the ocean

Goodbye, 2006!

Hard to believe another year has come and gone. It was a good one, though:

-- The Winter Olympics delighted a nation with the beauty and majesty of women's short track speed skating.
-- Someone broke into the laundry room at my old building and stole approximately $3.75 in quarters. Several months later, change-related crimes reached their all-time high, as my landlord broke into our apartment and stole Roommate Liz's piggy bank.
-- My ten year high school reunion served as a cautionary tale about the dangers of smoking and all-you-can-eat buffets.
-- Project Runway made me actually develop opinions about sewing machines and the finishing on hems.
-- I took exciting business trips to Champaign, Naperville, and Connecticut. Glamour, thy name is honor bar.
-- The Super Bowl happened.
-- I bought a new condo, giving me the rare opportunity to legally case other people's homes.
-- Flavor of Love restored our country's faith in romance.
-- Roommate Liz got fleas, possibly from watching Flavor of Love.
-- The November election handed Democrats control of both the House and Senate, challenging them to come up with new ways to cave and capitulate.
-- TBS aired Sister Act II: Back in the Habit about one hundred times.
-- I won a still-unopened copy of Destiny's Child's "Soldier" at Dave & Busters.
-- Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes had a fantasy wedding in more than one sense of the term.

My Life in Film

Over this holiday break my parents decided to bring out some of our old home movies. I hadn't seen them in quite some time, and I have to admit they were pretty fascinating. There I was, at the age of seven, wearing a hat and cape made out of Styrofoam packing material and conducting an "interview" with my sister. Then as a ten-year-old, speechifying on the merits of various members of the Transformers family and ripping open a wrapped copy of the game Splish Splash with ferocious glee. Then we proceeded into the archives of our various holiday "concerts," including one in which my grandmother somehow goaded me into singing "Can't Help Loving that Man of Mine" from Showboat, which has me wondering if in fact she was at one point in on the joke.

In addition to these beloved works of amateur cinema, we also had a bunch of taped portions of local television, since there is sufficiently little news to report in Quincy that the exploits of preteens performing peppy pop tunes or married English professors expounding on local folklore actually merited media coverage. There was a segment on when my sixth grade class was challenged to create a contraption that could safely protect an egg as it dropped ten feet, and one on my fifth grade class's stunning and wholly imaginary exploration of the stock market. Perhaps my favorite, though, was the anti-drug PSA I did when I was in middle school. I played the challenging role of a preteen both amazed and delighted by the fine array of fun alternatives to drug use presented to him by his friend. I even had a catch phrase: "Drug Free is the Place to Be." God, they just don't write roles like that any more.

Legends of the Fall

This Christmas Eve began with a bang as my 95-year-old grandmother took a tumble into her front yard as I was helping her into our car. As it turned out, she was totally fine, but I don't know that I've ever been more horrified than as I watched her slip out of my grasp and stumble backwards three steps before ultimately pitching over onto her backside. Not even when I accidentally rented Unfaithful with my parents. I tend to think that a little graphic sex strengthens the filial bond.

So anyway, there I was, standing next to the car, watching a senior citizen taste turf. My sister immediately and very helpfully yelled "get her!" as I myself let out a "noooo!" But as it turns out, screaming actually can't stop gravity. I was envisioning broken hips, internal bleeding, a command performance of our annual Christmas concert at the local ER. Plus I couldn't imagine how we would explain it to our parents. We have a rule in our house that everyone gets out alive on Christmas Eve.

Luckily, however, my grandmother is apparently made out of the same material as battleships and According to Jim, because she inexplicably made it through without even a scratch. Only a snagged pair of nylons, which I'm sure I'll get to help her replace on some imminent trip to J.C. Penney. And my sister and I totally killed in the Christmas concert. We even did a medley about bells.

Merry Christmas to All...

My good friend and official falafel taster Bill O’Reilly tells me that there’s a War on Christmas going on, and I believe it. I mean, it seems like everywhere you turn elves are being abducted by Muslim extremists and Nativity scenes are getting carpetbombed. Just last week Kim Jong Il threatened to invade my local production of the Nutcracker, and Homeland Security informed me of a “credible threat” to my reindeer cookies. It seems like nothing is safe any more, not even the warm brown eyes of People’s Sexiest Man Alive George Clooney. All the Oscars in the world can’t buy you love, George. Why won’t you do us all a favor and marry Oprah already?


But all too often it feels like Christmas actually IS war, whether you’re clawing at the eyes of the hot-pink-Garfield-t-shirt-clad soccer mom who dares to challenge you for custody of the last set of An Inconvenient Truth action figures in the Dollar General or dodging a barrage of irrelevant, elliptical anecdotes about people named Chub who lived in the 1940s fired at you by your Great Aunt Ethel over the green bean casserole. Lord knows you’ve got to be strong to survive the 47th airing of A Michael Richards Kwanzaa or the 10,000th agnostic, pansexual recording artist to warble through “Silent Night.” The holidays challenge us, just like locating our country on a world map challenges our nation’s high school students and not passing out in the men’s restroom of a Wendy’s with a Biggie fry in each hand and one boob hanging out challenges Courtney Love.

Of course, I think pretty much everything is a challenge, from avoiding the random gropings of strangers on the train to figuring out why my Tivo won’t stop recording Spanish language news and that religious channel show with the nun who wears an eye patch. This year I took on an added challenge in the form of home ownership; after looking at approximately ten million condos, including one in which something unidentifiable had recently died and one in which the owners had left illegal drugs (not included in the purchase price) on the kitchen counter, I bought a lovely crack-free place just a few blocks from Wrigley Field. Now I have a cute little Polish cleaning lady who calls me Mr. Jay (and who apparently takes off her pants to clean certain parts of the house, as Roommate Liz memorably discovered) and a cute little condo association that spends hours arguing over which brand of light bulbs to purchase and how much is too much to pay for a garden hose. I’m thinking about getting some cute little sharecroppers to complete my set; if things go my way I’ll be celebrating next Christmas with a bumper crop of sorghum.

I realized this year that I have now been sending out shoddily-assembled, wrath-of-God-baiting holiday cards for over fifteen years. That’s nearly four presidential terms or fifteen Pamela Anderson marriages. But compared to other traditions, like dressing up like a slut for Halloween or puking your guts out on St. Patrick’s day, it’s really just in its infancy. So here’s to many happy returns, and many, many happy holidays.

Cross Country

So I made the drive across the state to Quincy for the holidays yesterday. There were a number of amusing things that occurred during this trip. First, I nearly drove off the road because I was trying to dip my onion rings in the "ring sauce" Burger King so generously provided in my drive-through bag. I really thought I would be up to the challenge, as I have previously managed to eat both soup and chicken fried rice while driving. But as it turned out, I was not. Second, I encountered some of the most amusingly ill-conceived bathroom graffiti I have ever seen at a gas station on I-72. It just reaffirmed my essential belief that you should at least be able to spell a racial slur before you use it. Also that there is probably something seriously wrong with you if you have time to compose messages for a stall wall in a gas station bathroom. I mean, come on, bring an Us Weekly. Finally, I ended up digging through a trash can at a Burger King in search of the receipt for my value meal at the behest of the sassy clerk who refused to issue me my Whopper without it. It's a classy, classy start to what promises to be an immensely classy holiday.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

As promised, here are some snaps from this year's Jay & Liz (or Liz & Jay, depending on the results of the pending litigation) Holiday Party. The photo credit goes to one Sister Meg.

Proving that even my most bizarre impulse purchases can ultimately have a purpose in life, the pirate pinata served as the King Antiochus, Enemy of the Maccabees pinata. Here, Liz laments that I ended up throwing the pinata on the floor and stomping on it rather than allowing it to be beaten with a stick in an orderly fashion.

In case you were wondering, Roommate Liz dressed as a Slutty Reindeer for the party. She's wearing ladies unmentionables from Target over some pretty mean brown gaucho pants.

For my part, I had the most amazing holiday sweater of all time. That's an entire snowman family on the front, by the way. Although I think the kid is adopted.

Love Canal

So I had a root canal this morning. Maybe it's just because I'm heavily under the influence of Vicodin right now, but I thought it was pretty great. The guy who did it was this cool old guy who talked the whole time and kept telling me what he was doing, even though I had no idea what it meant. They put a big plastic tarp in my mouth so I wouldn't swallow anything disgusting, and they gave me so much anaesthetic that I still can't move the left side of my face at all. I'm finding it incredibly amusing to look in the mirror and see how many half expressions I can make. Half pensive is my favorite so far.

I literally did not feel a thing the entire time. In fact, I'm sort of worried that I'll never feel a thing again. Also that I'll do something really goofy like put my Treo in the toaster or start sobbing openly while watching Soapdish on the Encore Comedies channel. These pain meds are some pretty serious stuff.

It's kind of weird to be home in the middle of the day on a weekday. I can totally drive down the street without road raging and there's nothing whatsoever of interest on the television. Maybe I'll play a round of Kerplunk. Hopefully I won't end up poking my eye out, although again, it's not like I'd actually feel it. Such good times.

'Tis the Season

Roommate Liz and I had our annual holiday party last night. It was much the same as in previous years, with lots of Christmas-tree-shaped Hostess Snack Cakes, holiday-themed crafts, and a song and dance medley of Christmas songs about bells. Slutty Santa even showed up with his Slutty Reindeer. Because I've lost interest in trashing my place ever since I bought, however, we had it at Parrot's Bar and Grill, the bar so great it doesn't even need a paragraph describing it on Metromix. This meant that we had lots of colorful regulars continually interrupting the proceedings to rant incoherently or attempt to put pitchers on my tab. It also meant that I did not have to spend my morning picking glitter and feathers out of my dining room carpet. Well, no more than on an average day.

There was a bit of a mishap, however, when Roommate Liz had a bit too much to drink, christened the Parrot's women's restroom, and disappeared without saying a word to anyone. We were about to send out a search party, or at the very least vie for a basic cable news documentary on the subject, when we received word that she had merely taken a cab home and retired to bed for the evening. Luckily the door prizes had already been awarded (including an amazing Bela Karolyi VHS cassette), so it essentially just meant more Jewel taco dip for everyone else to eat. We struggled on bravely, as man must continually do.

Pictures of the event will of course follow later this week.

Dining Out

My sister and I went out to dinner last night. Since we tend to eat like seventy-year-olds from Celebration, Florida, we decided it was okay to have dinner at 5 PM, meaning that when we walked in to the restaurant, literally the entire staff was sitting in the front room having some kind of meeting. They interrupted it to seat us, but we were then the only people in the dining room. Luckily from a dinner theater perspective, two other groups quickly joined us.

First there were two middle-aged men at the table next to us, who carried on a fascinating drunken argument about 1) whether one of them was the manager of the restaurant, 2) their apparent joint foray into the world of novelty t-shirt marketing, and 3) whose girlfriend may or may not have been fat. They spoke, of course, with a volume and tone that indicated that the entire restaurant could benefit from participating in this McLaughlin Group of inanities.

Unfortunately, this led a couple several tables away from us to take issue with the noise level. And the following dialogue ensued:

Lady: Maybe you could just keep it down?
Self-Appointed Manager: Maybe you should just mind your own business.
Lady: Maybe I should just throw this chip right out the window.
Self-Appointed Manager: Maybe I should dump these enchiladas right on your head.

Unfortunately, no actual physical conflict followed. I suppose we can always hope for one on a subsequent visit.

On the Road

The interesting thing about business travel is that it is the exact inverse of regular travel. You don't have to pay for any of it yourself, but it is practically guaranteed that nothing you do will be fun, unless you get a lot of enjoyment out of sitting in a tiny windowless conference room for hours or staying in a Best Western room all by yourself. Plus, exotic locales are often replaced by places like Duluth and Gary, Indiana. For some reason, it seems none of my clients ever get sued in Hawaii or the Bahamas.

I also note that business travel often causes colleagues to confide in you at an alarming rate. Given a few hours on a plane or in a car, people often feel compelled to share everything about themselves, from their awkward first experimentations with sex to the time their gym teacher said they had fat thighs in sixth grade. I personally find this exceedingly disturbing, as it was never my intention to become sorority sisters with the 63-year-old partner on my fraud action. Occasionally I'm tempted to make up some lies to play along (I once told a paralegal that I was a practicing Wiccan), but for the most part I'm just horrified.

I mention all of this because I went on a business trip yesterday, and within an hour I felt like we should be holding hands and singing around a campfire while someone named Darren played an acoustic guitar.

Value City

So a few months ago Jewel introduced their Extra Value Item of the Week Program. I can only assume that it was conceived of as an additional way to humiliate their employees, because the Extra Value Item of the Week is never anything that anyone would actually want. It's always, say, a 24-pack of Crisco for half off or three for the price of one cacti, rather than a low price on something people actually use like butter or delicious cheddar cheese spread. But regardless, the cashiers are required to ask every single customer whether he or she is interested in the Extra Value Item of the Week on peril of being compelled to give that fabulous item away for free. This generally results in responses ranging from "What?" to "Uh, no, I don't actually need a glasses repair kit" to "Were you just coming on to me?" I'm sort of convinced that Jewel doesn't actually even HAVE these Extra Value Items, but just makes them up so they can watch people squirm.

But anyway, after months of being cruelly rebuffed in their attempts to sell Chutney-flavored Fruit Loops and Mr. T Breath Savers, the cashiers have replaced their detailed pitches with incoherent mumbling and a broad gesture in the general direction of a sign depicting said Extra Value. Now, we customers can generally just pretend we haven't even been asked to add Chocolate-Dipped Bacon to our food orders as a last minute impulse, while the cashiers can sleep soundly at night knowing that, by God, at least they tried. It's a system that works for everyone.

You can imagine my shock, however, when I found myself in line today behind a woman who actually took this whole process seriously.

"Oh, Extra Value Item, huh?" she said, acting as though esoteric concepts of quantum physics had just been introduced rather than a 25% off deal on hot sauce. "Oh my, let me see, I don't know. I've got bananas, and some soup. Hmmm. Hot sauce. How much would I save?"

Of course, no one displayed any interest in answering this purported question, but her wheels kept right on turning.

"You know, I just don't much care for hot things. I like cold things. I guess I like hot dogs, does that count? No, I'm just kidding."

And suddenly it was Open Mic Night at Zanies.

"Hmm, no, no, I don't think I'll take it. No, no hot sauce for me. Too hot to handle, I guess, huh? No, I will pass on your Extra Value Item of the Week."

If I worked at Jewel, I think I'd be hard pressed not to follow customers out into the parking lot and bean them with canteloupes. I'm just saying.

Idle Hours

You know what's kind of fun? My biggest task for the day is to go to the craft store and buy a bunch of supplies for our Holiday Party next week. Of course, I may have to be outfitted with a tracking device for this trip after my Target disaster earlier this week, but I kind of like it that I'm going to get to spend most of this weekend sitting on my ass in front of the TV wearing flannel pants and fleece-lined slippers. I mean, Clueless is on right now and TBS is planning to show Mean Girls three times. Who needs to leave the house?

It's been a relatively uneventful week. I prepared for a deposition by reading hundreds of very boring and poorly spelled documents. I had a number of meetings about meetings that are yet to come, and ran errands to thrilling places like Walgreen's and Jewel. I did have a run in with some Tequila shots on Thursday night, but that's sort of par for the course by now.

I'm trying to think of other things I can do today. I really hate to be idle; when I don't have much to do, I tend to make up tasks for myself, like alphabetizing my books or cleaning the inside of all of my CD cases. If I'm not careful here I'll end up with a toothpick Santa's Village by Monday morning.

Why I Can Never Be Allowed In Target Again

Everyone loves a paint by number kit. This baby is finally going to land me in the MoMA. Or in jail, depending.

I think the pirate pinata pretty much speaks for itself.

Actual Work Assignments that I Have Been Given At Some Point in My Life

-- forwarding an email
-- remembering the birthday of someone I do not know
-- playing "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" on the viola some seventy times in a row
-- wearing a pea-green wool suit and pretending I live in the 1920s
-- acting enthusiastic about country music
-- fetching coffee repeatedly "until I get it right"
-- writing a series of commercials about a couple that bonds over an upholstery store
-- carrying a stack of law books one hundred yards
-- apologizing to people whose phone calls I accidentally dropped rather than forwarding
-- modeling show choir apparel
-- editing a collection of folk remedies for arthritis, gout, and other uncomfortable conditions
-- picking up someone's child from band practice
-- washing my hands

Winter Wonderland

So after three days of putting it off, I finally dug my car out of the snow this morning. I can probably say with some degree of certainty that there is nothing I hate more in the world, although racism and cancer are probably up near the top as well. Since I had waited so long, the snow had essentially turned into a four-inch-thick sheath of ice encrusting my entire vehicle. I had to pioneer the method of smacking the ice with a shovel to smack it and then trying to shove it off with a broom. Add to this the rather impressive amount of swearing I threw into this process, and I'm pretty sure my neighbors now think I'm insane, if they didn't think so already. Of course, most of the snow somehow ended up going right now the back of my shirt, but at least I was able to get down to the gym. Obviously I really needed the workout.