Still friends, still good

My best friend left me a message late Saturday night/early Sunday morning. He called me where he knew I wasn't at that hour (the office) to update me on the travails of moving to another state. His wife and little girl were worn out and had crashed at a friend's. He was alone in his empty house, patching holes and painting, preparing for the final walk through before the Monday morning closing. The message was detailed and friendly and comfortable and it meant the world to me.

He may have called because as he looked over his weekend and experienced yet another unplanned turn, he thought, "Laurie would appreciate this shit." Or he may have called because we won't be able to talk in real-time for several days and he doesn't want me to feel anxious about not being able to contact him. Did he want to share, or was he just being thoughtful? I don't care. It doesn't matter.

The only thing that does matter is that we're still friends, and we're still good. I feel less isolated, less vulnerable, knowing that. It's a good way to prepare for Monday and a possibly tension-filled, deadline-driven week.

Please don't, Mr. Hendry. PLEASE DON'T!

You cannot trade my beloved #31, Future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux. You simply can't! I had to watch him pack up and leave the Cubs for another team once before. I don't think I can bear it again.

Look, he's on the wrong side of 40, so you're not going to get that much for him. He's such a class act, both on the field and off, that he would be a positive influence on whatever young pitchers you decide to go with.

And hey, let's not forget about me. I hate my job. My mom has had a health scare. There's more than a little unnecessary but distracting drama going on with my sisters these days. I miss my best friend sooooo much. I have to pay $3675 that I don't have for new windows. It's hot. My complexion is acting up … GIVE AN OLD GIRL A BREAK, MR. HENDRY! I've been a good, loyal and true Cub fan my whole life. Watching The Professor is one of the few slivers of sunshine in my otherwise drab existance.

Please, sir.

Look, I'm not unreasonable here. There are players you can trade and I wouldn't protest. Phil Nevin, for example. I'm sure he's a completely lovely man who has always been good to his mother, but he's really very average looking and he hasn't been on the team long enough for me to become too attached to him. I'll even close my eyes and look away if you decide to part with (sigh) Todd Walker. Yes, I love his hair, his perpetual 5:00 shadow and his butt, but I realize you have a job to do. (And, as a boyfriend once pointed out to me, I'm supposed to view Wrigley Field as a tabernacle of baseball, not as a Hooters for women.)

But not Mad Dog. Please don't trade him, Mr. Hendry. Please don't!

Fan, as in "fanatic" or "Fanilow."

A lifelong friend of mine is going through a rough spot. Man trouble, kid trouble, work trouble and (I suspect) money trouble. She has been finding respite in a gentler past, which includes … gulp … Barry Manilow.

She saw Barry Manilow at Ravinia decades ago and he rocked her world. OK. I think some of his stuff can be fun and entertaining. I have maybe a half dozen of his songs on my iPod. I also have Helen Reddy and Bobby Sherman on my iPod. I have great affection for some pop songs because of who I was, where I was, when they were hits. I know that they certainly aren't art, but they mean something to me.

My friend's love of Manilow goes deeper. She has romantic, sexual fantasies about him. She thinks he's a great artist. She thinks he could have been the next Gene Kelly or Frank Sinatra.

Shudder. But what they hey. If it makes her happy, there's no harm.

She chats with other Fanilows on internet boards. This to me is the fascinating part. Through her I have been exposed to an entire world of Fanilows. They write about him, take umbrage on all who cast aspersions on his sexuality, express disgust toward those who dismiss his music as "schmaltz," rejoice in his recent Emmy nomination, and, most interestingly of all, live in terror of his management company … Stiletto. Apparently Stiletto has supernatural powers. Fanilows seem to believe Stiletto can control their blogs and their thoughts. Anyone who says anything even slightly negative about Barry Manilow is going down, baby.

He's Barry Manilow. He's not even Taylor Hicks. It's not like all the major magazines and news shows are clamoring for his time. Yet these folks believe he's so hot that this band of brass-knuckled image protectors are out there, guarding this evergreen man of the hour/year/decade/lifetime.

If Barry Manilow has such a passionate legion of true believers, does that mean every 70s artist who had more than one gold record also has them? What about KC and the Sunshine Band? Helen Reddy? Tony Orlando? Glen Campbell? Right now, could I be trading fond recollections of the red flannel shirts and stutter that made Bobby Sherman's TV persona so compelling to me back in 7th grade?

I know that mystery authors have serious message boards that inspire discussion. But this is new to me. The good thing, I guess, is that the Internet provides people with a sense of community they simply can't get anywhere else. It doesn't matter if you're emailing about "Mandy" or posting about your post card collection. You've found someone who shares your interest, and it makes you feel a little less lonely.

Icky Vicki of the of the Main Post Office in Oak Park, IL -- Part 2

I won't go into the detail about precisely how rude my favorite public "servant" was yesterday (except to say that I believe she took her afternoon break while waiting on me). But it was so grating that on the way out of the post office I took that happy little take one, with the smiling lady in the blue uniform, with the headline, "Let's hear from you." (Smiling? Does Vicki know she's supposed to smile?)

I called the toll-free number and complained about dear, sweet Vicki. I emphasized that every at the post office is friendly and helpful … except Vicki. It's true. Everyone smiles, everyone chats, everyone offers me phone cards, stamps or money orders … except dour, unfriendly, unhappy Vicki.

Complaining felt good. My tax dollars help pay that bitch's salary. The least she could do is return the courtesy I show her. We all inhabit this planet together. A minimal amount of respect helps keep the emotional temperature tolerable, even during this heat wave.

But can she spit in my mail?

But I don't wanna!

Condo association meeting tonight. We are going to tackle all manner of serious topics: what fee new owners should be charged when they move in (don't care); whether owners should be allowed to rent their units (no); and what to do about the windows. I don't know! I know this is an important and potentially expensive decision I am about to make. Replacing windows is costly and almost always has an impact on resale value.

But this is a subject I know nothing about. I resent having to make this decision. I wish this was being handled like our roof. I simply received a note in the mail one day, telling me how much I owed for my 1/24th of the new roof. Fine.

To make matters worse, I got a free pass to a sneak preview to Miami Vice tonight. It's tempting to blow off this condo association meeting and get reacquainted with Crockett and Tubbs. The siren song of a free movie, I can feel it coming in the air tonight.

But no, I shall act my age and go to the damn meeting. But I don't want to do it, and will be primed with beer before I get there.

Farewell to one of my favorite places on earth

I believe I had my final adventure in retail at Marshall Field's State Street. It was a melancholy experience. The store was not that crowded, and the merchandise is being shifted and rearranged and cleared away to make way for Macy's and those house brands. Maybe it makes it easier that it didn't feel like my store anymore.

I got two sweaters (deep navy Ralph Lauren pullover and powder blue Liz Claiborne cardigan), and shorts (Field sniff-sniff Gear) and a black/red blouse from JM (a Macy's house brand). While it came to about $205, but it's important to note that I saved more than $30 with my final Field's Rewards coupon.

Then on the way out I hit the cosmetic counters. This was a far less sentimental journey because almost all of these brands will be available even after Macy's takes over. I visited my friends at Clinique for blemish concealer, bought SJP's Lovely body lotion (and look and smell more and more like Carrie Bradshaw with each passing minute) and Smashbox auburn mascara and lash primer. There's nothing wrong with my lashes -- it's not like they are brittle, dry or sparse. But I like the idea of buying a new product during my last visit with a dear old friend. (And I saved more than $16 at the cosmetic counters; I prefer thinking of that, rather than what I spent.)

Thanks, Marshall Field's State Street. Because of your convenient location and your rich history, you were my perfect getaway destination when I needed a retail fix. Whether I had hours to browse or had to power shop, you fit the bill and made me feel like I'd stumbled upon the happiest place on earth. I'll miss how helpful the sales associates always were How every purchase was wrapped carefully in tissue. How my personal shopper turned me on to Eileen Fisher. And, like everyone else, I loved the Christmas windows, the tree and the Frangoes. Goodbye, Marshall Field's State Street.

Larry King is a doddering fool

He's interviewing Sen. John Warner and Gov. Bill Richardson about the crisis in Lebanon. These men are decision-makers (Warner) and steeped in the history of the region (Richardson). And what does goofy ol' Lar ask them? "What do you think about this cease fire … thing?" I half expect him to ask the Senator, "You were married to Liz Taylor for a while, weren't you? Isn't she a Jew? Does that influence how you feel about this … thing?"

It's not Sarah Jessica Parker's fault

I really love her scent, Lovely. It's unique, it's lasting, it's feminine. The bottle is pretty, too. I feel all girly when I'm wearing Lovely.

I was embarrassed the first time I bought it, though. And I have felt a little silly each subsequent time I've approached the cosmetic counter. Here's why …

Years ago there was a movie named Educating Rita. The heroine was a student by evening and a hairdresser by day. She spoke of her clients with a mix of amusement and contempt, especially the 250 lb. grannies who would bring in magazine photos of Princess Diana and request, "Make me look like that."

I imagine that each time I buy Lovely bath gel or body lotion or cologne, the woman behind the counter is rolling her eyes, thinking, "So this pudgy, middle-aged broad thinks wearing the scent will make her like Sarah Jessica Parker."

But just as I wouldn't buy a fragrance because a celebrity endorses it, I shouldn't not buy it because of a celebrity endorsement, either. I like Lovely. And I'm going to keep wearing it.

Besides, these days those manning the cosmetic counter at Marshall Field's are probably wondering how long their severance will last once the folks from Macy's take over. They couldn't care less what I buy. I can be such a silly woman!

I'm looking away now

I heard about the destruction of the UN post and the casualties late this afternoon. It broke my heart. It's THE UNITED NATIONS, people! This is how massive world wars begin. I can't stand it.

I checked CNN.com regularly at work. I've watched CNN since I got home. I heard Senator Allen talk about how great it was that Israel also managed to take out a Hezbollah leader. I'm against terrorists and murderers, of course, but it makes me very uncomfortable and sad to hear a self-proclaimed Christian sound like a cheerleader when discussing the death of a fellow human being. ANY fellow human being. (It's interesting that Allen is against protecting a woman's reproductive rights but is downright giddy over the violent death of another person. WWJD, Senator?)

All this is so sad. All this is so pointless. None of this will accomplish anything. Iraq, Iran, Korea, Lebanon, Israel, Pakistan … Dear God, where are we headed?

I'm turning away from CNN now. Maybe My Fair Brady is on VH1. I need complete escape.

It's not cancer

My mother got good news from her doctor. Thank goodness, the business with her throat has NOT resulted in cancer. I am so relieved … and grateful. My concern now, of course, is that since she doesn't have cancer now, she will believe this means smoking hasn't harmed her and there is no need to quit.

I have never been a smoker, so I simply do not understand how such a filthy, smelly, expensive habit can be so pleasurable that she's willing to risk her life for it. I realize that women of my mother's generation began smoking so they could look sophisticated, like Lauren Bacall. But we have known the hazards of smoking since the 1960s. She has had decades to quit. Yet she can't/won't.

In fairness to her, I must report that she has gone from a pack/day to just 3 or 4 cigarettes a day. But over the space of a year, that's more than 1,200 cigarettes, with smoke and carcinogens traveling down her poor old esophagas. Yet she won't quit. I find this unutterably sad.

Oh well. I realize that what I am dealing with here is really not unique. Coping with our parents' mortality is something we will all have to face. And I imagine it's just this crappy for everyone.

Visiting with Katie and Hubbell

I am watching "The Way We Were" again for the 3,000,000th time. I know every scene, and can recite much of the dialog verbatim. And yet here I am watching ... again. Almost unable to look away.

Why do some movies have such a hold on our imaginations? Yes, the stars help. The 1970s were The Golden Age of The Golden Boy, with Redford looking impossibly gorgeous. And activism and involvement has seldom had a more poignant spokeswoman than Streisand, whose longing (for justice, for a better world, for more time in his arms) is so achingly real.

And I was so young and impressionable when I saw this for this first time. In my adolescence I wanted to believe in a world where, no matter how strident or unconventional I was, I could still come home and find a terrifically fabulous sailor nude in my bed. It's only through repeated viewings that I have noticed that my life has imitated this particular piece of art in subtle ways. (My inability to "leave the soapbox at home" has damaged a relationship or two.) Unfortunately none of these ways included a blond, blue-eyed Adonis.

Movies race by faster when you're this familiar with the content. You'd think it would be the opposite, that the pace would seem slower and that you'd be bored. But no, it moves faster. This is not the only time I've noticed this strange compression of time. After midnight time seems to race, too. I can be doing something at 1:30, look at the clock a little bit later and will be shocked to discover it's 3:00 already.

Gotta go. Katie is about to explain to Hubbell why it must be exciting to be stationed in Washington. ("Because Roosevelt is there!")

My biggest fan is automated

I don't know who is out there, if anyone, but just in case any actual, warm-blooded human beings visit this blog, I warn you not to read the comments. They're spam. I know I can go through and remove them, but I don't feel like doing it just now. So consider this your consumer warning.

Scarlett replaces Gwyneth …

… as my least favorite movie actress.

I'm watching Match Point as I write this. I loved it when I saw it in the theater and told everyone it was sexy and suspenseful. It seems to move slower on DVD, which only gives me more time to be annoyed by Scarlett Johanssen.

SPOILER ALERT! I haven't been this gleeful about a leading lady's demise since Brad Pitt took the lid off the bakery box in Seven. Aside from annoying me, Scarlett and Gwyneth Paltrow don't have a lot in common.

Gwyneth is self-consciously aristocratic, as though being a Paltrow is akin to being a Windsor or a Grimaldi. But Scarlett simply oozes slut. While Gwyneth is high-maintenance, clear-skinned pretty, Scarlett's vibe is all dead eyes, sleepy voice and swollen lips. (When I think of that captivating little girl from The Horse Whisperer, I'm just glad Pilgrim is dead so he can't see that he risked his noble equine life for such a trollop.)

Yet they have over-rated talent in common. I never for a moment forget that Gwyneth is Gwyneth. And that Scarlett is Scarlett. They are not actresses enough to disappear into their parts, nor charismatic enough to engage me as film personalities. (Like Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock or Jennifer Aniston. They may not be great actresses, but they sure are fun movie stars.)

I suggest that from here on, directors hire Anne Hathaway for all roles previously slated for Scarlett.

Young Jonathan Rhys Meyer is fun and versatile. From Bend it Like Beckham to Elvis to MI:3, he surprises me and delights me. Still, I'd like all his roles to go to Johnny Depp. Because I believe that every movie should star Johnny Depp.

All I wanna do is sleep

Sleep, sleep, sleep.

When it's as hot as it is, and has been, that's all I want to do. Just going outside for a minute takes so much out of me! Heat is to me as Kryptonite is to Superman. It saps all my powers and renders me downright mortal.

Nothing holds my interest for long. I'm thirsty all the time. My hair finds imaginative ways to curl, all on its own. My eye shadow melts. My institutional gray desktop is so cool that I'm tempted to just give up and give in by pressing my cheek against it and calling it a day. Sleep, sleep, sleep.

Then tonight, after a 45-minute el ride with really cranky fellow commuters, I'll get home and find that if I try to run the air conditioner AND the DVD player, I blow the livingroom/diningroom/kitchen circuit. (Actually I think the problem is my cable box, which in hot weather behaves as if it's auditioning for a dinner theater production of Poltergeist.) But that's OK. Because right now my dearest wish isn't to be tucked in the corner of my sofa watching those DVD's I rented. No, I wish to be in my bedroom. On clean, cool sheets. After (at least) making out with my best friend.* Then sleep, sleep, sleep.

*Oh, it won't ever happen. But it's hot and I'm grumpy and we take our pleasure where we can.

This stuff is good

1) I saw my best friend on Wednesday night. He looked wonderful. He was in for a job interview and he might get a firm job offer. I hope he takes it, and not only because it would mean a trip to Chicago every month. I think this is great for his bruised ego, and this company seems to want to help him grow in his career. It was terrific to see him, even if it wasn't for long and I had to share him with former coworkers that he didn't get a chance to say goodbye to. He kept his tie on for me. I always said I wondered how he'd look in a tie. He looks good very good in a tie. I think he looks very good under any and all circumstances. I miss him so …

2) There's an extra $600 in my checking account. Apparently it's been there since before I started using Quicken in the late 90s. I'm going to pretend I haven't discovered this -- using the $600 as a cushion against rubber checks. But it makes me happy.

3) I got a raise. 4.5%. I still hate my job, but it's easier to endure knowing that I'm being compensated a bit more fairly. The "loser/sucker" that had previously been printed across my forehead appears to be fading a little …

There's a lot that's NOT good, but I'm not going to think about that now. I'm going to think of how nice it was that he wore a tie, how good it is that I have six hundred secret dollars, and that I finally got a raise.

Mother/Daughter Role Reversal

My mother had quite the week last week. She had a malignant growth removed from her left arm -- skin cancer. The hole took five stitches to close and it bled quite a bit, but her dermatologist is confident they got it all. We won't know for sure, though, until next week, when the biopsy results come back. You'd think that when the test is something as important as a biopsy, they could add an element of "hurry up," but I guess a week is what it takes.

Then she went to a different doctor to get her throat checked. My mother has "Barrett's esophagas," which means the lining of her esophagas is compromised. This is the result of acid reflux and more than half a century of cigarettes. She's been taking Prevacid for years, but her doctor is concerned that the degeneration hasn't slowed. Another biopsy. Another week long wait.

I took Thursday off to check on her after the exicision. I got to her house before she returned and was laying on the sofa when she arrived. I watched her come up the front steps, wincing because of the little shopping bag she was carrying. On the way back from the dermatologist, she asked my sister to make a stop at the convenience store so she could pick up her essentials for the weekend. The bag held peanuts (so my mother and my little nephew could feed the squirrel that lives in her backyard) and a carton of cigarettes.

I was speechless. And I cannot tell you how seldom that happens!

My mother had been told twice -- by two different doctors -- that she was flirting with life threatening cancer. The skin cancer on her arm will turn out fine, God willing, but she has to take care of herself. Smoking has helped exacerbate the Barrett's and she's waiting for results of that biopsy, too. And she felt that what she needed for the weekend was another carton of cigarettes!

Last night I had a very serious conversation with her. I reminded her of that long ago day, back in the 1970s, when my mother was summoned to the hospital to speak to her mother's doctors. My grandmother had been drinking on the sly for years, and it had seriously damaged her health. Doctors had summoned the family to the hospital, alerted them to her drinking, and explained the ramifications. My mother and grandmother were very close, and this upset her enormously.

Now, said I, how would you have felt if, on the way home from the hospital, old Grandma had stopped for a beer … said that she knew the drinking was "bad," but wasn't quite ready to quit yet.

I reminded my mother that back in the 1970s, she was already an adult. She had her own home and her own family. Yet she still needed her mother. I told her this was no different for me. She said she had never thought of it that way, and realizes that now is the time to quit smoking.

We will see. My mother can be very stubborn in a passive-aggressive way. She'll agree to something, but then just turn around and go her own way. Let's see how this story unfolds.

Reynaldo & Me, Life and Love with the World's Worst Cat

Reynaldo is 2.5 years old. This cat is no longer a kitten. Yet even though chronologically he should have left kittenhood behind, he remains a wild-eyed, destructive force who must be reckoned with, day in and day out. Like the Grogans in their book about Marley, I find my patience sorely tested.

Monday morning, at about 4:30 AM, he decided it would be fun to "let there be light." So he jumped onto my vanity, stretched, reached, and thoroughly amused himself by turning the switch on and off. I live alone. I cannot express how terrifying it is to be awakened by my bedroom light being switched on and off. I yelled at him as I threw my legs over the side of the bed. He looked at me with big, bright orange eyes, lit with excitement. "Oh, good," you could see him thinking, "We're going to play that game where she chases me and yells at me!" But I fooled him. I simply closed my bedroom door, turned off the light, and slept for another 90 minutes.

Chalk one up for the bi-ped with opposing thumbs, right? Not really.

I opened my bedroom door at 6:00 to the worst smell imaginable. Reynaldo had left a very fragrant, rather runny "gift" for me in my bathtub. (Props to whoever invented kitty litter; before Monday I don't think I fully realized how wretched that smell is without it.) I had forgotten that when I closed him out of my bedroom, I had closed him off from his box. Stifling a gag or two I cleaned and disinfected my tub (just what I want to do first thing Monday morning) and figured he had used up his quota of really bad morning behavior for the week.

Ah, but I'm just a dreamer.

This morning all was going well. Reynaldo was racing around happily, chasing the balls with the bells inside and tormenting my older, more sedate cat, Charlotte. (The torment is only perceived on her end; with him, it's all good fun, as in "We're going to play that game where she lays on her back and squeals like a monkey until I take my paws off her chest.") I was in the bathroom, applying just a little more hairspray to combat the humidity when I heard a CRASH! in the kitchen.

Charlotte raced past me, in the other direction, down the hall. Alone. Where was Rey? As I went to investigate I was filled with dread. Turning the corner to the dining room I saw him, scrunched down on his haunches, dragging his butt along the carpet. I saw a wet trail behind him. I was sure that he had fallen hard and broken something, damaging his internal organs so that he could no longer control his bladder. I tried gently to get him to stand on all fours. No way. That skinny little tom can he very strong when he wishes to be and he most emphatically was not going to stand on all fours.

It wasn't quite 8:00 AM yet. Emergency vet, I was thinking. But is it OK to bundle him up and put him in the carrier? How much can I handle him without doing more damage?

Then I looked past him to the kitchen. And it all became very clear. He had fallen or jumped from somewhere (the top of the new refrigerator, perhaps?) and had somehow landed ass first into his metal water bowl. And he wasn't crazy about the feeling of cold water on his anus, hence the scraping it along the carpet. I stood up and looked down at him. "You're fine, aren't you?" He sprung up and tried to herd me into the kitchen, hoping I would feed him again. I went into the kitchen to clean up the water spill and he circled me, trying to convince me that giving him more Friskies would be just thing to do right now.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Hell, I'm afraid for tonight.

He doesn't believe in framed artwork. He knocks it off the desk and bookshelves as well as stretching up and trying to remove it from walls. He likes to eat things -- mostly the handles on bags and purses. Every now and then, though, a nice umbrella hits the spot. (There are few things in life more useless than an umbrella covered with little pinprick-sized bite holes.) Glasses need to be spilled, as to cans. It's always more fun to spill cola than beer because the stain is so much darker. Hanging from the drapes is nice. As is trying to sneak between my legs and out the door at every given opportunity.

I'm tired.

But, like Marley in Grogan's book, Rey is not without his charms. He loooooves me. He enjoys sprawling across my lap while I'm reading. He submits merrily to "We're going to play the game where she cuts my nails." When we're en route to the vet, he comforts Charlotte by gently cleaning her ears. He is endlessly patient and gentle with the little boy next door and my nephew (as in, "We're going to play the game where he pulls my ears or yanks my tail"). Since he doesn't perceive any interaction as negative, he is utterly fearless. Reynaldo's world isn't filled with strangers, just playmates he hasn't met yet.

So I guess I should just accept it. After almost two years, Reynaldo is mine and I am his, and we simply have to find a way to peacefully co-exist.

Why Suri Cruise matters

I just downloaded Suri Cruise's birth certificate. And I, too, wonder why she hasn't been seen. I also feel terribly invested in Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan. I'm happy they're in love, but I don't want them to rush into marriage, just because Brangelina had a baby first so Jen wants to win the race to the altar. And I'm hoping that his dramatic turn in the upcoming Hollywoodland rejuvenates Ben Affleck's career. All of this is important to me.

No, I'm not stupid. And yes, I do have real friends, people that I actually interact with on a regular basis, that I could concentrate on.

But I often find reality lacking, so I escape into the pages of US, PEOPLE and smokinggun.com.

My mom is flirting with skin cancer. One friend told me that she enjoys following her Xanax with wine because it calms her down faster. Another friend is so overwhelmed at work that she has a hard time stringing three coherent words together. Another can't afford medical insurance so she keeps telling me how superior she feels to the rest of us, experiencing her body while the rest of us simply medicate ours. And it's Monday, so let me say it for the first time this week: I hate this job.

I do read. I know about the Korean situation. It scares me that we have Bolton at the UN. It disgusts me that we are occupying a country with no WMD's while we should have been paying attention to a country that is rather proud of its missles. I know about the soldiers charged with rape and murder in Iraq and wonder how far our actions at Gitmo and Abu Gharib went in dehumanizing these American boys. I ache for the woman here in Chicago who deserted her ADD son at Taste of Chicago because she didn't have the resources -- emotional and fiscal -- to care for him. There's so much misery everywhere we look.

So I choose every now and again to look away and focus instead on Suri and Jen and Vince and Ben. (The Star Jones thing is pretty entertaining, too.)

I do, however, about the soul-sucking nature of celebrity worship. In the summer of 2004 I saw Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg at a fundraiser for Senator Kerry. Here's a woman who has been famous her entire life, and not by choice. As she walked through the crowd, she seemed fragile and damaged. Here she was, at a reception for Kerry campaign staff. She would never find a more supportive audience anywhere. And yet as she made her way to the stage, she seemed not to hear us, as though sending her mind away to the Happy Place would protect her somehow. I worried how she would fare at the real dinner in the ballroom where she would have to mingle with big dollar contributors. I suddenly felt very maternal toward her. I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her she didn't have to do this -- we had their credit card numbers already, so even if she ran away, we still had their contributions. Once she made it to the stage, she was poised, sophisticated and very well spoken. But we weren't surrounding her when she was on stage.

It occured to me as I listened to her speak that I have seen her bid farewell to her entire immediate family. I watched her slip her hand under the flag that covered her father's coffin. I saw her kiss her hand and touch her mother's grave at Arlington. Through telescopic lenses I saw her seated on a ship, listening to the service as her brother's ashes were tossed into the sea. How weird, creepy and intrusive is that? I realize that the Kennedys are public figures, part of history, and that press attention goes with the territory. But watching that thin woman try to slip through the crowd without making eye contact, seeing the trepidation in every line of her body, I wonder what had happened to her to make her construct such a thick protective shell. Do people stop her on the street and ask about Marilyn Monroe, Chappaquidick and assassination theories? Seeing her that night makes me wonder about the personal price of celebrity as entertainment, even as I indulge in it.

I'm an American Girl

With all apologies to Tom Petty fans, I'm going to mix and merge two of his songs here. A few years back, I met a Jordanian ex-patriate at a party and after about a half hour of conversation, he said (with affection), "I have finally met the American Girl from the Tom Petty song." He had gotten "American Girl" and "Free Falling" confused. I was flattered by his observation and have thought about it often since then.

"She's a good girl, loves her Mama …" Yes. My mother is having minor cancer surgery this Thursday and it's about all I can think of. It's skin cancer, an in-office procedure. But it's still cancer and she's still my mother.

"Loves Jesus, and America, too." Yes, indeedy. I'm a patriotic Christian. (Which is why I'm still proud of MY vote on 11/2/04. Wonder how many Bushies can say the same.)

"Crazy 'bout Elvis." Yes. Definitely. I wanted Emil or Elliott or whoever the hell he was voted off American Idol after he screwed up "If I Can Dream." That's a great song. A beautiful song. Elvis' contribution is just as moving a testament to its time as "Blowin' in the Wind." Oh, and I have seen King Creole and Viva Las Vegas like a million times.

"Loves horses, and her boyfriend, too." I've always loved horses. Noble, beautiful beasts. And actually, I'm secretly in love with someone else's husband, but since I've never told him, I don't think that will cost me my "good girl" status.

And yes, I do believe I'm "free falling." Sometimes I feel like it's a battle to keep my head above water, to remain positive, to concentrate on the many good and happy things in my life. But I'm trying!

And, as an American Girl, I have to confess that I COULD NOT CARE LESS about Wimbeldon or the World Cup. Make them go away. They are just confusing my TV watching and taking valuable media attention away from my Cubs. HEY! They are on a streak now (two in a row)! And besides, there's trade talk floating around regarding my two favorite players (my beloved #31, future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux and Todd Walker, he of the really beautiful hair). I need to be informed!

Back to the grind

Why is it so hard to concentrate after four glorious days off? Shouldn't I feel invigorated and re-energized? Instead I'm lethargic and completely unenthusiastic about everything on my desk, on my calendar, on my to-do list.

Is this because I am no longer happy at this job? Perhaps this is just the natural order of things and everyone feels this way today.

There are so many things I could be doing at home. Scrubbing my bathroom floor. Disposing of even more extraneous paper. (Two bags of magazines, catalogs and outdated correspondence yesterday alone!) Sorting through books for the book fair to benefit the Oak Park Public Library. Watching continuous coverage of Ken Lay/Korea while playing endless games of Pogo 21 …

Instead of all those lofty pursuits, I am, in the immortal words of Huey Lewis, "Taking what they're giving because I'm working for a living."

Unable to part with Johnny Depp

Right here beside me is Johnny Depp, smiling from the June 26 cover of Newsweek. I am making an optimistic attempt to rid my living room of all this paper. I should toss this into the bag of recycled paper. Oh, but look at him …

There are lots of things I could think about today. My mom's health. Current events. My suck-o job/career. My longing for my best friend.

Or I could just look at Johnny Depp.

I'm sticking with Johnny.

He's simply gorgeous,and he refuses to trade on it. Pirates of the Carribean. Finding Neverland. Blow. Ed Wood. Secret Window. Charley and the Chocolate Factory. Considering how completely delicious he looks, these were not only daring career choices, they were downright perverse. I admire his sense of humor and sense of integrity. Oh, and his cheekbones and how he looks in jeans.

Now that I'm thinking good, clean, dirty thoughts: I am also in love with Bruce Willis. His effortless sense of cool. His (seeming) complete of vanity, in both his personal appearance and his career choices. In Lucky Number Slevin, he played the father figure to Josh Hartnett, an actor just about the same age as his ex-wife's new hubby. So much for caring about the image.

Then there's George Clooney. I never cared much about him, one way or the other, until Good Night and Good Luck. Loved the movie, love his point of view about free speech and the press, love how he looked in a tux during awards season. Love how he uses his fame to draw attention to genocide. Love how well he seems to get along with his dad. I hope he forgives me for ignoring him during the ER/Ocean's 11 hubub, and if there's still room on his bandwagon, I'd like to jump on.

I also get all swooney about Rob Lowe on The West Wing. (I'm into the reruns on Bravo.) He's so earnest and idealistic. And I love how he looks in those suits. Didn't I read somewhere that Aaron Sorkin based Rob's Sam Seaborn on George Stephanopolous when he worked for Bill Clinton? Sure, he's a pretty boy. But then I can be hot for a pretty boy with the right social conscience.

Then there's the pretty boy who is that and nothing else: Hugh Grant. Maybe he's a good actor. We've never really seen him stretch himself. But he's certainly a charming screen presence, and that's enough for me. And ever since I was a little girl, breathlessly enchanted by Paul McCartney, I've had a weakness for handsome Brits who can't keep their hair out of their eyes.

What a lovely respite this was! Thank you Johnny, Bruce, George, Rob and Hugh. I appreciate the stardust you've sprinkled into my mundane little life. But now it's back to housework.

Nothing to do except to wait and to hurt

From The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, the novel by Mark Haddon that I just finished:

"I wanted to go to sleep so that I wouldn't have to think because there was no room for anything else in my head, but I couldn't go to sleep and I just had to sit there and there was nothing to except to wait and to hurt."

That's how I feel on the days when I don't hear from my best friend. I feel isolated and I panic and I think that I will never hear from him again. And then he calls or emails and everything is fine. He still cares for me and about me. We're still friends and we're still good.

I wish I didn't do this. Yet I do it so well! Awfulizing, imagining the worst as vividly as possible, it comes so easily to me. It's a waste of energy, I know. I also know that he's not the kind of person who would enjoying doing this to me (if he was aware of the impact his absence has on me, and I'm not sure he does).

My own worst enemy -- that's me.

Here's to a Yankee Doodle Dandy Weekend

I'm on the first full day of my four day weekend. It's viciously hot and humid outside, but I'm lounging in climate-controlled comfort (78º in the living room, 74º in the bedroom), watching my Cubs play that team whose name I dare not speak. All my appliances work, my refrigerator is stocked, my bills are paid, my beloved Greg Maddux is on the mound and (right now, at least) he's winning. This is holiday is off to a much, much better start than (shudder) Memorial Day.

Beyond today, I don't have any big plans for the weekend. This afternoon/evening (after the game, of course), I'm going to see The Devil Wears Prada with my friend Harold and (perhaps) the oft-unreliable Gregory. Then Harold and I are off to dinner at Papa Milano's. (Did I remember to make a reservation?) This is all in celebration of H's birthday, and we always have a good time. The Taste of Chicago is this weekend and I may end up over there. I may have a playdate with my young nephew Nick. Or perhaps I'll hibernate. Hibernating is good.

As I get older, I want to DO less and less on my days off. I am more and more content to relax by myself. Go through that foot-high stack of magazines on the floor next to my coffee table. Open the door to the den (it's scary in there!) and put aside books for the Friends of the Oak Park Public Library Book Fair. Touch up my hair.

I have friends I can call if I get stir crazy. God bless them. But I see this weekend being quiet and content.