile.
After three hours of eating and a couple of more exchanging gifts, we planned to take in a Christmas movie, but opted for a Christmas nap, which extended through to the following morning in my case.
The next day, after a less extensive, but still tasty lunchtime repast, it was time to bring the Jeep out in public once again for my ride home, to rest up some more before the next gathering in a couple of days. I was back in my Zamboni outfit for the cold and snowy drive.
The Jeep arrived at the front of the hotel, sounding like a bird was chirping in the engine. Oh great, call attention to yourself. The parking attendant got out to hold the door for me looking at the ground. For some reason, he couldn't look me in the eye. Was he wondering whether I had cats?
I handed him a $5 tip, which I consider the universal sign for Okay, it's time to close the door. But he just took the money from me and stood there continuing to hold the the door open, until he got money from my son-in-law, too. Aha, an entrepreneur.
Meanwhile the doorman, a different one, opened the way back to load my stuff. My daughter was there to make sure the spare tire didn't roll out and I could hear them laughing about the dangers of opening the hatch on my car.
I wonder how much kitty litter I can fit in there.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
My Trip To Starbuck's
Today was a typical Chicago winter day. Hundreds of people were stranded at O'Hare. It's been snowing nonstop since yesterday. The main thoroughfares have been plowed and salted so often there's a grayish layer of grime piling up along the edges of the roadways.
The morning began with the temperature hovering around a balmy 30-something. I actually heard a woman walking into the grocery store say, "It's almost like spring."
Of course that was all the weather peeps needed to unleash a batch of freezing rain. Then morph it into snow, while simultaneously dropping the temperature into single digits by the end of the day. You know you're not in Miami when the meteorologist at the local FOX station is named Amy FREEZE.
In the middle of our latest weather adventure, I needed to stop at one of my local Starbuck's around noon to get some hefty gift cards for my well caffeinated family. Having learned from past mistakes with gift cards, I asked for three separate receipts, one to include with each card. I started doing this for two reasons: 1) the cards are for people who live in different parts of the world -- always a good reason for each person to have his or her own receipt. 2} if necessary, the receipts can confirm the exact amount of money that was supposed to be put on the card, since baristas have been known to forget this step of the transaction.
Entering the correct amount of money onto the card requires an electronic transaction, which, by my calculation, has a one in four chance of getting screwed up by someone, i.e., the person waiting on me at Starbuck's. So I always try to insure that there's plenty of backup for any mistakes that may occur.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped up to the counter today was that the young barista waiting on me was wearing a gold earring in his left ear. I have nothing against earrings on men, although I'm inclined to prefer nekkid lobes. The earring obviously affected his brain function since he handed me the three gift cards with only one receipt.
"I believe I asked for three separate receipts."
Without a word he produced three separate receipts and handed them to me with the three cards. Actually I think it would be more accurate to say he tossed them at me.
"May I have a bag to put these in, please?" So I don't find a gift card stuck between the seats sometime in March.
Again, without a word, he took the gift cards and the receipts and put them into the smallest bag Starbuck's has -- enough for a single serving of pound cake. The gift cards could easily fall out and the bag was so small I might toss it when I cleaned out the car.
I looked at him and said, "I just spent a whole lot of money here buying gift cards, so do you think you could spare a bag with a handle on it?"
The mute barista gave me a look that signified death by strangulation, but managed to produce a slightly larger bag with handles and dumped the other bag into it.
I took a deep breath, managed a smile, and said in my most obsequious voice, "Thank you so-o-o-o much." He had already turned to walk away, but my thank you was so over the top he couldn't help but look back at me.
So I assured him, "Just kidding."
Hmmm, it sure feels good to spread some holiday cheer.
The morning began with the temperature hovering around a balmy 30-something. I actually heard a woman walking into the grocery store say, "It's almost like spring."
Of course that was all the weather peeps needed to unleash a batch of freezing rain. Then morph it into snow, while simultaneously dropping the temperature into single digits by the end of the day. You know you're not in Miami when the meteorologist at the local FOX station is named Amy FREEZE.
In the middle of our latest weather adventure, I needed to stop at one of my local Starbuck's around noon to get some hefty gift cards for my well caffeinated family. Having learned from past mistakes with gift cards, I asked for three separate receipts, one to include with each card. I started doing this for two reasons: 1) the cards are for people who live in different parts of the world -- always a good reason for each person to have his or her own receipt. 2} if necessary, the receipts can confirm the exact amount of money that was supposed to be put on the card, since baristas have been known to forget this step of the transaction.
Entering the correct amount of money onto the card requires an electronic transaction, which, by my calculation, has a one in four chance of getting screwed up by someone, i.e., the person waiting on me at Starbuck's. So I always try to insure that there's plenty of backup for any mistakes that may occur.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped up to the counter today was that the young barista waiting on me was wearing a gold earring in his left ear. I have nothing against earrings on men, although I'm inclined to prefer nekkid lobes. The earring obviously affected his brain function since he handed me the three gift cards with only one receipt.
"I believe I asked for three separate receipts."
Without a word he produced three separate receipts and handed them to me with the three cards. Actually I think it would be more accurate to say he tossed them at me.
"May I have a bag to put these in, please?" So I don't find a gift card stuck between the seats sometime in March.
Again, without a word, he took the gift cards and the receipts and put them into the smallest bag Starbuck's has -- enough for a single serving of pound cake. The gift cards could easily fall out and the bag was so small I might toss it when I cleaned out the car.
I looked at him and said, "I just spent a whole lot of money here buying gift cards, so do you think you could spare a bag with a handle on it?"
The mute barista gave me a look that signified death by strangulation, but managed to produce a slightly larger bag with handles and dumped the other bag into it.
I took a deep breath, managed a smile, and said in my most obsequious voice, "Thank you so-o-o-o much." He had already turned to walk away, but my thank you was so over the top he couldn't help but look back at me.
So I assured him, "Just kidding."
Hmmm, it sure feels good to spread some holiday cheer.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Moe? Is that you?
Today the power went out in my health club. No wind. No weather. Just cold.
I was relaxing in front of the TV, after spending the afternoon using up as much of the club's hot water as I could without drawing attention to myself, when suddenly, everything went totally black. Hmmm. I hope I don't have to find my way out because I can't see anything.
I was always under the impression that public areas had to have emergency lighting in the form of two headlight sized beacons that came on automatically to guide you to safety.
Tell that to the people still in the shower who were slipping and sliding around bare assed, trying to find a way to get out of the dark. Apparently locker rooms are pubic areas, not public areas.
All of a sudden four energetic, perky young female trainers came bouncing into the locker room with flashllghts beaming, asking if anyone needed help. We sent them to rescue the people in the showers.
I played the old age card and got one of these trained professionals to carry my jackets and my bag upstairs for me. For some reason the only emergency lights are located on the ceiling of the club which is three floors above the lobby. I suppose the architects figured that the light from up there would trickle down below.
Apparently the club went dark on its own, because it turns out we were the only outage in the area. When the giggly girls arrived with their flashlights and clipboards to light our way out of the locker room, those of us at their mercy all agreed they didn't seem to have much training for emergencies. They also didn't know if anyone had called Commonwelath Edison or the police. So a couple of us took care of that while our crack rescue team used their walkie talkies to try reaching their boss to find out.
Hello, Matt. Hello, Matt. This is Cathy, over.
[Simultaneously] Hello, Matt. Hello, Matt. This is Susan, over.
Hello, Matt. Hello, Matt. This is Ashley. Over.
By the time they got through to Matt, we had already found out from the cops that there were no other outages and Commonwealth Edison said they would call back and talk to the manager themselves.
Okay, I'm done with this entry. I only wrote it to keep my mind off the insane ball game the Bears are trying to lose to the Packers. Now they're in overtime after blocking a field goal that would have won the game for the Pack, and the coin just bounced off Brian Urlacher's head. This is worse than the cold.
I was relaxing in front of the TV, after spending the afternoon using up as much of the club's hot water as I could without drawing attention to myself, when suddenly, everything went totally black. Hmmm. I hope I don't have to find my way out because I can't see anything.
I was always under the impression that public areas had to have emergency lighting in the form of two headlight sized beacons that came on automatically to guide you to safety.
Tell that to the people still in the shower who were slipping and sliding around bare assed, trying to find a way to get out of the dark. Apparently locker rooms are pubic areas, not public areas.
All of a sudden four energetic, perky young female trainers came bouncing into the locker room with flashllghts beaming, asking if anyone needed help. We sent them to rescue the people in the showers.
I played the old age card and got one of these trained professionals to carry my jackets and my bag upstairs for me. For some reason the only emergency lights are located on the ceiling of the club which is three floors above the lobby. I suppose the architects figured that the light from up there would trickle down below.
Apparently the club went dark on its own, because it turns out we were the only outage in the area. When the giggly girls arrived with their flashlights and clipboards to light our way out of the locker room, those of us at their mercy all agreed they didn't seem to have much training for emergencies. They also didn't know if anyone had called Commonwelath Edison or the police. So a couple of us took care of that while our crack rescue team used their walkie talkies to try reaching their boss to find out.
Hello, Matt. Hello, Matt. This is Cathy, over.
[Simultaneously] Hello, Matt. Hello, Matt. This is Susan, over.
Hello, Matt. Hello, Matt. This is Ashley. Over.
By the time they got through to Matt, we had already found out from the cops that there were no other outages and Commonwealth Edison said they would call back and talk to the manager themselves.
Okay, I'm done with this entry. I only wrote it to keep my mind off the insane ball game the Bears are trying to lose to the Packers. Now they're in overtime after blocking a field goal that would have won the game for the Pack, and the coin just bounced off Brian Urlacher's head. This is worse than the cold.
Thoughts While My Butt Freezes Over
It looks like we're going to have a real White Christmas here in Chicago. Unfortunately, it won't be anything out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with happy shoppers gaily strolling down Michigan Avenue, while their rosy cheeked children ice skate in the Hancock plaza. Not with the wind chill factor hovering around minus eighteen. I think the city is going to be a vacant lot soon if it doesn't warm up to a minimum of twenty something at least.
Even better, the Bears are playing the Packers tonight at Soldier Field. Will anybody in their right mind be in the stands? And whose idea was it to schedule TWO games in Soldier Field in December? Especially this December. Somebody sitting in a warm NFL office I'm thinking. This month is turning out to be the coldest and snowiest one in thirty years.
Of all the renovations they could have made to the original Soldier Field, wouldn't you think somebody might have suggested putting a lid on it? You know, a ROOF? It's not like global warming is coming to the Windy City in my lifetime. At least with a roof on top the new version of Soldier Field wouldn't look like a flying saucer just landed on top of the old place. It would look more like a flying saucer landed on top of the old place with a frying pan stuck on top to keep the snow out.
If the new, improved Soldier Field had a roof added, we could host the Super Bowl. Or the BCS Championship. Or a Beach Boys concert in January. Or the Olympics. Hard to believe that the Olympic committee has actually seen that ugly monument to politics and indecision, but still considers Chicago a contender for 2016.
The building looks like something Blagojevich swapped for a senator. Speaking of governors -- have you heard that Bristol Palin's future MIL just got busted for felony drug possession? It may be so cold here that my teeth keep freezing to my toothbrush, but that piece of news positively warmed my heart.
Well, let's see, today's the 22nd. Time to get out and do my holiday shopping. Or at least buy some thoughtful gift cards.
Even better, the Bears are playing the Packers tonight at Soldier Field. Will anybody in their right mind be in the stands? And whose idea was it to schedule TWO games in Soldier Field in December? Especially this December. Somebody sitting in a warm NFL office I'm thinking. This month is turning out to be the coldest and snowiest one in thirty years.
Of all the renovations they could have made to the original Soldier Field, wouldn't you think somebody might have suggested putting a lid on it? You know, a ROOF? It's not like global warming is coming to the Windy City in my lifetime. At least with a roof on top the new version of Soldier Field wouldn't look like a flying saucer just landed on top of the old place. It would look more like a flying saucer landed on top of the old place with a frying pan stuck on top to keep the snow out.
If the new, improved Soldier Field had a roof added, we could host the Super Bowl. Or the BCS Championship. Or a Beach Boys concert in January. Or the Olympics. Hard to believe that the Olympic committee has actually seen that ugly monument to politics and indecision, but still considers Chicago a contender for 2016.
The building looks like something Blagojevich swapped for a senator. Speaking of governors -- have you heard that Bristol Palin's future MIL just got busted for felony drug possession? It may be so cold here that my teeth keep freezing to my toothbrush, but that piece of news positively warmed my heart.
Well, let's see, today's the 22nd. Time to get out and do my holiday shopping. Or at least buy some thoughtful gift cards.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
All In A Row
I have changed the photo at the very top of my blog page. Not for any good reason. But because I thought it was interesting to discover that I had not one, but two photos of seven birds lined up in a row. The previous photo [somewhere in this entry -- it keeps moving around] featured a line of seagulls standing on some rocks at the edge of a very blue Lake Michigan, early one summer afternoon. I shot that picture from the window of my friend's house up in Door County, Wisconsin -- a spit of land that sticks out into the lake like a thumb. The replacement picture, way at the top of the page, is one I shot at sunset in Duck, North Carolina on the Outer Banks, looking westward toward the bay side, not the ocean side. The birds are probably mergansers.
The two pictures have nothing in common except for the serendipitous line up of seven birds, which I find muy intriguing, although I can't tell you why.
Do birds hang out in groups of seven for a reason? Is this just some cosmic coincidence? Or something more practical -- so they can have a nice balanced "V" when they fly -- one in the center and three on either side? Are seven birds all lined up a sign of the Apocalypse? Or an indication of possible OCD traits in feathered creatures?
Like any of us has a clue.
Friday, December 19, 2008
I Wonder Where The Hummers Went?
I wonder if you can still get parts for Range Rovers these days. One of my friends shot this great wide angle photo of his RR when it was new. I thought I would post it because I've been working on something for him and accidentally found this pic in one of the files I have. Any excuse to take a break.
Maybe his wife, my very good friend, will call me when she sees it posted. [Hey, Nan, gimme a buzz.] I also love the picture of their house in the background. They built it without wood -- it even has a steel roof -- after one of the California fires burned their other house to the ground. The only things left were some cinder blocks and a metal Christmas ornament. I always wondered if that ornament was saved.
WTF?
I never wrote about my exciting trip to the court house a few days after my conflagration with the forest preserve cop. That's because the weather has been taking up most of everybody's time. Often we get a warning about four days in advance about a storm coming through that will destroy life as we know it, only to have it miss Chicago by 200 miles. I've lost count of how often this has happened.
The latest early warning panic -- "The snow is coming; the snow is coming!!!" -- promised to tie up rush hour on Thursday afternoon with up to a foot of snow on the north side of town and promises of a devastating ice storm on the south side of town. We were warned to get out of Dodge by 3:00 PM or our sorry asses would be roadkill.
Oh, great. I was supposed to go to a party that didn't start until 5:00 PM. Now the weather was going to wreck everything. Thanks to the weather worry warts, the festivities almost got canceled because a storm was [supposedly] about to attack.
Thursday morning arrived and the weather sluts started to back track. Okay, we're getting a storm all right, but maybe not exactly when we thought. All of a sudden it looked like the killer ice and deep snow wouldn't get here until 7:00 PM. After rush hour.
Good. Now the party didn't have to be canceled, just rescheduled for an hour earlier at 4:00. But wait, the Chicago meteorologists weren't done playing with us. At noon the stormtrackers changed their prediction once again. Uh, hmm, guess nobody has to worry until after 10:00 PM. But, really, scourt's honor, we're still getting a storm through here.
Meanwhile, at 3:00 PM I was driving around under a sunny, clear sky, listening to the insane ramblings of a bunch of doomsayers who were, as usual, wrong. I got home last night, after the party, at 10:00 PM and there wasn't a single snowflake in the area. BUT IT'S COMING!!!!!
This morning I woke up, looked out the window, expecting to be buried in the storm that passed by. Haaa. There were maybe four inches on the ground. Send the rescue dogs.
But this entry was supposed to be about going to the courthouse.
After I paid the forest preserve cop $75 to get my driver's license back, I read the fine print on the paper he gave me to sign.
I noticed there was a box marked with an "x" that said I couldn't leave the state without a judge's permission. That box undid the whole point of getting my driver's license back.
So I called the courthouse to find out how to get a judge's permission to leave the state in case I had a hunger for some cheese in Kenosha. Or wanted to go to a basketball game in South Bend. Or get some cherry pie in Michigan.
Something told me that having to have a judge's permission to leave town was kind of a dumb rule for a traffic offense, but lately, you can't count on the government here in Illinois to make a lot of sense.
The first person I called at the courthouse said I could come to court on Monday and take care of everything. She also confirmed that there was a law in Illinois that required me to get permission from a judge to leave the state. "For a traffic ticket?" "Yes, it's the law." She also said that the judge might be able to hear my case at the same time, which sounded wrong because the cop wouldn't be there to defend himself.
Just to be sure I called again on Monday and talked to another woman who said that my ticket wasn't in the system yet, so I would have to wait seven to ten business days before I could see a judge. She also confirmed that I would have to come in and see a judge to leave the state. "For a traffics ticket?" "Yes, sorry about that."
I'm not sure why, but the next day I called a third time. "I know my ticket isn't in the system, but what if I have to get on a plane? This paper says I have to get a judge's permission to leave the state." So the latest woman on the other end of the phone said I could come in any time from Tuesday through Friday [not Monday like the one lady told me] to room 136 and they would get me in to see a judge so I could travel. Even if it was just a traffic ticket.
I went to the courthouse the next day. In the security line I loaded my coat pockets with all my change and other stuff, thinking it would just be sent through the x-ray, like at the airport. Nope. I had to take all the stuff out of my pockets and put it into my purse instead. And wear my jacket through the machine. Why? "Because that's the way we do it here."
In room 136, I waited with a number for about fifteen minutes, while thirty-five [I counted them] employees walked by the counter and couldn't be bothered to help anyone. Finally, my number was called and I told the woman that I needed to see a judge so I could leave the state.
"You don't need to see a judge to leave the state. Not for a traffic ticket."
"It says here I do." I pointed to the "x" on the paper.
"Well that box is checked automatically. It's for prisoners who are bonding out. We use this form for traffic tickets too, because we don't have anything else."
"So I can leave the state even though this form says I can't."
"That's correct."
"I'm just wondering, would it possible for a judge to hear my case today anyway?"
"Yes, but only if you're pleading guilty."
"I have to plead guilty to have my case heard? But I'm pleading not guilty."
"Well, then, we'll see you on your scheduled court date. Can you still come on that date?"
"Yes."
So, let me get this right. I didn't have to get a judge's permission to leave the state for a mere traffic ticket.
Unlike what I was told.
Also, even though it was true that I could have my case heard, that was only possible if I were planning to plead guilty.
Unlike what I was told.
And I could come to court from Tuesday through Friday, but NOT Monday.
Unlike what I was told.
As it turned out, I didn't have to come to the courthouse at all.
Unlike what I was told.
Who are these people and how to they get their jobs?
And I have readers who wonder why I'm so rude.
The latest early warning panic -- "The snow is coming; the snow is coming!!!" -- promised to tie up rush hour on Thursday afternoon with up to a foot of snow on the north side of town and promises of a devastating ice storm on the south side of town. We were warned to get out of Dodge by 3:00 PM or our sorry asses would be roadkill.
Oh, great. I was supposed to go to a party that didn't start until 5:00 PM. Now the weather was going to wreck everything. Thanks to the weather worry warts, the festivities almost got canceled because a storm was [supposedly] about to attack.
Thursday morning arrived and the weather sluts started to back track. Okay, we're getting a storm all right, but maybe not exactly when we thought. All of a sudden it looked like the killer ice and deep snow wouldn't get here until 7:00 PM. After rush hour.
Good. Now the party didn't have to be canceled, just rescheduled for an hour earlier at 4:00. But wait, the Chicago meteorologists weren't done playing with us. At noon the stormtrackers changed their prediction once again. Uh, hmm, guess nobody has to worry until after 10:00 PM. But, really, scourt's honor, we're still getting a storm through here.
Meanwhile, at 3:00 PM I was driving around under a sunny, clear sky, listening to the insane ramblings of a bunch of doomsayers who were, as usual, wrong. I got home last night, after the party, at 10:00 PM and there wasn't a single snowflake in the area. BUT IT'S COMING!!!!!
This morning I woke up, looked out the window, expecting to be buried in the storm that passed by. Haaa. There were maybe four inches on the ground. Send the rescue dogs.
But this entry was supposed to be about going to the courthouse.
After I paid the forest preserve cop $75 to get my driver's license back, I read the fine print on the paper he gave me to sign.
I noticed there was a box marked with an "x" that said I couldn't leave the state without a judge's permission. That box undid the whole point of getting my driver's license back.
So I called the courthouse to find out how to get a judge's permission to leave the state in case I had a hunger for some cheese in Kenosha. Or wanted to go to a basketball game in South Bend. Or get some cherry pie in Michigan.
Something told me that having to have a judge's permission to leave town was kind of a dumb rule for a traffic offense, but lately, you can't count on the government here in Illinois to make a lot of sense.
The first person I called at the courthouse said I could come to court on Monday and take care of everything. She also confirmed that there was a law in Illinois that required me to get permission from a judge to leave the state. "For a traffic ticket?" "Yes, it's the law." She also said that the judge might be able to hear my case at the same time, which sounded wrong because the cop wouldn't be there to defend himself.
Just to be sure I called again on Monday and talked to another woman who said that my ticket wasn't in the system yet, so I would have to wait seven to ten business days before I could see a judge. She also confirmed that I would have to come in and see a judge to leave the state. "For a traffics ticket?" "Yes, sorry about that."
I'm not sure why, but the next day I called a third time. "I know my ticket isn't in the system, but what if I have to get on a plane? This paper says I have to get a judge's permission to leave the state." So the latest woman on the other end of the phone said I could come in any time from Tuesday through Friday [not Monday like the one lady told me] to room 136 and they would get me in to see a judge so I could travel. Even if it was just a traffic ticket.
I went to the courthouse the next day. In the security line I loaded my coat pockets with all my change and other stuff, thinking it would just be sent through the x-ray, like at the airport. Nope. I had to take all the stuff out of my pockets and put it into my purse instead. And wear my jacket through the machine. Why? "Because that's the way we do it here."
In room 136, I waited with a number for about fifteen minutes, while thirty-five [I counted them] employees walked by the counter and couldn't be bothered to help anyone. Finally, my number was called and I told the woman that I needed to see a judge so I could leave the state.
"You don't need to see a judge to leave the state. Not for a traffic ticket."
"It says here I do." I pointed to the "x" on the paper.
"Well that box is checked automatically. It's for prisoners who are bonding out. We use this form for traffic tickets too, because we don't have anything else."
"So I can leave the state even though this form says I can't."
"That's correct."
"I'm just wondering, would it possible for a judge to hear my case today anyway?"
"Yes, but only if you're pleading guilty."
"I have to plead guilty to have my case heard? But I'm pleading not guilty."
"Well, then, we'll see you on your scheduled court date. Can you still come on that date?"
"Yes."
So, let me get this right. I didn't have to get a judge's permission to leave the state for a mere traffic ticket.
Unlike what I was told.
Also, even though it was true that I could have my case heard, that was only possible if I were planning to plead guilty.
Unlike what I was told.
And I could come to court from Tuesday through Friday, but NOT Monday.
Unlike what I was told.
As it turned out, I didn't have to come to the courthouse at all.
Unlike what I was told.
Who are these people and how to they get their jobs?
And I have readers who wonder why I'm so rude.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Superior Scribbler Part Three
Judith Heartsong. . .An Artsy Blog
This is the third of four [now five] profiles I'm writing about the bloggers who nominated me for an award that's been going around the internet.
I read Judi's blog to get in touch with that part of myself I don't have the courage to write about here. In this blog, I do what's easy for me -- going for laughs, making fun of myself or getting pissed off at people who do stupid things. Judi goes where I don't feel comfortable. The places in the heart.
So I was very touched when I found out she had nominated me for a Superior Scribbler. [Despite my noisy misgivings about the actual dictionary meaning of "scribbler".]
Judi lets her guard down. She shares her deepest feelings in ways I never could. Over the years I've been reading her blog, I've watched her grow and change as a person and an artist. I have felt her anguish, enjoyed her happiness and witnessed her remarkable evolution into a place of peace and harmony.
One of her greatest contributions, along with her unique artistic style and willingness to talk about her inner life, was The Heartsong Award, now retired.
Once a month she [and her panel of judges] provided a subject and encouraged us to express ourselves in writing, art or photography. The prize was one of her paintings and a Heartsong logo for your blog. It was truly an honor to win a Heartsong Award because you knew that considerable effort went into choosing the most deserving winner -- at least as much as each of us who entered the competition put into our entries. Yeah, I won one. But winning it wasn't as important as what I learned about myself each time I entered. The experience was as good as the prize.
So I recommend Judi to you. Her thoughtful writing can brighten anyone's day.
This is the third of four [now five] profiles I'm writing about the bloggers who nominated me for an award that's been going around the internet.
I read Judi's blog to get in touch with that part of myself I don't have the courage to write about here. In this blog, I do what's easy for me -- going for laughs, making fun of myself or getting pissed off at people who do stupid things. Judi goes where I don't feel comfortable. The places in the heart.
So I was very touched when I found out she had nominated me for a Superior Scribbler. [Despite my noisy misgivings about the actual dictionary meaning of "scribbler".]
Judi lets her guard down. She shares her deepest feelings in ways I never could. Over the years I've been reading her blog, I've watched her grow and change as a person and an artist. I have felt her anguish, enjoyed her happiness and witnessed her remarkable evolution into a place of peace and harmony.
One of her greatest contributions, along with her unique artistic style and willingness to talk about her inner life, was The Heartsong Award, now retired.
Once a month she [and her panel of judges] provided a subject and encouraged us to express ourselves in writing, art or photography. The prize was one of her paintings and a Heartsong logo for your blog. It was truly an honor to win a Heartsong Award because you knew that considerable effort went into choosing the most deserving winner -- at least as much as each of us who entered the competition put into our entries. Yeah, I won one. But winning it wasn't as important as what I learned about myself each time I entered. The experience was as good as the prize.
So I recommend Judi to you. Her thoughtful writing can brighten anyone's day.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The Half Empty Full Glass
I lost a temporary cap sometime during my world tour through LA and Texas about three weeks ago. I am still purchasing the permanent cap, the shiny gold one with the porcelain veneer, using my dental layaway plan. Only a thousand more box tops to go.
One minute the temporary cap was there in my mouth; the next minute it was gone. Well, to be perfectly accurate, I remember that it wasn't not there in the morning, but it was for sure not there when I went to bed that night. I don't think I swallowed it. I hope I didn't swallow it. If I did it probably got snagged in the big gooey wad of Double Bubble, Hubba Bubba, and the thousands of other pieces of gum I have swallowed over the years -- the hazardous waste of my youth, preserved in my gut, undigested, just waiting for enough gas to build up and blow one final kingsize bubble, large enough to end life on earth as we know it.
But I digress.
The last three weeks I've been trying to eat on only one side of my mouth, so I wouldn't annoy the little nubbish tooth that no longer has its protective cover. All things considered, the little stub wasn't that sensitive unless I sucked air through my teeth, so after doing that a few times to see how much pain I could put up with, I stopped and, miraculously, the pain went away.
I remember asking my dentist once if having a capped tooth still qualified as having my own tooth and he said yes. I wasn't sure how much of a tooth you actually had to have for it to be considered your own tooth and not a false tooth. I just wanted to be able to say that even though I was over sixty, I still had all my own teeth. I guess even the tooth that underwent a root canal counts as one of my teeth. Even though it's technically not a tooth, but more of a peg leg.
So the point of all this is that along with having to get up and go to the dentist this morning or wait until after the holidays, I got into my car in the four degree weather [-11 windchill] only to discover that the car heater wasn't blowing heat, it was blowing cold.
No heat in the four degree weather meant that the thick layer of ice on my windshield wouldn't melt. And the wiper fluid would never warm up enough to squirt. And the wipers wouldn't wipe because they were stuck in the ice. Without the blower heat, my antennae motor wouldn't warm up enough to work, so I had to listen to FM or CDs. Blah blah blah blah blah. I managed to make a big enough hole in the ice on my windshield so I could drive the five miles to the dentist. The little hole worked well, as long as I didn't point the car toward the sun, at which time the bright light would bounce off the ice crystals and blind me.
At the dentist's office I was feeling like a victim of Murphy's Law. It seemed like anything that could go wrong, would -- my tooth, the heater. I was having a bad day. When my dentist came into my room, he apologized for taking so long with his last patient. Without much prompting I launched into a fine whine about my bad luck with my tooth and my heater before he could get a word in edgewise. Finally, during a lull, he told me that he'd spent extra time with his last patient because she was dying from cancer.
Yes, that shut me up. Locomotives and speeding bullets work, too.
He smiled. And I thanked him for yanking me out of my funk.
Perspective can do that.
One minute the temporary cap was there in my mouth; the next minute it was gone. Well, to be perfectly accurate, I remember that it wasn't not there in the morning, but it was for sure not there when I went to bed that night. I don't think I swallowed it. I hope I didn't swallow it. If I did it probably got snagged in the big gooey wad of Double Bubble, Hubba Bubba, and the thousands of other pieces of gum I have swallowed over the years -- the hazardous waste of my youth, preserved in my gut, undigested, just waiting for enough gas to build up and blow one final kingsize bubble, large enough to end life on earth as we know it.
But I digress.
The last three weeks I've been trying to eat on only one side of my mouth, so I wouldn't annoy the little nubbish tooth that no longer has its protective cover. All things considered, the little stub wasn't that sensitive unless I sucked air through my teeth, so after doing that a few times to see how much pain I could put up with, I stopped and, miraculously, the pain went away.
I remember asking my dentist once if having a capped tooth still qualified as having my own tooth and he said yes. I wasn't sure how much of a tooth you actually had to have for it to be considered your own tooth and not a false tooth. I just wanted to be able to say that even though I was over sixty, I still had all my own teeth. I guess even the tooth that underwent a root canal counts as one of my teeth. Even though it's technically not a tooth, but more of a peg leg.
So the point of all this is that along with having to get up and go to the dentist this morning or wait until after the holidays, I got into my car in the four degree weather [-11 windchill] only to discover that the car heater wasn't blowing heat, it was blowing cold.
No heat in the four degree weather meant that the thick layer of ice on my windshield wouldn't melt. And the wiper fluid would never warm up enough to squirt. And the wipers wouldn't wipe because they were stuck in the ice. Without the blower heat, my antennae motor wouldn't warm up enough to work, so I had to listen to FM or CDs. Blah blah blah blah blah. I managed to make a big enough hole in the ice on my windshield so I could drive the five miles to the dentist. The little hole worked well, as long as I didn't point the car toward the sun, at which time the bright light would bounce off the ice crystals and blind me.
At the dentist's office I was feeling like a victim of Murphy's Law. It seemed like anything that could go wrong, would -- my tooth, the heater. I was having a bad day. When my dentist came into my room, he apologized for taking so long with his last patient. Without much prompting I launched into a fine whine about my bad luck with my tooth and my heater before he could get a word in edgewise. Finally, during a lull, he told me that he'd spent extra time with his last patient because she was dying from cancer.
Yes, that shut me up. Locomotives and speeding bullets work, too.
He smiled. And I thanked him for yanking me out of my funk.
Perspective can do that.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
A Whole Commercial About Hannukah
Best Buy is running my favorite Xmas commercial. It's for Hannukah. When was the last time you saw a mainstream advertiser running an ad for a Jewish holiday? Not recently.That's part of the charm for me.
Best Buy's holiday campaign features their co-workers talking about a customer they helped. The young salesgirl in the Hannukah spot helped a mom choose iPod accessories she could give her daughter for the first seven nights of Hannukah. The big payoff came on the eighth night when the customer's daughter finally got the iPod she obviously longed for.
What a great way to let people know you have everything they'll need to complete their iPod gifting. No matter what you celebrate.
The punchline for the spot was the sales associate describing her meeting the daughter when she came into the store and exclaimed, "So you were the one who made me wait a week to get my iPod!"
Works for me.
Best Buy's holiday campaign features their co-workers talking about a customer they helped. The young salesgirl in the Hannukah spot helped a mom choose iPod accessories she could give her daughter for the first seven nights of Hannukah. The big payoff came on the eighth night when the customer's daughter finally got the iPod she obviously longed for.
What a great way to let people know you have everything they'll need to complete their iPod gifting. No matter what you celebrate.
The punchline for the spot was the sales associate describing her meeting the daughter when she came into the store and exclaimed, "So you were the one who made me wait a week to get my iPod!"
Works for me.
High Quality Dufus
Something has been bugging me for awhile, and I can no longer contain myself.
Recently I received an award -- SUPERIOR SCRIBBLER -- that sounded like faint praise to me. In fact it seemed more like an oxymoron [i.e., oxy-MORON] than anything else. Like giant shrimp.
I accepted the award in the spirit it was given -- acknowledgment of my writing as not bad for a white woman older than dirt. I have since profiled two of the four [now five!] bloggers who nominated me because I consider them among the best of the writers I read on the web. [The other two are just as good, but you'll have to wait for their profiles another time.] I haven't posted my own five nominations yet, because the name of the award is such that I don't want anyone to think I'm insulting them -- a real possibility, since that often seems to be Mrs. Linklater's mission in life.
But back to my conundrum about the award. A scribbler has never been someone to admire in my book. Often the word scribbling is used in reference to the efforts of small children to copy an adult's handwriting. They aren't actually writing anything, only pretending. Fortunately no words are harmed in the act of scribbling.
Scribbling has always been comparable, figuratively, to the sound and fury of an idiot -- a lot of random marks on the page -- signifying nothing. To call someone a superior scribbler simply takes scribbling, or meaninglessness, to new heights, or should I say, depths.
But maybe there was something I had missed along the way. Some new definition or colloquial use of scribbling that had escaped me.
Apparently not. To confirm my suspicions, I went to dictionary.com. And what was the very first definition I found for scribbler?
A writer whose work has little or no value or importance.
The second definition wasn't any better:
A person who scribbles.
So as a writing award, Superior Scribbler is not what it's cracked up to be. Superior Scribe or Scrivener would be more accurate, since the former refers to a writer as a journalist, and the latter can refer to a writing master. But scribe sounds like a character from the movie, Front Page. And scrivener sounds like something out of Dickens.
I'm quite sure that using the word scribbler was unintentional, but it's still incorrect. Unfortunately when you track down the origins of the award on the web, it seems to be the invention of a teacher who didn't bother to check out its meaning. Surely she meant well. But the cynic in me wonders if this mistake is yet another testament to our inadequate school system.
So, while I was honored to be nominated as a writer who uses words in a manner that others may admire, I am somewhat disconcerted by the inappropriate name of the award. Not that life should be judged by your SATs, but if you're going to give a prize for writing, don't cock up the name for it.
And don't get me started on the kindergarten graphic used for the award. It's just way too precious for me. So you won't see it posted here.
P.S. That goes double for the Marie Antoinette Award -- a real person; a real award. I can find no reason on earth for such a bizarre writing award, since Marie Antoinette wasn't a writer. She certainly wasn't a blogger. Plus, her life was a study in excess and her death was really unpleasant. So WTF?
Recently I received an award -- SUPERIOR SCRIBBLER -- that sounded like faint praise to me. In fact it seemed more like an oxymoron [i.e., oxy-MORON] than anything else. Like giant shrimp.
I accepted the award in the spirit it was given -- acknowledgment of my writing as not bad for a white woman older than dirt. I have since profiled two of the four [now five!] bloggers who nominated me because I consider them among the best of the writers I read on the web. [The other two are just as good, but you'll have to wait for their profiles another time.] I haven't posted my own five nominations yet, because the name of the award is such that I don't want anyone to think I'm insulting them -- a real possibility, since that often seems to be Mrs. Linklater's mission in life.
But back to my conundrum about the award. A scribbler has never been someone to admire in my book. Often the word scribbling is used in reference to the efforts of small children to copy an adult's handwriting. They aren't actually writing anything, only pretending. Fortunately no words are harmed in the act of scribbling.
Scribbling has always been comparable, figuratively, to the sound and fury of an idiot -- a lot of random marks on the page -- signifying nothing. To call someone a superior scribbler simply takes scribbling, or meaninglessness, to new heights, or should I say, depths.
But maybe there was something I had missed along the way. Some new definition or colloquial use of scribbling that had escaped me.
Apparently not. To confirm my suspicions, I went to dictionary.com. And what was the very first definition I found for scribbler?
A writer whose work has little or no value or importance.
The second definition wasn't any better:
A person who scribbles.
So as a writing award, Superior Scribbler is not what it's cracked up to be. Superior Scribe or Scrivener would be more accurate, since the former refers to a writer as a journalist, and the latter can refer to a writing master. But scribe sounds like a character from the movie, Front Page. And scrivener sounds like something out of Dickens.
I'm quite sure that using the word scribbler was unintentional, but it's still incorrect. Unfortunately when you track down the origins of the award on the web, it seems to be the invention of a teacher who didn't bother to check out its meaning. Surely she meant well. But the cynic in me wonders if this mistake is yet another testament to our inadequate school system.
So, while I was honored to be nominated as a writer who uses words in a manner that others may admire, I am somewhat disconcerted by the inappropriate name of the award. Not that life should be judged by your SATs, but if you're going to give a prize for writing, don't cock up the name for it.
And don't get me started on the kindergarten graphic used for the award. It's just way too precious for me. So you won't see it posted here.
P.S. That goes double for the Marie Antoinette Award -- a real person; a real award. I can find no reason on earth for such a bizarre writing award, since Marie Antoinette wasn't a writer. She certainly wasn't a blogger. Plus, her life was a study in excess and her death was really unpleasant. So WTF?
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Since We're Sharing
Melissa of Just Another Day In Paradise recently wrote about communing up close and personal with her porcelain throne during an unfortunate stomach virus. It was pure poetry for the anorectics in the crowd. Reading that detailed description has prompted Mrs. Linklater to remember her own good times with food poisoning bugs and how much fun it might be to re-live one of those special moments here.
I have probalby written about this before, but as a certified senior, I repeat myself without apology.
So, let's return to those halcyon days of yesteryear. I was 41. [I think Roosevelt was president. Teddy Roosevelt.] My children were 11 and 14. It was Saturday night, about midnight. I had spent the evening in front of the TV, wearing my weekend uniform of a t-shirt and sweats, no hair or makeup. I fell asleep during SNL, only to wake up with pain that seemed to emanate from my knees to my neck. The pain was not specific, it was everywhere. I couldn't decide whether I was going to throw up or evacuate. Fifteen minutes of mounting agony passed, enough time for things to dial into focus. I began to realize that finding a seat on the toilet would be prudent.
My entire abdomen felt like it could explode. I didn't have a headache, although I felt completely out of it. My bones didn't hurt. My muscles didn't ache. This event was having all the hallmarks of BAD FOOD, a problem for anyone who eats in restaurants and bars.
The night before my attack, I had been with two girlfriends at the bar in the lower level of the Hancock, where we often gathered after work, waiting for the traffic to subside and go home. I remember eating lots of the free salsa. Much more than they did. Turns out they got a flu version of food poisoning. I got the Full Monty.
Now I was sitting on the toilet in so much pain that all I wanted to find was a cold place to rest my head. So, with my sweatpants around my ankles, I crawled off the can and made my way over to the bathtub. On my hands and knees with my entire body in agony, I rested the side of my face on the cool surface of the tub. Hmmmm, that sure felt good.
One thought kept repeating itself over and over, as my butt cheeks posed in the full moon position, "Didn't they find Elvis like this? Boy, I hope I don't die here, with my bare arse smiling at anybody who walks in.
Finally the cold edge of the tub revived me enough to sit on the throne again. Soon it was clear that I was in deep doo-doo, figuratively and literally, so I called 911.
I woke my kids up to tell them that I was going to the hospital, but not to worry because I would be okay, even though I was lying on the floor in a fetal position. The two of them stood, half asleep, staring at me, and mumbled something like, "Okay, Mom," and went back to bed.
My memory may be faulty, but I recall at least ten paramedics coming to my rescue.and as they transported me, I remember wishing I'd changed into something nicer or at least combed my hair.
At the emergency room I was stowed far away from everybody else. I found myself relegated to a darkened hospital room that had its own private toilet. I spent the next three hours sitting in there, taking care of business into a special container, which some lucky person would come to collect after each passing. And they wonder why there's a nursing shortage.
With almost nothing more left to poo, I started to feel like I might be okay. In fact, if I had been at home I would have made myself some tea and toast, turned on the television, and snoozed my way through the rest of the weekend.
So after one last batch, I figured they'd be letting me go home. Only this time, I noticed it was bloody. "Who did that?" I wondered. Funny how the mind disassociates when something comes out of your body that is just wrong. My reaction was, "This is some mistake." But reality set in. Rats. Now they've got me. I'll never leave.
With this new wrinkle I qualified for medical attention. A resident doc came in to examine me for admittance to the hospital. The exam consisted of raising my hospital gown and thumping my belly, I think. I was lying on a gurney barely half awake, exhausted from hours of trying to eliminate the poison from my body, so I didn't question what he was doing. Until later.
I was in the hospital for six days. I probably had e.coli or some kind of salmonella, but you have to do the cultures within 24 hours and 24 hours had passed between the time I got to the emergency room on Saturday at midnight and when the lab opened on Monday morning.
So the culture came back negative. Duh. Ironically, I kept passing blood for a couple of more days in the hospital, but when I asked if that would also be cultured, I was told no, because they had cultured that first batch.
So with a negative blood culture I had to endure conversations with a social worker who was operating under the assumption that this was "probably" an episode of colitis, a disease I had never had in my life. Clearly I was mental.
My friends called to say how sick they got only to OOOO and Ahhhhhh about how sick I was. I tried to tell the docs that I had friends who got sick too, but no one was listening.
Strangely, the week I was hospitalized was also the very week that hundreds of people were getting sick from salmonella in the milk purchased from a local grocery store chain. One I didn't frequent. Some people got flu symptoms. Some were passing blood.
After I left the hospital, I reviewed my micro books and realized there had been a screw up with the lab. So I wrote the hospital and brought it to their attention. If I had known I would be writing a blog I would have kept their acknowledgement of my excellent sleuthing, so I could quote it here. Oh well.
Meanwhile, the resident who admitted me to the hospital was coming by a lot. At the outset, he had to tell me who he was because I didn't have a clue. Like I said, I was out of it in the emergency room.
First he came by with his boss, who informed me that I was hooked up to an IV because I wouldn't be eating anything for a few days. Then "my doc" would also come by in the evening, once when my kids were there, to bring me a paper, show me a sigmoidoscopy report, exciting stuff like that. I figured that was his job. Apparently not.
The day before they let me out, after a delicious repast of Jello, cottage cheese, chicken broth and crackers, I finally felt well enough to put on some makeup. I figured looking human would get me home faster. One of the nurses came in and smirked, "Getting ready for a visit from the doctor?"
She must have seen the puzzled look on my face because she quickly changed the subject to something else. Hmmm, maybe the doctor wasn't supposed to be coming by so often.
The next morning I was set free. I got dressed, collected my things, and left my room, only to see "my doc" sitting at the nursing station. He greeted me and I watched the staff turn and look at me. I nodded to him, said goodbye quickly and left.
It was Saturday, a week since I had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. That night I made a meal of tea with lemon and some cinnamon toast and settled in for an evening of SNL again. I dozed off, as usual, until the phone rang at one in the morning.
"Hello."
"Hello, Mrs. Linklater?"
[FYI: The caller used my first name, which I don't use here.]
I recognized the voice, but I couldn't place it.
"This is Mrs. Linklater."
Then he said something inappropriate. And I figured out who it was.
"Hello, Tom."
It was the doctor from the hospital.
CLICK.
He hung up.
At my next appointment I told my internist what happened. Yo, Doctor Doolittle, remember how I had food poisoning? Your resident made an obscene phone call to my house at one in the morning the night I got home.
Silence.
Clearly, he thought I was insane.
Somewhere there's a weird doctor running loose. He'd be about fifty now. I know what you're thinking:
Only one?
I have probalby written about this before, but as a certified senior, I repeat myself without apology.
So, let's return to those halcyon days of yesteryear. I was 41. [I think Roosevelt was president. Teddy Roosevelt.] My children were 11 and 14. It was Saturday night, about midnight. I had spent the evening in front of the TV, wearing my weekend uniform of a t-shirt and sweats, no hair or makeup. I fell asleep during SNL, only to wake up with pain that seemed to emanate from my knees to my neck. The pain was not specific, it was everywhere. I couldn't decide whether I was going to throw up or evacuate. Fifteen minutes of mounting agony passed, enough time for things to dial into focus. I began to realize that finding a seat on the toilet would be prudent.
My entire abdomen felt like it could explode. I didn't have a headache, although I felt completely out of it. My bones didn't hurt. My muscles didn't ache. This event was having all the hallmarks of BAD FOOD, a problem for anyone who eats in restaurants and bars.
The night before my attack, I had been with two girlfriends at the bar in the lower level of the Hancock, where we often gathered after work, waiting for the traffic to subside and go home. I remember eating lots of the free salsa. Much more than they did. Turns out they got a flu version of food poisoning. I got the Full Monty.
Now I was sitting on the toilet in so much pain that all I wanted to find was a cold place to rest my head. So, with my sweatpants around my ankles, I crawled off the can and made my way over to the bathtub. On my hands and knees with my entire body in agony, I rested the side of my face on the cool surface of the tub. Hmmmm, that sure felt good.
One thought kept repeating itself over and over, as my butt cheeks posed in the full moon position, "Didn't they find Elvis like this? Boy, I hope I don't die here, with my bare arse smiling at anybody who walks in.
Finally the cold edge of the tub revived me enough to sit on the throne again. Soon it was clear that I was in deep doo-doo, figuratively and literally, so I called 911.
I woke my kids up to tell them that I was going to the hospital, but not to worry because I would be okay, even though I was lying on the floor in a fetal position. The two of them stood, half asleep, staring at me, and mumbled something like, "Okay, Mom," and went back to bed.
My memory may be faulty, but I recall at least ten paramedics coming to my rescue.and as they transported me, I remember wishing I'd changed into something nicer or at least combed my hair.
At the emergency room I was stowed far away from everybody else. I found myself relegated to a darkened hospital room that had its own private toilet. I spent the next three hours sitting in there, taking care of business into a special container, which some lucky person would come to collect after each passing. And they wonder why there's a nursing shortage.
With almost nothing more left to poo, I started to feel like I might be okay. In fact, if I had been at home I would have made myself some tea and toast, turned on the television, and snoozed my way through the rest of the weekend.
So after one last batch, I figured they'd be letting me go home. Only this time, I noticed it was bloody. "Who did that?" I wondered. Funny how the mind disassociates when something comes out of your body that is just wrong. My reaction was, "This is some mistake." But reality set in. Rats. Now they've got me. I'll never leave.
With this new wrinkle I qualified for medical attention. A resident doc came in to examine me for admittance to the hospital. The exam consisted of raising my hospital gown and thumping my belly, I think. I was lying on a gurney barely half awake, exhausted from hours of trying to eliminate the poison from my body, so I didn't question what he was doing. Until later.
I was in the hospital for six days. I probably had e.coli or some kind of salmonella, but you have to do the cultures within 24 hours and 24 hours had passed between the time I got to the emergency room on Saturday at midnight and when the lab opened on Monday morning.
So the culture came back negative. Duh. Ironically, I kept passing blood for a couple of more days in the hospital, but when I asked if that would also be cultured, I was told no, because they had cultured that first batch.
So with a negative blood culture I had to endure conversations with a social worker who was operating under the assumption that this was "probably" an episode of colitis, a disease I had never had in my life. Clearly I was mental.
My friends called to say how sick they got only to OOOO and Ahhhhhh about how sick I was. I tried to tell the docs that I had friends who got sick too, but no one was listening.
Strangely, the week I was hospitalized was also the very week that hundreds of people were getting sick from salmonella in the milk purchased from a local grocery store chain. One I didn't frequent. Some people got flu symptoms. Some were passing blood.
After I left the hospital, I reviewed my micro books and realized there had been a screw up with the lab. So I wrote the hospital and brought it to their attention. If I had known I would be writing a blog I would have kept their acknowledgement of my excellent sleuthing, so I could quote it here. Oh well.
Meanwhile, the resident who admitted me to the hospital was coming by a lot. At the outset, he had to tell me who he was because I didn't have a clue. Like I said, I was out of it in the emergency room.
First he came by with his boss, who informed me that I was hooked up to an IV because I wouldn't be eating anything for a few days. Then "my doc" would also come by in the evening, once when my kids were there, to bring me a paper, show me a sigmoidoscopy report, exciting stuff like that. I figured that was his job. Apparently not.
The day before they let me out, after a delicious repast of Jello, cottage cheese, chicken broth and crackers, I finally felt well enough to put on some makeup. I figured looking human would get me home faster. One of the nurses came in and smirked, "Getting ready for a visit from the doctor?"
She must have seen the puzzled look on my face because she quickly changed the subject to something else. Hmmm, maybe the doctor wasn't supposed to be coming by so often.
The next morning I was set free. I got dressed, collected my things, and left my room, only to see "my doc" sitting at the nursing station. He greeted me and I watched the staff turn and look at me. I nodded to him, said goodbye quickly and left.
It was Saturday, a week since I had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. That night I made a meal of tea with lemon and some cinnamon toast and settled in for an evening of SNL again. I dozed off, as usual, until the phone rang at one in the morning.
"Hello."
"Hello, Mrs. Linklater?"
[FYI: The caller used my first name, which I don't use here.]
I recognized the voice, but I couldn't place it.
"This is Mrs. Linklater."
Then he said something inappropriate. And I figured out who it was.
"Hello, Tom."
It was the doctor from the hospital.
He hung up.
At my next appointment I told my internist what happened. Yo, Doctor Doolittle, remember how I had food poisoning? Your resident made an obscene phone call to my house at one in the morning the night I got home.
Silence.
Clearly, he thought I was insane.
Somewhere there's a weird doctor running loose. He'd be about fifty now. I know what you're thinking:
Only one?
Friday, December 12, 2008
Feeling Up The Christmas Spirit
Given the number of family members and impressionable young people [okay under 50] who read Mrs. Linklater's blog, it would behoove her to modulate her entries with a suitable dose of decorum.
But why?
Last night Mrs. L went to a damn fun party and got home way past bedtime on a school night. She had attended a celebration for someone who lost her job in a corporate housecleaning. As the guest of honor's mother said in her opening remarks, "I've never been to a party for someone who just got fired." Point well taken. Speaking personally, Mrs. Linklater, with good reason, can't ever remember dancing the night away when her own butt got kicked out the door.
A new CEO came in and eliminated the celebrant's position. We don't need no freakin' VP in charge of making us money hand over fist. The woman in question is a rock star, if you judged by the number of people who came in from around the country to party with her last night. I was honored to be included on her list of invited guests, since it was quite an auspicious crowd.
The guest of honor was wearing a short, black off the shoulder number that was probably a famous designer dress, but Mrs. L only recognizes North Face and EMS so she can't share any fashion statements. Except to note that she herself was a bevy of blackness, topped with a shiny jacket that looked like a patent leather lizard had sacrificed its life to make Mrs. L look good.
A gay acquaintances confirmed an unexpected effect when he whispered, "We're looking rather like a dominatrix tonight, aren't we?"
One of Chicago's sleek new restaurants was shut down for the evening so we could roast and toast the party girl over squash soup, duck risotto, prime rib, and an assortment of wines I actually enjoyed beyond the first sip. Very swank.
You know the chef is good when the appetizers and desserts are teeny weeny. What those little bits of food lacked in size, they made up for in plentiful variety and good taste. There must have been twenty different appetizers, all so small I had to put on my glasses to see what I was eating. My faves were the ridiculously small plates with four tiny sauteed scallops clustered in the middle. Without actually confessing to a final count, let's just say I left a stack of empty miniature platters in my wake.
The desserts were so small, they lulled me into a sense of caloric immunity. How much damage could I do to myself tasting a few iddy biddy half inch five layer cakes, puffs, and chocolate squares. As long as there was one left, I figured I was good to go. There was also a doll sized cylinder of chocolate mousse, or so I thought, but it turned out to be blueberry something, the only disappointment of the evening. Nothing tastes worse than blueberry when your tongue is twitching for chocolate.
After the food fest, there was dancing in a secret downstairs disco, which was still going strong when the clock struck midnight, then one, then two. Mrs. Linklater preserved her energy by limiting her bootyshake to chair dancing, a necessity after hurting her knee in a failed attempt to get out of bed a couple of weeks ago.
When the DJ played Flash Dance she attracted quite a crowd with her reenactment of that memorable back lit chair scene from the movie, narrowly avoiding a splash dance when one party goer attempted to pour an entire pitcher of water over her, hoping to capture the exhilaration of the finale.
Earlier in the evening, Mrs. Linklater noticed one young man [way under 50] who, had she been a mere twenty years younger, would have had to blowtorch her from his side.
As everyone began to head downstairs to the disco, she bumped into him by accident. No really. Instead of someone telling Mrs. L to back off and leave the poor guy alone, she was introduced to him instead. Ever meet a person who gives you a look that lasts long enough to ignite a significant level of thermal warming? Even after you demurely try to look away? Okay, maybe not demurely.
But old age has a way of preventing regrettable personal disasters, so Mrs. Linklater simply stored that moment of heat for her scrapbook, got some refreshment and sat down to enjoy the music, watch the others, and bob her head up and down in her chair on the edge of the dance area. Several people came over and tried to do spin moves with her while she was seated, but they soon realized that was a dumb idea and returned to the tangled web of dancers on the floor.
And then, the unthinkable happened. Or in Mrs. Linklater's case, an unexpected dream came true. Was it the frenzy of the music, the number of libations on his part, the flashing lights from the mirrored ball, or just a cosmic moment that caused Mr.Thermal Warming to approach Mrs. L, looking like Tom Jones about to collect a pocketful of panties? He was clearly on a mission in her direction. Just to be sure, Mrs. L turned around to see if there was someone behind her.
Thermal man had already revealed his considerable salsa chops earlier, putting the Latino guys to shame demonstrating his excellent Dancing with the Stars moves. Now he was in front of Mrs. L, his belt at eye level, his legs straddling her, all the while dancing in a manner that good taste and restraint prevent her from describing here. [Call me.]
Let's just say Mrs. Linklater had her own private dancer. And today she's feeling in a holiday mood.
NOTE TO FAMILY -- when the time comes to take me to the home, tell them I'll put up with the bad food and patronizing attendants. But please skip the high school singalongs and Mah Jong games. If I have to spend the end of my life strapped to a chair, let it be with a Chippendale dancer in my lap.
But why?
Last night Mrs. L went to a damn fun party and got home way past bedtime on a school night. She had attended a celebration for someone who lost her job in a corporate housecleaning. As the guest of honor's mother said in her opening remarks, "I've never been to a party for someone who just got fired." Point well taken. Speaking personally, Mrs. Linklater, with good reason, can't ever remember dancing the night away when her own butt got kicked out the door.
A new CEO came in and eliminated the celebrant's position. We don't need no freakin' VP in charge of making us money hand over fist. The woman in question is a rock star, if you judged by the number of people who came in from around the country to party with her last night. I was honored to be included on her list of invited guests, since it was quite an auspicious crowd.
The guest of honor was wearing a short, black off the shoulder number that was probably a famous designer dress, but Mrs. L only recognizes North Face and EMS so she can't share any fashion statements. Except to note that she herself was a bevy of blackness, topped with a shiny jacket that looked like a patent leather lizard had sacrificed its life to make Mrs. L look good.
A gay acquaintances confirmed an unexpected effect when he whispered, "We're looking rather like a dominatrix tonight, aren't we?"
One of Chicago's sleek new restaurants was shut down for the evening so we could roast and toast the party girl over squash soup, duck risotto, prime rib, and an assortment of wines I actually enjoyed beyond the first sip. Very swank.
You know the chef is good when the appetizers and desserts are teeny weeny. What those little bits of food lacked in size, they made up for in plentiful variety and good taste. There must have been twenty different appetizers, all so small I had to put on my glasses to see what I was eating. My faves were the ridiculously small plates with four tiny sauteed scallops clustered in the middle. Without actually confessing to a final count, let's just say I left a stack of empty miniature platters in my wake.
The desserts were so small, they lulled me into a sense of caloric immunity. How much damage could I do to myself tasting a few iddy biddy half inch five layer cakes, puffs, and chocolate squares. As long as there was one left, I figured I was good to go. There was also a doll sized cylinder of chocolate mousse, or so I thought, but it turned out to be blueberry something, the only disappointment of the evening. Nothing tastes worse than blueberry when your tongue is twitching for chocolate.
After the food fest, there was dancing in a secret downstairs disco, which was still going strong when the clock struck midnight, then one, then two. Mrs. Linklater preserved her energy by limiting her bootyshake to chair dancing, a necessity after hurting her knee in a failed attempt to get out of bed a couple of weeks ago.
When the DJ played Flash Dance she attracted quite a crowd with her reenactment of that memorable back lit chair scene from the movie, narrowly avoiding a splash dance when one party goer attempted to pour an entire pitcher of water over her, hoping to capture the exhilaration of the finale.
Earlier in the evening, Mrs. Linklater noticed one young man [way under 50] who, had she been a mere twenty years younger, would have had to blowtorch her from his side.
As everyone began to head downstairs to the disco, she bumped into him by accident. No really. Instead of someone telling Mrs. L to back off and leave the poor guy alone, she was introduced to him instead. Ever meet a person who gives you a look that lasts long enough to ignite a significant level of thermal warming? Even after you demurely try to look away? Okay, maybe not demurely.
But old age has a way of preventing regrettable personal disasters, so Mrs. Linklater simply stored that moment of heat for her scrapbook, got some refreshment and sat down to enjoy the music, watch the others, and bob her head up and down in her chair on the edge of the dance area. Several people came over and tried to do spin moves with her while she was seated, but they soon realized that was a dumb idea and returned to the tangled web of dancers on the floor.
And then, the unthinkable happened. Or in Mrs. Linklater's case, an unexpected dream came true. Was it the frenzy of the music, the number of libations on his part, the flashing lights from the mirrored ball, or just a cosmic moment that caused Mr.Thermal Warming to approach Mrs. L, looking like Tom Jones about to collect a pocketful of panties? He was clearly on a mission in her direction. Just to be sure, Mrs. L turned around to see if there was someone behind her.
Thermal man had already revealed his considerable salsa chops earlier, putting the Latino guys to shame demonstrating his excellent Dancing with the Stars moves. Now he was in front of Mrs. L, his belt at eye level, his legs straddling her, all the while dancing in a manner that good taste and restraint prevent her from describing here. [Call me.]
Let's just say Mrs. Linklater had her own private dancer. And today she's feeling in a holiday mood.
NOTE TO FAMILY -- when the time comes to take me to the home, tell them I'll put up with the bad food and patronizing attendants. But please skip the high school singalongs and Mah Jong games. If I have to spend the end of my life strapped to a chair, let it be with a Chippendale dancer in my lap.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Superior Scribbler Part Deux
The second person who nominated me for a Superior Scribbler award was the Yak Woman. Her blog is HERE.
In the interest of full disclosure, I have been a Yak fan since she publicly revealed her husband Ray's inordinate fascination with her huge breastesses years ago in her former journal at AOL Back when there were about 200 of us living semi-nude in the commune.
She has Jon Stewart's timing, Joan Rivers' snarkiness, and Sarah Silverman's outrageous humor, sprinkled with some medicated Amy Winehouse. She called me once when I was in the bathroom at a wake and I was laughing so hard there was a crowd outside the door and people staring when I came out.
Now Yak's even got one of her sons writing on her blog. It's apparent that her insane way with words didn't fall too far from the inmates at the asylum.
She originally got started writing movie reviews which, in my humble opinion, were better and certainly much funnier than whatever anybody else was writing on the web. But she's since brought her asshead humor to everything from haircuts in Vegas to mowing the lawn to living with her parents.
However, her now infrequent movie deconstructions will always remain the chocolate truffles of my laugh life. With less calories.
Try her, you'll like her. Even better, she likes me. See -- here's proof:
Again, another favorite blog in the no-bullshit zone. Mrs. Linklater is a hoot, a holler and yes, she's ALL THAT. I would have love to have hung out with her in high school, but alas, I wasn't born then....haaaaa.
Next up -- the Artist in Residence
In the interest of full disclosure, I have been a Yak fan since she publicly revealed her husband Ray's inordinate fascination with her huge breastesses years ago in her former journal at AOL Back when there were about 200 of us living semi-nude in the commune.
She has Jon Stewart's timing, Joan Rivers' snarkiness, and Sarah Silverman's outrageous humor, sprinkled with some medicated Amy Winehouse. She called me once when I was in the bathroom at a wake and I was laughing so hard there was a crowd outside the door and people staring when I came out.
Now Yak's even got one of her sons writing on her blog. It's apparent that her insane way with words didn't fall too far from the inmates at the asylum.
She originally got started writing movie reviews which, in my humble opinion, were better and certainly much funnier than whatever anybody else was writing on the web. But she's since brought her asshead humor to everything from haircuts in Vegas to mowing the lawn to living with her parents.
However, her now infrequent movie deconstructions will always remain the chocolate truffles of my laugh life. With less calories.
Try her, you'll like her. Even better, she likes me. See -- here's proof:
Again, another favorite blog in the no-bullshit zone. Mrs. Linklater is a hoot, a holler and yes, she's ALL THAT. I would have love to have hung out with her in high school, but alas, I wasn't born then....haaaaa.
Next up -- the Artist in Residence
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Honest Abe Is Rolling Over In His Grave
Those of you who don't live in Illinois may not know about our history of felonious governors. Along with a couple who were jailed back in the sixties and seventies [Otto Kerner and Dan Walker], we've got these last two.
Most recently, our former head of state, George Ryan, a corner pharmacist and downstate Republican, has been rotting in prison for corruption. He was out of office when they finally nabbed him. Ryan is best remembered for being our Secretary of State when six children in one family were burned alive in an accident caused by a truck driver who had purchased his driver's license illegally. In the end they got Ryan's chief of staff to finally rat him out. In exchange for a reduced sentence.
Today our current governor, Rod Blagojevich [BLAH-GOYA-VITCH], a former congressman from Chicago and a Democrat, was arrested at his home for conspiracy to commit corruption and for being the annoying little jerk wad everybody always thought he was. Ironically, the congressional seat he took over was vacated by another politician ousted for corruption, Dan Rostenkowski.
Even his family doesn't like the governor. Blagojevich has been having a public feud with his father-in-law, Richard Mell, a Chicago alderman, since taking office. In fact,the Rodmeister's latest approval rating -- 13% -- makes President Bush seem like a rock star by comparison.
Here's the best part -- among his many recorded attempts to extort money from people, including a children's hospital, Blagojevich was caught on tape trying to sell Barack Obama's recently vacated senate seat to the highest bidder. Whoever got the job would have to guarantee all kinds of perks in exchange for the governor's appointment. He planned to secure a cushy retirement gig like an ambassadorship or head of a union. Oh, and something for his wife. Not to mention cash.
Now that he's finally been arrested -- rumors have been circling the drain for months -- everyone wants to know, does that mean he still gets to appoint Obama's replacement? Nothing like getting to select a United States senator when you're out on bond. On the other hand, if the governor isn't around to make the appointment, then who does the deed?
The right thing to do would be for him to resign. But, being the combative little martinet that he is, I think that's not going to happen. Maybe, for once, the legislature will get together to figure out how to unload the guy. It might be the first thing they've been able to agree on since he took office. And that's way from being a done deal.
It almost makes a person grateful for Mayor Daley.
Most recently, our former head of state, George Ryan, a corner pharmacist and downstate Republican, has been rotting in prison for corruption. He was out of office when they finally nabbed him. Ryan is best remembered for being our Secretary of State when six children in one family were burned alive in an accident caused by a truck driver who had purchased his driver's license illegally. In the end they got Ryan's chief of staff to finally rat him out. In exchange for a reduced sentence.
Today our current governor, Rod Blagojevich [BLAH-GOYA-VITCH], a former congressman from Chicago and a Democrat, was arrested at his home for conspiracy to commit corruption and for being the annoying little jerk wad everybody always thought he was. Ironically, the congressional seat he took over was vacated by another politician ousted for corruption, Dan Rostenkowski.
Even his family doesn't like the governor. Blagojevich has been having a public feud with his father-in-law, Richard Mell, a Chicago alderman, since taking office. In fact,the Rodmeister's latest approval rating -- 13% -- makes President Bush seem like a rock star by comparison.
Here's the best part -- among his many recorded attempts to extort money from people, including a children's hospital, Blagojevich was caught on tape trying to sell Barack Obama's recently vacated senate seat to the highest bidder. Whoever got the job would have to guarantee all kinds of perks in exchange for the governor's appointment. He planned to secure a cushy retirement gig like an ambassadorship or head of a union. Oh, and something for his wife. Not to mention cash.
Now that he's finally been arrested -- rumors have been circling the drain for months -- everyone wants to know, does that mean he still gets to appoint Obama's replacement? Nothing like getting to select a United States senator when you're out on bond. On the other hand, if the governor isn't around to make the appointment, then who does the deed?
The right thing to do would be for him to resign. But, being the combative little martinet that he is, I think that's not going to happen. Maybe, for once, the legislature will get together to figure out how to unload the guy. It might be the first thing they've been able to agree on since he took office. And that's way from being a done deal.
It almost makes a person grateful for Mayor Daley.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Paying Homage
Here's a brief profile and a link to one of the people who nominated me for a Superior Scribbler award. One of the by-laws for accepting the Scribbler honor requires that I pay homage to each person who pimped me.
In a perfect world I would keep him as a pet. Small, yet remarkably lifelike, Remo writes like a machete slashing though the underbrush. His take on the world is as sweet and sentimental as napalm in the morning. After reading his comments in my blog, some have been bold enough to call us the Nick and Nora Charles of the internet. [Actually, that would be three people, all over 75.] The first time I read one of his entries, he had me at "high and tight." As the years have passed, I've thought about taking my dry cleaning and heading for Arizona to get my ticket punched. Thankfully, the restraining order has kept me at a safe distance.
Here's how he nominated me [I'm already verklempt]:
Hmm. One left. Damn, I'm screwed no matter what I do.
I give you Mrs. L --LINK REMOVED BECAUSE YOU'RE ALREADY HERE
Seriously, I'm giving her to you. I can't handle her anymore. Mrs. L is the woman sitting in the passenger seat giving the finger to the Cop who just pulled you over. Anyone who is willing to leave her dry-cleaning on the front door in a cheap attempt to entice police to commit unlawful entry is one Nutella short of a full jar. Rumor has it she was once married to a rich oil dude who mysteriously fell overboard at sea, leaving Mrs. L a lucrative career in advertising and marketing, which she promptly squandered by sleeping around with almost-famous people and exhorbitant repairs to the POS Jeep Cherokee she refuses to sell. If I was ten years older, I'd be on her doorstep. If I was ten years younger, I'd be her poolboy.
Film at Eleven.
Coming soon -- the YAK woman
In a perfect world I would keep him as a pet. Small, yet remarkably lifelike, Remo writes like a machete slashing though the underbrush. His take on the world is as sweet and sentimental as napalm in the morning. After reading his comments in my blog, some have been bold enough to call us the Nick and Nora Charles of the internet. [Actually, that would be three people, all over 75.] The first time I read one of his entries, he had me at "high and tight." As the years have passed, I've thought about taking my dry cleaning and heading for Arizona to get my ticket punched. Thankfully, the restraining order has kept me at a safe distance.
Here's how he nominated me [I'm already verklempt]:
Hmm. One left. Damn, I'm screwed no matter what I do.
I give you Mrs. L --LINK REMOVED BECAUSE YOU'RE ALREADY HERE
Seriously, I'm giving her to you. I can't handle her anymore. Mrs. L is the woman sitting in the passenger seat giving the finger to the Cop who just pulled you over. Anyone who is willing to leave her dry-cleaning on the front door in a cheap attempt to entice police to commit unlawful entry is one Nutella short of a full jar. Rumor has it she was once married to a rich oil dude who mysteriously fell overboard at sea, leaving Mrs. L a lucrative career in advertising and marketing, which she promptly squandered by sleeping around with almost-famous people and exhorbitant repairs to the POS Jeep Cherokee she refuses to sell. If I was ten years older, I'd be on her doorstep. If I was ten years younger, I'd be her poolboy.
Film at Eleven.
Coming soon -- the YAK woman
Weather Girl
You know it's been too cold when it has to warm up to snow. Freezing your ass is a weather pattern here. Thirty-five degrees feels like a heat wave. The other day, I actually said, "Hey, it warmed up." It was 31. I wish I were kidding. The thermostat may read 70. But my toilet seat feels like a block of ice.
You people south of St. Louis don't have a clue.
I'm sleeping with two down comforters, high top wool socks, polar fleece pants and a sweatshirt with a hood. Yep, I got my sexy back.
I purchased one of those little ceramic heaters for my legs while I'm at the computer. They come plastered with warnings that read: "high temperature, keep electrical cords, diapers, and other furnishings at least 3 feet from the front of the heater and away from the side and rear." Turns out I can't be more than one foot away from the heater or all I get is a wind chill factor. Does this mean my Depends are going to burst into flames?
You people south of St. Louis don't have a clue.
I'm sleeping with two down comforters, high top wool socks, polar fleece pants and a sweatshirt with a hood. Yep, I got my sexy back.
I purchased one of those little ceramic heaters for my legs while I'm at the computer. They come plastered with warnings that read: "high temperature, keep electrical cords, diapers, and other furnishings at least 3 feet from the front of the heater and away from the side and rear." Turns out I can't be more than one foot away from the heater or all I get is a wind chill factor. Does this mean my Depends are going to burst into flames?
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Thank You and Goodnight
By the way -- I was nominated by four different bloggers for a SUPERIOR SCRIBBLER award about three weeks ago.
I'm still in shock. Only four?
Since then, I've been on the Mrs. Linklater World Tour through LA and TEXAS. This is not to be confused with Remo's upcoming Sponge Bob Short Pants Bus Tour to visit everyone who comments in his blog. As a result, I haven't had time to review all the rights and responsibilities required of the nominees. There appears to be a boatload of rules to follow. And you know me and rules.
Before I go rogue, I notice that not every issue is covered in the by-laws for accepting the award with grace, charm and poise. For instance, does receiving four nominations mean that I have to come up with five more nominations for EACH time I was nominated? That would be 20 blogs. I don't read twenty blogs.
Luckily, there isn't an answer available, so I'll simply say, NO. Not going to do that.
PAUSE. . .
We interrupt this scintillating entry with a multiple choice question. Which one of the following programs on commercial TV would you want to watch while writing in my blog?
Ah, remember commercial TV? Cable used to be commercial-free TV -- haaa. Now cable basically means porn and swearing. You can say the "c" word and show your naughty bits [I still long for the full frontal re-runs of OZ].
Unfortunately, there are no cable choices offered on Mrs. Linklater's bedroom TV because it isn't hooked up to the great channel surfer in the sky. You're stuck with a television from the 90's. With programming to match. So take your pick:
CBS: Hallmark Hall of Fame Movie about a teacher with Tourette's syndrome -- where the commercials are better than the show
NBC: Redskins v. Ravens football game [now 14 - 0; eventually worse]
ABC: Desperate Housewives [now with a serial killer] followed by Brothers and Sisters [whose mother is Sally Field]
CW Network: Some Teen Movie followed by news
PBS: Singing Priests [out on bail?] followed by John Denver [still raising money for public television after all these years]
FOX: American Dad followed by news
my50: Two hours of House Reruns -- Ewwww, House just kissed someone on the lips!
One more option: My TV also has a built in VHS player -- yes it's that old. And there just happens to be a stack of VHS movies sitting next to it.
You can choose from SAY ANYTHING, PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN, WHALE RIDER, THE KIDS STAYS IN THE PICTURE, and THE TAO OF STEVE if you don't want to watch TV. [NOTE TO SELF: Didn't Say Anything just celebrate its 20th anniversary? Time to put it back on the shelf.]
Or, if you want variety when you media multi-task, you can put one of Mrs. L's old DVDs in the computer and watch a movie while blogging: DUMA, ROCKY BALBOA [2 copies!], HISTORY OF VIOLENCE, BLADE RUNNER [director's cut], MUNICH, EASTERN PROMISES, TRANSAMERICA, UNITED 93, AUGUST RUSH, MR. BROOKS, THE GOOD SHEPHERD, OFFICE SPACE, and BREACH.
BUT THERE'S MORE!!! You can watch the old TV and an old DVD at the same time, or a really old VHS movie on the old TV with an old DVD on the 'puter.
Sometimes the south wall of my bedroom looks like a control booth from I Love Lucy.
Plug in the bubbling Lava Lamp I keep as a momento of my attempts to enjoy a misspent youth and some people might start tripping.
I predict that most Y chromosomes would choose football on TV no matter how old it is with a side order of a Rocky Balboa DVD. And the X women would go for the Hallmark Hall of Fame diasbility/disease movie. Along with the sweet and sentimental August Rush.
While you contemplate your selections, Mrs. Linklater has chosen to watch HOUSE on the TV and take a trip down memory lane with BLADE RUNNER in a small window on the computer -- oh, those halcyon days of yesteryear, when Harrison Ford was hotter than flapjacks on a griddle. And before Sean Young poured gasoline on her career and torched it.
Mrs. Linklater often maxes out on media from 1993 while writing in her blog. Imagine if she had a webcam. On second thought, let's not go there.
Now back to our regularly scheduled entry.
So I'll be here next week trying to figure out how to thank all the bloggers who nominated me and post the blogs I think deserve acknowledgment. While I try to learn how to upload all the other crap that has to be included.
Not that I'm complaining. . .
I'm still in shock. Only four?
Since then, I've been on the Mrs. Linklater World Tour through LA and TEXAS. This is not to be confused with Remo's upcoming Sponge Bob Short Pants Bus Tour to visit everyone who comments in his blog. As a result, I haven't had time to review all the rights and responsibilities required of the nominees. There appears to be a boatload of rules to follow. And you know me and rules.
Before I go rogue, I notice that not every issue is covered in the by-laws for accepting the award with grace, charm and poise. For instance, does receiving four nominations mean that I have to come up with five more nominations for EACH time I was nominated? That would be 20 blogs. I don't read twenty blogs.
Luckily, there isn't an answer available, so I'll simply say, NO. Not going to do that.
PAUSE. . .
We interrupt this scintillating entry with a multiple choice question. Which one of the following programs on commercial TV would you want to watch while writing in my blog?
Ah, remember commercial TV? Cable used to be commercial-free TV -- haaa. Now cable basically means porn and swearing. You can say the "c" word and show your naughty bits [I still long for the full frontal re-runs of OZ].
Unfortunately, there are no cable choices offered on Mrs. Linklater's bedroom TV because it isn't hooked up to the great channel surfer in the sky. You're stuck with a television from the 90's. With programming to match. So take your pick:
CBS: Hallmark Hall of Fame Movie about a teacher with Tourette's syndrome -- where the commercials are better than the show
NBC: Redskins v. Ravens football game [now 14 - 0; eventually worse]
ABC: Desperate Housewives [now with a serial killer] followed by Brothers and Sisters [whose mother is Sally Field]
CW Network: Some Teen Movie followed by news
PBS: Singing Priests [out on bail?] followed by John Denver [still raising money for public television after all these years]
FOX: American Dad followed by news
my50: Two hours of House Reruns -- Ewwww, House just kissed someone on the lips!
One more option: My TV also has a built in VHS player -- yes it's that old. And there just happens to be a stack of VHS movies sitting next to it.
You can choose from SAY ANYTHING, PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN, WHALE RIDER, THE KIDS STAYS IN THE PICTURE, and THE TAO OF STEVE if you don't want to watch TV. [NOTE TO SELF: Didn't Say Anything just celebrate its 20th anniversary? Time to put it back on the shelf.]
Or, if you want variety when you media multi-task, you can put one of Mrs. L's old DVDs in the computer and watch a movie while blogging: DUMA, ROCKY BALBOA [2 copies!], HISTORY OF VIOLENCE, BLADE RUNNER [director's cut], MUNICH, EASTERN PROMISES, TRANSAMERICA, UNITED 93, AUGUST RUSH, MR. BROOKS, THE GOOD SHEPHERD, OFFICE SPACE, and BREACH.
BUT THERE'S MORE!!! You can watch the old TV and an old DVD at the same time, or a really old VHS movie on the old TV with an old DVD on the 'puter.
Sometimes the south wall of my bedroom looks like a control booth from I Love Lucy.
Plug in the bubbling Lava Lamp I keep as a momento of my attempts to enjoy a misspent youth and some people might start tripping.
I predict that most Y chromosomes would choose football on TV no matter how old it is with a side order of a Rocky Balboa DVD. And the X women would go for the Hallmark Hall of Fame diasbility/disease movie. Along with the sweet and sentimental August Rush.
While you contemplate your selections, Mrs. Linklater has chosen to watch HOUSE on the TV and take a trip down memory lane with BLADE RUNNER in a small window on the computer -- oh, those halcyon days of yesteryear, when Harrison Ford was hotter than flapjacks on a griddle. And before Sean Young poured gasoline on her career and torched it.
Mrs. Linklater often maxes out on media from 1993 while writing in her blog. Imagine if she had a webcam. On second thought, let's not go there.
Now back to our regularly scheduled entry.
So I'll be here next week trying to figure out how to thank all the bloggers who nominated me and post the blogs I think deserve acknowledgment. While I try to learn how to upload all the other crap that has to be included.
Not that I'm complaining. . .
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Book 'Em, Dano
Well I almost made it through the year without a police incident. Only 27 days to go. I could have kept my mouth shut and cruised through the rest of the month. But no-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.
I stopped by the forest preserve on my way to the city for lunch to do a drive by cleaning of my front seat. This entails leaning out the window and tossing junk mail [with my name and address removed], empty bags of fast food, boxes, dead magazines, old newspapers, candy wrappers, napkins and iced tea bottles into one of the forest preserve's convenient trash cans. Better theirs than mine, I figure. But actually, it was just more convenient than going home to do it.
I pulled up parallel to the can, put the car in park and took off my seatbelt so I could aim better. I left the engine running because it was very cold.
After I did my due dilligence with the trash, I pulled up just past the garbage can to put on my makeup, after which I would drive to the city. I should point out that many times the cops from my town sit in the exact same spot where i was, doing their paperwork.
Meanwhile, after moving up a car length so i wasn't blocking the can, I put the car in park again, and left the engine running again. My seatbelt was still off, since I wasn't leaving yet. It might be worth noting that there wasn't another civilian car, parked or otherwise, in the whole place.
This all took about ten minutes.
Suddenly there was a forest preserve sheriff's officer next to me. I rolled down my window. He said that I had to park my car between the parallel lines, not sit perpendicular to them. He didn't use the word perpendicular.
At that point, all I had to say, was, "Yes, officer, thank you officer," and do as I pleased, which was finish my make up and drive away. But then, I wouldn't have an entry for this blog.
Since I am Mrs. Linklater, I said "But why? There's no one here. And I wasn't going to park, I was just dumping some trash out of my car."
"Well, you're not by the garbage can now. I passed by here ten minutes ago and you're no longer throwing out any garbage."
"Because I was putting on my makeup. Then I'm going downtown."
"You just said you were throwing out garbage and now you're putting on your makeup. How many excuses are you going to come up with."
Now he gets out of his car and comes around to the driver's side window. "Let me see your license and proof of insurance."
Then he started playing semantic games.
"So are you parked or are you driving?"
"I'm parked with the engine on. Why are you harrassing me?"
"Harrassing you? I'm harrassing you? You're looking at three tickets."
"Yes, you are harassing me. I was about to drive downtown because I have to be there at noon."
[NOTE TO SELF: You shouldn't have told him you had to be someplace by noon.]
"There is no reason for me to have to park between the lines because then I'd have to get out of the car. Pulling up next to the can is easier. What is your problem?"
"So you admit you're driving, not parked."
"I'm parked with the engine on."
"You just said you were driving. I can give you a ticket for not having your seatbelt on."
Then he looked at my insurance and it was last year's card. Rats.
"And you don't have your current insurance card."
"Look I'm tired of this harassment. Write the tickets." I still had half an hour to get downtown without being too late.
"Write the tickets?"
"Yeah, I want to get this over with. Write the tickets."
While he was writing the tickets I thought I would multi-task and put some more garbage into the can. I got out of my car this time, because his was blocking mine, only to have him order me to get back in or he would take me to the police station.
"Where's the station?" I asked, giving it some thought before I decided just to get back into the car.
It then took him half an hour to write two tickets, not three: one apparently, for not wearing my seatbelt while the car was in park with the engine on: and one for not having my current insurance card. The third offense never materialized.
I called my lunch peeps and said I would be running late because I was duking it out with a cop.
He gave me my tickets and announced that my court date would be January 12th. Fark. I need my driver's license to fly, so I asked him how to get it back. I didn't mention I had a passport, because he didn't ask.
[SECOND NOTE TO SELF: Get a bond card; get a bond card; get a bond card.]
He didn't know the process for getting my license returned to me before my court date and had to call back to base to ask. He wasn't counting on this little wrinkle.
"Do you have $75?"
"Yes."
"We have to go to the nearest police station so you can pay and get it back."
"Let's go."
He looked at his watch. Maybe now I was messing with his plans.
We got to the police station in ten minutes and he spent ten more minutes making personal calls before I could hand him the money, sign the bond release and get my license back.
Here's the ironic bad news: even though I got my license back, he checked the box on the bond release that says I can't leave the state without a judge's permission for six weeks. Fark again.
Here's the good news: I called the court house about getting permission to leave the state during the next six weeks. Lovely Linda said to come to court on Monday afternoon and talk to a judge. I don't need a lawyer. She said the judge may also take care of my tickets then, too. Without the officer there? Yes. Personally I think she's wrong. Also part of me wants to meet this jerkwad in court. I'm already taking photos of the crime scene.
On the other hand, if the judge can actually hear my case, I'll be very happy to get it over with. But just having permission to leave this igloo will be good enough for now.
And I got downtown in time for a tasty entree salad and profiteroles for dessert. Na na na na na.
I stopped by the forest preserve on my way to the city for lunch to do a drive by cleaning of my front seat. This entails leaning out the window and tossing junk mail [with my name and address removed], empty bags of fast food, boxes, dead magazines, old newspapers, candy wrappers, napkins and iced tea bottles into one of the forest preserve's convenient trash cans. Better theirs than mine, I figure. But actually, it was just more convenient than going home to do it.
I pulled up parallel to the can, put the car in park and took off my seatbelt so I could aim better. I left the engine running because it was very cold.
After I did my due dilligence with the trash, I pulled up just past the garbage can to put on my makeup, after which I would drive to the city. I should point out that many times the cops from my town sit in the exact same spot where i was, doing their paperwork.
Meanwhile, after moving up a car length so i wasn't blocking the can, I put the car in park again, and left the engine running again. My seatbelt was still off, since I wasn't leaving yet. It might be worth noting that there wasn't another civilian car, parked or otherwise, in the whole place.
This all took about ten minutes.
Suddenly there was a forest preserve sheriff's officer next to me. I rolled down my window. He said that I had to park my car between the parallel lines, not sit perpendicular to them. He didn't use the word perpendicular.
At that point, all I had to say, was, "Yes, officer, thank you officer," and do as I pleased, which was finish my make up and drive away. But then, I wouldn't have an entry for this blog.
Since I am Mrs. Linklater, I said "But why? There's no one here. And I wasn't going to park, I was just dumping some trash out of my car."
"Well, you're not by the garbage can now. I passed by here ten minutes ago and you're no longer throwing out any garbage."
"Because I was putting on my makeup. Then I'm going downtown."
"You just said you were throwing out garbage and now you're putting on your makeup. How many excuses are you going to come up with."
Now he gets out of his car and comes around to the driver's side window. "Let me see your license and proof of insurance."
Then he started playing semantic games.
"So are you parked or are you driving?"
"I'm parked with the engine on. Why are you harrassing me?"
"Harrassing you? I'm harrassing you? You're looking at three tickets."
"Yes, you are harassing me. I was about to drive downtown because I have to be there at noon."
[NOTE TO SELF: You shouldn't have told him you had to be someplace by noon.]
"There is no reason for me to have to park between the lines because then I'd have to get out of the car. Pulling up next to the can is easier. What is your problem?"
"So you admit you're driving, not parked."
"I'm parked with the engine on."
"You just said you were driving. I can give you a ticket for not having your seatbelt on."
Then he looked at my insurance and it was last year's card. Rats.
"And you don't have your current insurance card."
"Look I'm tired of this harassment. Write the tickets." I still had half an hour to get downtown without being too late.
"Write the tickets?"
"Yeah, I want to get this over with. Write the tickets."
While he was writing the tickets I thought I would multi-task and put some more garbage into the can. I got out of my car this time, because his was blocking mine, only to have him order me to get back in or he would take me to the police station.
"Where's the station?" I asked, giving it some thought before I decided just to get back into the car.
It then took him half an hour to write two tickets, not three: one apparently, for not wearing my seatbelt while the car was in park with the engine on: and one for not having my current insurance card. The third offense never materialized.
I called my lunch peeps and said I would be running late because I was duking it out with a cop.
He gave me my tickets and announced that my court date would be January 12th. Fark. I need my driver's license to fly, so I asked him how to get it back. I didn't mention I had a passport, because he didn't ask.
[SECOND NOTE TO SELF: Get a bond card; get a bond card; get a bond card.]
He didn't know the process for getting my license returned to me before my court date and had to call back to base to ask. He wasn't counting on this little wrinkle.
"Do you have $75?"
"Yes."
"We have to go to the nearest police station so you can pay and get it back."
"Let's go."
He looked at his watch. Maybe now I was messing with his plans.
We got to the police station in ten minutes and he spent ten more minutes making personal calls before I could hand him the money, sign the bond release and get my license back.
Here's the ironic bad news: even though I got my license back, he checked the box on the bond release that says I can't leave the state without a judge's permission for six weeks. Fark again.
Here's the good news: I called the court house about getting permission to leave the state during the next six weeks. Lovely Linda said to come to court on Monday afternoon and talk to a judge. I don't need a lawyer. She said the judge may also take care of my tickets then, too. Without the officer there? Yes. Personally I think she's wrong. Also part of me wants to meet this jerkwad in court. I'm already taking photos of the crime scene.
On the other hand, if the judge can actually hear my case, I'll be very happy to get it over with. But just having permission to leave this igloo will be good enough for now.
And I got downtown in time for a tasty entree salad and profiteroles for dessert. Na na na na na.
Vacation Excursion
The headquarters for that bastion of politically correct groceries, Whole Foods, is in downtown Austin, Texas. So one day last week, during my sojourn through the Burnt Orange Nation, we drove about half an hour to experience the Temple of Food at its source.
On our way we passed a little restaurant that has a chalkboard outside with a message that changes every day. This was the day after Texas had been ranked behind Oklahoma in the BCS. So the message read, "Why is there a C in the BCS?"
Before that, we had stopped at a light next to a flatbed truck with a load of huge rusty chains. The chains had been anchored with some straps, one of which had come loose so it was dragging on the ground, a potential road hazard. The guy driving directly behind the flatbed jumped out of his truck, grabbed the loose strap and secured it quickly with a fancy knot.
Everyone in the car watched and commented on what a good Samaritan he was, while I found myself mesmerized by how nicely he filled out his cowboy shirt and jeans. And he wasn't some young buck either. His full head of thick, wavy hair was silver and gray. Not that I noticed much in ten seconds.
Is it just me, or are there more good-looking men in the Lone Star state? Or am I just easily attracted to shiny things like boots and belt buckles. . .
BUT!! I digress.
Two things happened at the Whole Foods store. The first was in the toiletries department where we were looking for hair product. I wanted something that I could use to style my hair when it was dry. This problem was the result of washing my hair and doing nothing with it the day before, a frizz disaster on a grand scale.
Like most stores there were dozens of choices. In keeping with Whole Foods' mission to march to a different drummer, none of the choices was a familiar mainstream brand. We asked the young woman who was stocking the shelves a question about what to choose. I expected her to mumble something unintelligible and point. She not only had the answer, but she was a repository of detailed information about each one of the products on the shelf.
I kept thinking of the old joke, "We're from headquarters and we're here to help." For once, it was true. It probably doesn't hurt that a large high rise with all the Whole Foods corporate offices is just out the back door, no doubt with some VP sitting at a bank of monitors watching and listening to EVERYTHING.
The second, noticeable difference was at the Whole Foods cafe.You can eat breakfast lunch and dinner at many groceries lately. Whole Foods is no different. Except that the preparation of your menu selection has not harmed any rain forests.
There were several food islands for everything from burgers to panini to salads to sushi. Most groceries I'm aware of outsource the sushi so you don't know who's making it, but there were at least four or five chefs, live and in person, at a sushi bar, making everything from scratch. And they were all Asian. That was a surpise, especially in the land of Tex-Mex. It was delicious too.
My final experience with Whole Foods was on another day, in the evening. The temperature had cooled off enough for my hostess to offer some hot chocolate. It was delicious. I thought it might be Ghirardelli, so I was surprised when she said it was Whole Foods' house brand.
I don't shop at Whole Foods usually, even though they just built one in my town. I go to a family run chain that specializes in personal service and a great deli. But since the temperature today will barely make it into the twenties, I'm thinking it might be time for another cup of cocoa. Or twelve.
On our way we passed a little restaurant that has a chalkboard outside with a message that changes every day. This was the day after Texas had been ranked behind Oklahoma in the BCS. So the message read, "Why is there a C in the BCS?"
Before that, we had stopped at a light next to a flatbed truck with a load of huge rusty chains. The chains had been anchored with some straps, one of which had come loose so it was dragging on the ground, a potential road hazard. The guy driving directly behind the flatbed jumped out of his truck, grabbed the loose strap and secured it quickly with a fancy knot.
Everyone in the car watched and commented on what a good Samaritan he was, while I found myself mesmerized by how nicely he filled out his cowboy shirt and jeans. And he wasn't some young buck either. His full head of thick, wavy hair was silver and gray. Not that I noticed much in ten seconds.
Is it just me, or are there more good-looking men in the Lone Star state? Or am I just easily attracted to shiny things like boots and belt buckles. . .
BUT!! I digress.
Two things happened at the Whole Foods store. The first was in the toiletries department where we were looking for hair product. I wanted something that I could use to style my hair when it was dry. This problem was the result of washing my hair and doing nothing with it the day before, a frizz disaster on a grand scale.
Like most stores there were dozens of choices. In keeping with Whole Foods' mission to march to a different drummer, none of the choices was a familiar mainstream brand. We asked the young woman who was stocking the shelves a question about what to choose. I expected her to mumble something unintelligible and point. She not only had the answer, but she was a repository of detailed information about each one of the products on the shelf.
I kept thinking of the old joke, "We're from headquarters and we're here to help." For once, it was true. It probably doesn't hurt that a large high rise with all the Whole Foods corporate offices is just out the back door, no doubt with some VP sitting at a bank of monitors watching and listening to EVERYTHING.
The second, noticeable difference was at the Whole Foods cafe.You can eat breakfast lunch and dinner at many groceries lately. Whole Foods is no different. Except that the preparation of your menu selection has not harmed any rain forests.
There were several food islands for everything from burgers to panini to salads to sushi. Most groceries I'm aware of outsource the sushi so you don't know who's making it, but there were at least four or five chefs, live and in person, at a sushi bar, making everything from scratch. And they were all Asian. That was a surpise, especially in the land of Tex-Mex. It was delicious too.
My final experience with Whole Foods was on another day, in the evening. The temperature had cooled off enough for my hostess to offer some hot chocolate. It was delicious. I thought it might be Ghirardelli, so I was surprised when she said it was Whole Foods' house brand.
I don't shop at Whole Foods usually, even though they just built one in my town. I go to a family run chain that specializes in personal service and a great deli. But since the temperature today will barely make it into the twenties, I'm thinking it might be time for another cup of cocoa. Or twelve.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Stupid Skies of United
Gate Agent: "Flight 3652 with service to Chicago is ready for boarding at this time."
[BEAT]
"Oh, thank you. An alert passenger has informed me that this is Flight 7606."
The plane is loaded. All one hundred and something passengers are seated with their seatbelts fastened.
Flight attendant, after closing and locking the door: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Flight 3095 with service to Denver."
Sound of many voices from the cabin: "CHICAGO!!!!!"
Sound of one lone, tired voice: "And this is flight 7606."
Flight attendant: "I guess you don't need me."
[BEAT]
"Oh, thank you. An alert passenger has informed me that this is Flight 7606."
The plane is loaded. All one hundred and something passengers are seated with their seatbelts fastened.
Flight attendant, after closing and locking the door: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Flight 3095 with service to Denver."
Sound of many voices from the cabin: "CHICAGO!!!!!"
Sound of one lone, tired voice: "And this is flight 7606."
Flight attendant: "I guess you don't need me."
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