My favorite headline

September 29, 2006
Pamela Anderson's nipples look depressed

Read it for yourself:
http://thesuperficial.com/2006/09/pamela_andersons_nipples_look_depressed.html

See? And you thought I made it up, didn't you?

He did it, he did it, he did it!

Two runs, three hits, seven innings. And now the Dodgers are in the play-offs. Nicely done! I love you, Greg Maddux.

It's 9-6 Colorado at my beloved Wrigley Field. I haven't forgotten them. They're still my guys, even after this heartbreaking, disastrous season. It's my loyalty to the Cubs that makes cheering for the Dodgers so easy. Kenny Lofton, Nomar Garciaparra and old what's his name are all very familiar to me, and they all look good in blue.

One who isn't my guy, though, is Dusty Baker. At the end of tomorrow's game, don't let the door hit ya on the way out, Dusty.

Come on, Professor …

"Greg Maddux, who's pitched in 11 postseasons, can seal a spot for LA." So reads the headline on MLB.com.

It's cloudy and 62º at AT&T Park in San Fran. And the tenth winningest pitcher in baseball history is trying to turn the heat up on the home team. If he can make fast work of the Giants today, the Dodgers will clinch a spot in the playoffs.

The game's not televised nationally, so I cannot watch him pitch in real-time. Instead I'm trying to follow it on Gameday. Which is OK, but I can't see his face. For me, that's the best part of watching the Professor perform. The completely expressionless baby face, with the gears grinding inexorably and inscrutably behind his eyes. Watching him pace away from the mound a moment, lick his fingers, and return, ready to "paint the corners" again. Always the same, whether is 1-1 (as it is now) or 6-1 (makes no difference in his demeanor whether he's on the winning or losing end).

I know he's pitching on only four days' rest. I know he can't do it alone, that he needs all the Dodger offense behind him. I know the SF/Dodger rivalry is almost as virulent as the Cub/Cards rivalry, and the Giants and their fans would undoubtedly love to sock it to the Dodgers. I know this game isn't a sure thing (I haven't forgotten that I thought 9/20 against the Pirates -- when I was in the stands -- was gonna be a cakewalk for him).

But I want this so. For him. This last time around with the Cubs didn't go as well as he (or we) had hoped. I want him to go out a winner. I want it to be clear to anyone and everyone that Greg Maddux is the real deal, and that silly Roger Clemens has no reason to come back in 2007. In 20 years, when kids not even born yet visit Cooperstown, I want them to read a plaque that Greg Maddux pitched in the post-season 12 times. He deserves it so.

Please let him be a hero once again today. Please.

Sincere tribute or nasty slap? You decide.

Sir Paul has dedicated his new album to his first wife Linda. This latest musical creation is an orchestral work in four movements called "Ecce Cor Meum" (Behold My Heart). He explains that this was what he was working on, with Linda's help, at the time of her death. Finishing this "emotional" work helped him work through his grief at losing her.

Now all of that is probably true. The world was moved by the longevity of Paul and Linda's marriage, as well as how deep his agony was when she died.

But I also think that releasing this piece now (I believe I read that the first public performance was to honor Linda's birthday) was done to minimize Heather Mills and the role she has played in Sir Paul's life.

I was happy when Paul married Heather Mills, though her young age disturbed me.* I was thrilled when Baby Bea was born. I was so glad that he was among us again, working on music, performing … and no longer looking like an open wound.

That's why the ugliness of this divorce bothers me. Whatever may have happened between them, Heather did help him turn his life around and give him a baby. I wish that when a relationship ends, the couple could honor what they each brought to it and just move on. No recrimination, no blame, no ugliness. I guess that's unrealistic, though. As someone once said, "If relationships didn't end badly, they wouldn't end at all."

I realize Sir Paul is a billionaire, but I don't believe that money is the root of all this nastiness. I think it's just the nature of the what happens when love ends. I have a friend who has been divorced for four years, with a new man for almost three, and yet she and her ex can't stop picking and slicing away at each other. And trust me, these two are not rich.

I've never been married but I've suffered through the end of three serious relationships. I can honestly say that two of the men were lovely people, good and decent, and that quite a bit of the blame for those break ups was mine. I'm glad I don't hate them, glad I never did, and I'm grateful I can easily recall happy moments with each of them. I hope that when they think of me, if they think of me, they can do the same.

*My issue with her age wasn't in relation to his age, it was in relation to my own. I was too young for Paul the first time he married, and apparently too old for Paul the second time he married. How did that happen?

What I'm doing instead

I'm not:
• Sorting my laundry
• Paying my end o' the month bills
• Wrapping my nephew's birthday presents
• Making sense of all that crap on my dining room table


I am:
• Following the Dodger/Giants game on Gameday. The Dodgers are behind 3-2 in the 8th but I'm hanging in there. I'm "thinking blue!"
• Watching Friends, the one about (ironically enough) laundry. It's from 1994. God, they were young! Especially Matthew Perry and Matt LeBlanc.
• About to play more Pogo

I have no self discipline whatsoever.

I'm not good at this

My best friend is off to Dallas right now as we speak. He's spending the weekend there to celebrate a family wedding, and he's flying down in his brother-in-law's private plane. (Or maybe it's a jet; like "affect" and "effect," I never can keep planes and jets straight.)

So today I have been very mad at Barbra Streisand because she lied to me. People who need people are most emphatically NOT the luckiest people in the world. People who need people worry themselves sick about bad weather tossing silly little cylinders of steel about in the air. People who need people get lonely because the people they need are incommunicado.

For most of 2003 I was unemployed and freelancing, working from home. I was very independent and very comfortable with my own company* and truly cannot remember the sensation of missing anyone. Or being this genuinely worried about (or perhaps neurotically fixated upon) anyone else's welfare. Was I better off then? Was I happier? Maybe. Perhaps I'm just not cut out for this caring about people shit.


*I was also usually broke, but that's another subject for another time.

Digging for gold

Seen on the el this morning: Young, upwardly mobile suburban mom, bringing baby girl and stroller downtown. Just about everything on both mother and daughter had a highly visible label. Land's End, J. Crew, Jeep are just the ones I can recall. They were both wearing purples and lavendars. They both had their shiny dark hair pulled back in ponytails.

As Mom sipped her Starbuck's latte and chatted animatedly on her Razr, her perfect little girl (strapped into the stroller and safely out of Mom's sightline) dug around in her nostril and proceeded to eat the contents.

I like Addison

I do. Because she's so much less whiny and wussy than Meredith. (And perhaps because she's a redhead, like yours truly.) I hope that as McDreamy and Meredith heat up again, they won't write Addison out.

I am, of course, discussing Grey's Anatomy. The show I love. I began loving it because, well, just look at Patrick Dempsey. Yum. I simply can't believe this gorgeous grown-up was once the geek in Can't Buy Me Love.

But now I find I enjoy it almost as much for its portrayal of strong, idiosyncratic women. Addison Shepard. Christina Yang. Miranda Bailey. They're all so neat. I'm even warming up to that dark-haired girl whose in love with George. Tonight she covered for Meredith, and considering how annoying Meredith is, that couldn't have been easy.

I think part of the problem comes from the show's writers. Meredith's voiceovers remind me so much of Carrie Bradshaw's. Only Carrie's had a real purpose: she was the voice of the newspaper column she was writing. She also spent a lot of time discussing the inner lives of her closest friends. Meredith's voiceovers don't seem to accomplish anything except to make Dr. Grey seem self-centered and kinda somnambulistic.

Stuff I care about, and stuff I don't

When something captures my fancy I tend to read about/watch it obsessively. Lately that includes:

The National League Wildcard Race: Please, please, please let the Dodgers prevail. I simply must see Greg Maddux pitch in the postseason one more time!

The McCartney/Mills divorce: Doesn't matter how many allegations she makes about Sir Paul, the English public still hates Heather. She was just tossed out of a grocery store in her hometown because she shoplifted there 10 years ago.

Bill Clinton's Fox Rant: Oh, I loved it. But why on earth did he go on Fox in the first place? And while I'm sure it will help our side in the November elections, what impact will it have on Hillary? Does it free her to speak openly about the mess in Iraq without sounding like she's attacking Bush because after all, she's just defending her husband? Or does it simply illustrate anew that her husband is still more compelling and relevant than she is?

Anna Nicole Smith: I'm sorry, but I simply don't believe that Howard K. Stern is the father of that baby.

Meredith Vieria: I like her. I've always liked her. And I'm glad they didn't replace Katie with a 30-something.

-----------------------------

And then there are the things that I couldn't care less about, yet somehow they penetrate my awareness:

Dancing with the Stars: So Harry Hamlin goes and Jerry Springer stays? Isn't the real story that Mario Lopez cheats on reality shows, just as he cheated in reality?

T.O.'s alleged suicide attempt: If he's not a baseball player, I really can't be bothered.

The fabulousness of the Bears' Rex Grossman: See above.

Clay Aiken's hair, new CD, panic attacks and sexuality: Do we really need another Barry Manilow?

Girl Crush … as seen in the NY Times …

… meaning not "girl-on-girl," as seen in Girls Gone Wild infomercials.*

During the summer of 2005, the NY Times wrote about how women, especially working women, tend to get "crushes" on other women. It's always a woman who is just SO … fantastic, cool, together, etc. Who so exemplifies everything you want to be, but aren't (or aren't yet). A woman whose respect you dearly want to have.

I've never had a real-life girl crush. But I have had an enduring, lifelong girl crush on the woman you see here.

JBKO. Effortlessly elegant. Sublimely self-contained. Feminine, but tough as nails when the situation demanded it.

Jackie Kennedy was fluent in French and conversational in Spanish. For fun she read Greek poets. For fun, I read about her.

She captured my imagination when I was a little girl. I was fascinated by how fascinated everyone was with her. As I got older, I got it. And like many others all over the world (including, it seems, Princess Diana), my fascination with her didn't wane with time.

My all-time favorite Jackie anecdote: After being fired upon in an open car, after being with her husband when he is pronounced dead, after exhibiting nothing but grace and stoicism to a worldwide television audience as she buried him, after receiving the foreign dignitaries who wished to convey their condolences, on the VERY DAY of that famous funeral, she switched gears fast and efficiently. To oversee a birthday party for her three-year-old son. Who didn't understand where Daddy was, but certainly remembered it was his birthday. So she passed out cone-shaped birthday hats, played preschool party games and tried to convince her neices and nephews that it was not only OK to be festive on this horrible day, it was the right thing to do. She sucked it up because she was John Jr.'s mother, and it was his birthday.

My throat closes a little every time I think of what it took for her to do that on that day.

I see stories all the time about firefighters, cops and soldiers. I have nothing but gratitude for anyone who is willing to go into harm's way on my behalf, but I don't get it. I don't understand what it takes to go into a burning building or face a gun. I do, however, understand how hard it would be to swallow my fear and heartache long enough to sing "Happy Birthday" and feign delight as a three-year-old rips paper off of Lincoln Logs and Mr. Potato Head. The lady had guts.


*Geez, why do straight men find that particular sexual situation so hot, even though it renders them completely irrelevant? I like to be IN my own fantasies. Oh well, that's a post for another day.

About those headaches

On Saturday, 9/16, I suffered from a headache that would have killed a lesser man. It was really brutal. Throbbing and unrelenting, it left me nauseous.

I stopped to pick up a lottery ticket and decided, since it was an unseasonably hot day and I required quenching, to also buy a Mike's Hard Lemonade. The bottle was cute, and what better way to celebrate one of the last days of summer? Also, since I would be enjoying it while waiting at the bus stop, I was happy to settle on an alcoholic beverage that the local cops would not recognize.

I noticed that the booze wasn't affecting me at all. Nada. Zip. Zilch. No buzz at all, even in the sun. Oh, well, I thought, it's not like it was a Grey Goose Cosmo and you get what you pay for. Then, when I reached my destination (Carson, Pirie, Scott), it hit me. It started like a little caffeine headache and suddenly grew up to be ... OW, OW, OW! I had to go home and get in bed, where I stayed for hours.

This had happened to me once before. Recently. While I was out of town, preparing for a client presentation. We went to dinner (Outback Steakhouse) and I had a frozen drink and the very same thing happened. I didn't feel it and in no time I was sick with a headache that lasted hours and nearly compromised my performance the next morning.

The common denominator of both instances was booze. While I had enjoyed beers and mixed drinks between the headaches, these two incidents left me afraid to drink.

While I was in Los Angeles, I relived all this for my best friend, who was so sad at the thought of me having to give up my "ini's." So together we carefully examined my alcoholic history between the two headaches.

Frozen Kiwi Lemonade -- vodka, kiwi, strawberries and lemonade mix -- HEADACHE!
Light beer -- a malt beverage -- No headache
Cosmo -- voda, triple sec, cranberry and lime juice -- No headache
Rumba -- Rum and ... other stuff -- No headache
Mike's Hard Lemonade -- Malt liquor and lemonade -- HEADACHE! KILL ME NOW! HEADACHE!

Ding ding ding! We have stumbled upon something here. All the while I was concerned about the liquor content, when in reality I'm having a severe bitch of a reaction to, of all things, LEMONADE! Go figure! It sure looks benign, fun and All-American, doesn't it? Well, I'm telling you, lemonade is a formidable foe that actually incapacitated me.

Shocking, huh? I suppose it shouldn't be. After all, we're living in a world where spinach kills.

http://onegalsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/09/oh-but-it-hurt.html

I love this stuff

I'm watching The Thin Man. The original in the series. It's the 1930s, people were suffering, and yet this movie was successful enough in its day to spawn at least four sequels. I understand the phenomenon, because I love it, too.

Nick Charles is a former "dick," a working-class stiff with sordid acquaintances, now a "gentleman," thanks to his marriage to the wealthy heiress, Nora. Now he says he helps run her family businesses, but all we ever see our handsome raconteur hero do is drink and charm. His beautiful, elegant wife is better-rounded and has more interests. She drinks and shops. They are usually accompanied by their dog, Asta, who (like Nick and Nora) is just as comfortable in an exclusive club or a seedy gin mill.

Their clothes are gorgeous. Their apartment is sumptuous. Their friends are colorful. Their banter is sexy (and probably shocking for the 1930s). Every now and again they interrupt their wining and dining to solve a murder.

They play. They drink. They make love. They dabble in sordid affairs and murder. They do it all so stylishly. As romantic a fantasy as it seems in 2006, I imagine it was even more irresistible in the 1930s, when so many were unemployed, when unspeakable horrors were taking place in Europe, when the world seemed drab, unimaginative and hopeless. I bet a glorious fantasy in beautiful black and white really hit the spot.

"Yes. But Not With You."

So read the tight, tight, tight t-shirt I saw on a very buxom woman on Michigan Avenue today. We could not only see her rack, her tummy rolls were also very evident. Her jeans were too snug, too. She completed the ensemble with the biggest, heaviest brown shoes I've seen in quite a while -- at least away from a construction site. And yet her t-shirt implies that she feels like a sex object.

I must admit I admire her.

I agonize over my weight. How my clothes fit. How my skin looks. Are my roots showing. And I feel, for the most part, invisible to the opposite sex.

She, on the other hand, is so confident about getting offers that she turns them down in advance. Good for her.

Not me. Not yet, at least.

Traitors! Traitors, all!

I refer, of course, to the legions of Chicago pedestrians walking up and down State Street with white bags, adorned with the Macy's star.

It's not right. Once those were the trademark dark green bags of my beloved Marshall Field's.

I have yet to step foot in Macy's. It's too soon. I simply can't.

I'm told Macy's carries Jones New York, Liz Claiborne, and Eileen Fisher, just as Field's did. Before Macy's took over, I was reassured that the cosmetic lines would remain the same. The clock is still out front. I could still buy Frangoes, if I wanted to.

But I'm not ready for this yet. Not by a longshot.

Forget DisneyLand. To me, Marshall Field's State Street was The Magic Kingdom, The Happiest Place on Earth. Romantic, old architecture. A tradition of service (I was a guest, they always thanked me for waiting, and each purchase was wrapped individually in tissue paper). And Christmas. What will our holiday season be like without Marshall Field's?

Oh, sure, Federated has sent me a new credit card. I haven't even activated it yet.

Of course, I didn't cut it in half, either.

I suppose it's inevitable that I'll give in to the winds of change at some point. But not today.

Strictly within Code

More from my trip to Los Angeles … My best friend and I stayed up almost all night both nights. Gossiping, teasing, laughing and talking, talking, talking. I was surprised and relieved that we are still most definitely us, still completely comfortable with each other, still finishing one another's sentences. If I didn't have this, I would be bereft.

His client-supplied corporate apartment is in an LA suburb, quite a haul from my Hollywood Blvd. hotel. The drive is anywhere between 20 minutes and an hour, depending on traffic and fire-related road closures/reroutes. (California is so incredibly carcentric!) The second night he was so tired and more than a little buzzed, so I insisted he take a nap before he hit the road.

I've dozed off in front of him more than once, but this is the first time the roles were reversed. He doesn't move much when he sleeps. He snores. And his fingers wake up first, twitching a bit before his eyes open.

Still, it was all very chaste. Since we were in Hollywood, it only appropriate that it reminded me of the old Hays Code: "Overseen for many years by what was known as the Hays Code (named for one of the Code's founding fathers, William Harrison Hayes), the Code imposed an almost laughably puritanical set of values on films. Not even married couples could be shown in bed together, unless each had one foot on the floor."

Both of his feet remained shod and most firmly on the floor.

How my home is different from a luxury hotel

1) I have only two pillows on the solitary, full-sized bed in my bedroom. Not four pillows piled high on each of the queen-sized beds.

2) When doing my toenails at home, I am on the sofa, knees bent against my chest, bifocals on, hoping that the shower will wash away any excess polish I've slopped on either side. Instead of laying back under an umbrella, poolside, having my cuticles tended to and my drink refreshed as my nails are filed perfectly flat.

3) My refrigerator has two Miller Lites, still in that white plastic ring-thing. Not one bottle each Amstel Lite, Coors Lite, Budweiser and Miller, as well as a variety of vodkas and gins.

4) If I leave towels on the floor in my bathroom, they stay on the floor all day.

5) No one is there to compliment me on my lovely green eyes, wish me a good day, ask if there's anything they can do to help, and whisper that if I run out to the pool right now, I can see a celebrity.

I miss you, Hotel Roosevelt on Hollywood Boulevard.

24 Hours from Now

At this time tomorrow I will be on my way to Dodger Stadium to watch my beloved, future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux take the mound against the Pirates. I love him.

My best friend will be sitting beside me. I'm more than a little fond of him, too.

I hate my complexion, but it's been worse. I'm not as thin as I'd like to be, but I'm thinner than I was last time he saw me.

We're not going to sleep together. I don't think he'd like himself afterward. But I'd really like him to want to.

That's my best friend. Now if Greg Maddux asked me to bed, I'd drop trou in a heartbeat. I love him.

I'm Laurie. I'm 5.

Here's a fun little time suck for you.

You Are 5: The Investigator

You're independent - and a logical analytical thinker.

You love learning and ideas... and know things no one else does.

Bored by small talk, you refuse to participate in boring conversations.

You are open minded. A visionary. You understand the world and may change it.


Now find out what number YOU are:
http://blogthings.com/whatnumberareyouquiz/

Oh, but it hurt!

Saturday afternoon I got a headache. A killer headache. Throbbing. Severe. Impossible to concentrate. Impossible to sleep. Impervious to ibuprofen and even prescription strength naproxen. Lasted for hours. Left me nauseous and weak.

According to the Internet, it could be a hormonal headache, a pre-menstrual headache, or a migraine.

I don't care, but it's going to have to stop.

I refuse to live with a condition that leaves me unable to function.

Next month I'm supposed to visit my doctor for some follow-up lab work. She and I are going to have a chat.

Quiet Desperation

I spent a good part of Friday afternoon listening to the results of some client-sponsored consumer research on retirement and anticipated quality of life in the golden years. OUCH! What a depressing meeting!

"I would rather die myself than be saddled with a sick husband."
"I'd rather die than move in with my kids."
"My kids will never be gone for good. They keep moving back."
"I worry about my grandchildren. I can't trust those yahoo kids of mine to raise them."
"By the time I'm 60 I'll have had a job I hated for almost 40 years. I only do this for the money. After I'm 60 I want to teach. That's the job I wish I had all along."
"I hate watching my parents get sicker and sicker. I don't want that to be me."

No one under age 50 seems to believe in the stereotypical retirement in Boca. OK, good enough. I can't imagine anything more boring than sitting on an Adirondack chair and baking in the sun.

But boy, oh boy, what this age group (35 to 55) has in mind as an alternative is so depressing. After retirement, they all figure they will continue working: retail, daycare, even as a crossing guard. There was that woman who hoped to FINALLY get to do what she's wanted to do her whole life: teach.

And the bitterness toward family members! My husband is a burden, my kids are a burden, my parents are a burden …

I don't have enough saved for retirement, I know that. And I'm almost 50. I may never have enough for retirement. So in addition to making me sad about how desperate and sad my audience sounds, this consumer research made me feel guilty about not doing all I should for my own retirement. I, of all people, should know better.

Say it ain't so, Joe!

My IPass internet service STILL doesn't work from home! And when I got into the office and called my own personal IT guy, he wasn't there! So I had to follow the usual channels and still haven't heard from The Help Desk.

It's humbling, but I guess it's important for me to remember that while I am the leading lady in my own biopic, I am a mere bit player in someone else's.

Spotlighting a Bit Player

Ever since I was a little girl and my parents took me downtown to see Mary Poppins, I have loved movies. I adore the entire movie-going experience -- everything from buying my movie food (sweets eaten only in a theater, usually Twizzlers or Sno-Caps) to choosing my seat to the anonymity-in-a-public-place sensation of sitting in the dark surrounded by strangers.

Since going to the movies is one of the enduring joys of my life, it makes sense that I'd see my life as a film. Starring me, of course. But then I get thinking of all the tiny character parts there would be. Like in The Godfather, there was Nino Ruggeri as "Mobster at the funeral with Barzini." You've seen The Godfather a million times, but admit it, you don't remember "Mobster at the funeral with Barzini," do you? Still, those who play these bit parts add to the texture and success of the film.

Likewise, my life wouldn't be the same life without my bit players. So today we're taking one from "Mobster at the funeral with Barzini"-style obscurity and making him a star.

And that would be Joe from The Help Desk.

I use this company-owned laptop for a lot of personal business. Like playing Pogo while watching TV at home. I love this laptop. Last night my modem simply would not connect. I was at wit's end, imagining my Pogo scores for the week dipping into the gutter. Then this morning, when I got into the office, I was unable to log onto my Lotus Notes. Without the Internet, this job has even less meaning than it normally does. So I called Joe from the Help Desk.

That's actually not what we're supposed to do when we have a computer problem here. We're supposed to call the Help Desk's main number, leave a brief explanation of our problem on voicemail, and then wait to be called back. Then a random Help Desk wizard will ask for more detail and open a job ticket. When your job ticket moves to the front of the line, your problem will be addressed. It's all very fair: each problem is addressed in the order in which it is received.

That would be OK if we were all created equal. But we aren't. This is the story of my life, which means I'm the star. So I call Joe directly.

Joe and I got to know each other when I got my iPod and he had to keep initializing each iTunes upgrade for me. We first met when I followed procedure, and quickly discovered that while some Help Desk wizards find my asking for iTunes help annoying when there is agency business to address, Joe found my complete audacity charming. So now I go to him directly.

Today I didn't even have to bring my laptop to him. He made a housecall. I think he just wanted to stretch his legs. He's wearing gauze and tape on his thumb, so I solicitously asked him about it. Help Desk guys don't get fussed over or flirted with much, and let's face it, fussing and flirting is one of the benefits of working in a big office.

He fixed my modem issues in no time and didn't make me feel stupid for doing whatever it was I did that screwed up the settings. So here's to you, Joe. You're pleasant, you're nice, you're very capable, and you're one of the bit players in my life story that made this rainy Wednesday suck a little less. Your leading lady thanks you, Joe from the Help Desk.

Well, that was a let down

Because I was such a passionate (some would say "rabid") supporter of Senator Kerry's, some people insist I hate George W. Bush. That's not true. I wasn't against him in 2004, I was FOR Senator Kerry. I followed my heart, I didn't dedicate myself to that campaign out of hate or fear but out of hope. We lost, my heart is broken, but we try to move on. I don't enjoy it when W. screws up. He is, after all, my president.

And last night I needed him.

I wanted him to say something about 9/11 and the WTC, the Pentagon and United #93 that would help me heal. Something I understood, something that reflected who we are as people, something that expressed what it means to be an American.

Ronald Reagan got it. He knew that's what a president needs to do, what a president needs to be. I was never a supporter of his, but I still remember his phrase about the Challenger astronauts, "They slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God." That speech was just a few minutes long, but it touched me. He was sincere (I know, he was an actor, but I'm still not cynical enough to believe that was acting) and his speech was poetic, soothing and beautiful.

Bill Clinton got it. I remember his press conference after Oklahoma City. He spoke of our children, of the impact images of violence at a daycare center may have them, and asked parents to remind the young ones that most adults are good and ready to protect them. Metaphorically, Bill Clinton was letting all of us know our government is basically good, and ready to protect us.

I needed George W. Bush to get it. To rise to the occasion. To deliver a speech that reflected 5 years of reflection.

Instead I got a political speech that he could have given last week or next. It was a justification of his policies and his decisions.

I'm a grown woman. Perhaps I shouldn't need a daddy figure behind a shiny desk to assuage my aching heart. But I do. I wish I was the polarized Republican-hater people assume I must be. If I was, I wouldn't have expected better from this president, and I wouldn't feel even emptier today, after the anniversary of 9/11.

I may start seeing other hosts

Vox and Wordpress are making serious plays for my blog. I like blogger.com well enough. But it's fun to be wooed ...

Appalled, yet jealous, too

One of my coworkers, a gal with a very big personality, was talking about the impact rainy days like today have on her. She said she just wanted to be in bed, watching daytime TV.

Not today, I said. I explained how at the health club today, every TV screen showed heartbreaking images.

"Why? What's today? Is it September 11 already?"

So there are people who don't have it seared on their souls.

Escape into the world of gangsters -- with an "r"

Angels with Dirty Faces is on. This is a terrific old Warner Bros. gangster flick, complete with Cagney AND Bogart and Pat O'Brien as a priest as handy with his fists as he is with his Bible because he was a hoodlum himself once. The camera loved Cagney. I know it's a cliche, but you should see what I'm looking at. Even in luscious black and white, I know his eyes are blue. And he moves with such effortless, yet essentially male, grace. I know he was a dancer, and it shows. He's a very bad man in this movie (when it came out in 1938, it was banned in some countries for glorifying mobsters) but a fabulously charismatic one. I am grateful to On Demand for offering it tonight.

Because I simply cannot watch another show about 9/11.

Five years ago tomorrow I was working in the same building as the Israeli consulate. Chicago is in the CST zone, so the fear was planes were going to hit us at 9:00, too, an hour after the WTC and Pentagon were hit. And the authorities didn't want anyone near the Israeli consulate that day. We were escorted out of the building under yellow police tape. I have never been so scared in my life. All the major trains out of the city travel through the shadow of Sears Tower. I never noticed that before 9/11/01.

My first job was in Sears Tower. On a clear day, I can see it from my front porch. On cloudy days, when it's obscured, it pops into my head, unbidden, that this must be what life is like for New Yorkers who look at their skyline and can no longer see the Towers.

I now work in the third largest building in the city, the AON Tower, formerly the Standard Oil Building. Last month I had to work over the weekend of the Air and Water Show. I very nearly peed the first time one of the Blue Angels came a little close to my office window.

I suspect that the authorities suspect that the trains will be hit next, like in England. Some days there are cops with dogs on el platforms or near the garbage cans in the commuter train stations. Then the next day the cops and dogs are gone. No one discusses it, but we all know why they're there. (An unintentional benefit of the war on terror -- crime is down on the el these days.)

9/11 crosses my mind every day, at least once a day. Maybe it's fleeting, maybe it's more thoughtful. (I often think of those gallant NYPD dogs, working long hours, day after day, cutting their paws as they searched and dug with their noses to the rubble; they didn't do it because of ideology or agenda or because they "love freedom," as W would say. They did it because their humans asked them to. I like dogs better than people.) Political pundits say Mayor Daley may be vulnerable this time, that he may actually find himself in a real race for re-election. For Christ's sake, people, think of New Orleans! If there's a terrorist attack here, we want Mayor Richard M. Daley right where he is, in City Hall. The thought of anyone else at the helm if anything happens fills me with dread.

I most emphatically don't need these documentaries and talk shows to bring those days back. Those days are still with me today. If I let them, they will tug at my heart and my imagination until I can't think of anything else. What purpose would that serve?

So let me enjoy Cagney as Rocky Sullivan instead.

Attention, Lurkers: This One's for You

I know I have lurkers and I welcome you. After all, there are blogs I visit on the sly myself. But it occurs to me that you lurkers know nothing about me except for my excessive devotion to Greg Maddux and Sir Paul McCartney.

So here's a little dossier about me. And if you ever feel comfortable doing so, let me know a little something about you, too.

1. I prefer hotdogs to burgers, thin crust to pan pizza, Coke to Pepsi, light beer to wine.
2. In my dreams, I sing like Barbra Streisand.
3. When I fly, it's an aisle seat or nothing.
4. I've never had heartburn in my life.
5. My hair is short and red (Nice & Easy #110).
6. My favorite color is blue. Cubbie blue.
7. It's sad and annoying but true: I have never attended a wedding escorted by a date. Not by design. Just never happened to be going out with anyone whenever a wedding rolled around. Maybe this is why I hate weddings.
8. I don't know why, but gay men and I have an affinity for one another. (This occurs to me because I usually end up dragging a gay friend to weddings.)
9. I can't cook, but I am a wizard at doing laundry.
10. I'm a news junkie, and thank the Lord for cable and a 24-hour news cycle.

Women I Love to Hate

This morning I watched a documentary ("Headliners and Legends") about Betty Broderick. I hate her. I know this because I have seen that same documentary almost a dozen times. I have seen the Meredith Baxter/Stephen Collins made-for-TV movies about Betty over and over again, too. I even read a book about her case. Which is how I know I hate her. To the uninitiated, Betty is the dumb, self-centered bitch who in 1989 shot her ex and his new wife as they slept in their beds, and somehow still claims she was "abused." She is an insult to abused women everywhere, women whose exhusbands are deadbeat dads who don't pay their former wives tens of thousands of dollars every month, who threaten their wives' safety, instead of the other way around. Self-destructive, whiny narcissist has the chutzpah to present herself as some sort of feminist martyr. My blood pressure is rising as I write this. I hate her.

I also hate Kathie Lee Gifford. She is so goofy, so self-congratulatory, such a schmaltzy throwback to another phonier time, that she literally makes my teeth hurt. Yet I am transfixed every time one of her segments comes on The Insider.

I hate Madonna, too. She is less an artist than a savvy marketer, reinventing herself regularly to make a buck. Her product is as sincere and as expressive as a $3 bill. The bisexual leather-wearing dominatrix who sang about "hanky panky, nothing like a good spanky" somehow became a Burberry-clad children's book author with a faux English accent. Shudder.

I hate Angelina Jolie. I am strictly Team Aniston. Angelina is our generation's Liz Taylor. Except back in the 1950s, Liz proudly and boldly was what she was -- a man-eating carnivore. None of this, "Love me cuz of my work with poor" shit for Liz. I believe that Brangelina spend so much time in Africa to avoid the paparazzi and to try to rehabilitate their tattered images. (Damn you, Brad, you were supposed to be Jen's lobster!) Liz and Dick had the integrity to decadently throw around scads of cash on diamonds and yachts. (Though I am gratified to see that Brad Pitt has belatedly discovered that there are poor people here in the States, too.) Also, back in the 1950s Liz was more beautiful and a better actress that AJ.

I read about these women, I watch TV coverage about their antics. Just so I can hate them.

But you understand it, don't you? It's the same impulse that forces you to keep sticking your tongue into your cavity, even though it kinda hurts.

What I've Learned Today

We are approaching the third solid week where I've had little or nothing to do at work. At first I really enjoyed it. During my tenure here I've put in plenty of overtime, so I felt this was my cosmic due.

Then I felt a bit unsettled. How long can they continue to pay me for doing nothing? And worse, how bitchy and resentful will I be when an assignment finally rolls in and they expect me to (EWW!) work?

This week I've moved on to the third phase of being underutilized: bored. I'm actually pissed that I got up on time this morning to sit here and do nothing. I feel like the ballplayer who demands, "Play me or trade me."

So what have I learned? That if I have to come to this house of horror, I'd rather have something to do once I arrive.

Tomorrow we have a project kick off! Hurray! Work! Of course I'll have to remind everyone to be careful about due dates and scheduling presentations, since my boss did indeed approve my vacation request form for the 20th through the 23rd. When I head out west to (hopefully) see my beloved Greg Maddux and (even better) old what's his name. I'm not telling my coworkers the truth, of course. They have no idea that I'm going to LA to spend two nights with my best friend. Since they all knew him well (after all, he used to work here) I do delight at thinking of their faces. I'm not doing it, though. I may be perverse but I'm not stupid.

It makes me sooo tired

Today was the annual agency/client softball game. I hated every hot, sunny moment. I have such a hard time with small talk. I can't talk about chunky jewelry with virtual strangers. When I am presenting my work, I am glib and quick and passionate. But when it comes to chit chat, I am terrified. I am so glad it's over for a year.

What reflects "the Real Laurie?"

I have acquiesced to be photographed for this year's church directory. I did it in 2003 but not 2004 or 2005. The decision is based on how I'm feeling at the moment the invitation arrives. This year I'm still enthusiastic about the coming church year. (I don't recall exactly, but I suspect that by this time in 2004 and 2005 I was already feeling that my fellow congregates were either corny or full of shit.)

The photographer has sent along some helpful tips to make the photo session a success. I am supposed to "consider wardrobe and grooming." Check. I should avoid wearing prints. Check. And I should remember that "props such as Bibles, musical instruments, and etc. are welcome. Household pets are also welcome." The important thing is that the photo should refect "the real me."

Naturally I considered wearing my official home #31 Cub jersey. But the name "Maddux" is on the back, so I'd have to be looking over my shoulder for anyone to see it. And I'm not sure if Cubbie blue pinstripes violate the "no print" rule.

I considered bringing Reynaldo to the shoot. He wouldn't be in the photo, of course, because he would be bouncing off the walls. But he could infuse the shoot with some real energy.

Or maybe I should be photographed with one of my fave rave photos of Sir Paul. Macca is turning out to be the most enduring love of my life.

Or maybe I should stop thinking about this, because I can see my attitude is wandering into that "Everyone here is either corny or full of shit" territory.

My Last 2006 Telethon Post

Because WGN cuts away for the Cubs, the Telethon is still on here in Chicago. Harlem Furniture has promised to double every pledge that's called in locally. I find it comforting that our newscasters can tell us that a "$125 pledge becomes $250!" I would hate to get news about Iraq, Iran, Korea or Lebanon from a bimbo who can't multiply by two.

Jerry has had a higher profile this year than last, and I'm so glad. I think being in Vegas is good for him. He leers at Jan and verbally abuses Ed. He snaps his fingers when he sings. He lets the water dribble out of his mouth when he talks. He wells up when he looks at the tote board. He banters with comedians we thought were dead. In short, he's why I tune in.

I'm not heartless. That little Luke kid who is this year's poster boy has touched me. He's so cute, and he's so into the applause and so hot for Jan and her cleavage (after all, he is 12).

And yes, I've donated. So I can sit here with a clear conscience as I am amused, horrified and aghast yet again by the spectacle of old Jer singing "You'll Never Walk Alone" yet again to children who will never walk at all.

Meet the Gang

Right now I'm surrounded by slumbering felines, and when they're asleep like this, they are just TOO CUTE! So let me introduce these adorable snoozers --

Joey: A big old gray and white tom. (The vet has referred to him as "massive.") He ended up at the local animal shelter at Christmastime, 1998, because the family that owned him could not afford his special diet. (He had recently battled a urinary tract infection.) These folks put him in a box, taped it shut and left him on the shelter doorstep with a note explaining their circumstances. While this exhibited very bad judgement, they undoubtedly gave him a lot of affection because he simply cannot get enough petting. He is especially fond of my nephew, Nick. He also loves other cats. The problem is that he's so much larger than most other cats that he doesn't understand why they don't enjoy wrestling with and being chased by him. Truth to tell, there is a lot in life Joey doesn't understand. I named him after Matt LeBlanc's character on Friends and well, he's aptly named. Joey is as dumb as he is sweet. But in some ways, he is my hero. As long as there is a sliver of sunlight warming the carpet where he can nap, his life is good. I wish I could be as happy and in the moment as old Joe is.

Charlotte Ann: A petite, no-tailed feline who is part Siamese and all diva. She came to me in early 2001 after the shelter caught fire. Little is known about her background because her paperwork was lost in the fire. The vet believes she lost her tail as a young kitten (he suspects the culprit was either a refrigerator or car door). She doesn't accept that she no longer has a tail, gesturing with the healed over stump to register her disgust when I try to shoo her out of the armoire. She is very chatty and very helpful, always nearby when I am putting on makeup or moisturizer, watching me and sharing her opinions. She hates poor Joey. Part of it is the disparity in their sizes. Part of it is that his basic existance offends her. The thing of it is, Joey forgets this and needs to be reminded anew, usually by Charlotte hiding under the furniture and hissing at him.


Reynaldo. Ah, Rey. What can I say about this skinny beige shit? I got him as a kitten back at Thanksgiving 2004. He ended up at the shelter as a stray -- they suppose he snuck out, I bet his owners kicked him out. He is a trial. I enjoy watching him sleep, as he's doing now, because when he's awake he's joyfully, inexhaustibly and imaginatively destructive. I used to chalk this up to his kittenhood, but he's no longer a kitten. The vet assures me that there is nothing wrong with him chemically, yet I don't find this comforting. I wish I could just shove a pill down his gullet and have a docile feline. But no, I have Rey. Who likes to eat books and umbrellas. Who has a vendetta going with every piece of framed artwork in my condo (he leaps at the pieces hanging on the wall, trying to pull them down, and sends the ones with easel backs sailing like hockey pucks off my desk and cabinets). He hangs off drapes. He attacks the thermostat and the light switches. When I'm on the phone, he sings and howls to divert my attention away from the caller and back to him. He steals food off my plate. He has so exhausted me with his noisy, destructive ways that I honestly have considered returning him to shelter. But I haven't and won't. I'm afraid that his next owner would do what I believe his previous owner did -- just kick him out in rage and frustration. So Reynaldo is mine and we will make this work ... somehow. The problem is that he cannot differentiate between good attention and bad attention. All attention, to Rey, is good. As in, "Oh, good! Laurie's going to play that game where she yells at me and hits me!" Or, "Yea! Here comes the water spritzer! I love that!" No matter how loud I yell, he looks at me with the same bright, delighted orange eyes. Nothing frightens or displeases him. Everything makes him happy. There is an upside to this. Joey can toss him across the room in play and Reynaldo loves it. The little boy next door, a toddler, can pull on his ears or tail and Reynaldo loves it. And since nothing scares him, he is the perfect traveling companion when I take Charlotte to the vet. When they're in the carrier together, he senses her discomfort and very compassionately grooms her ears, which calms her down. And he is so filled with love that he is oblivious to my anger. After completely destroying a tower of CDs, he'll come jump on my lap, purring and gazing up into my face.

It's worth making only 75¢ on the dollar to not know how this feels

CHICAGO -- Cubs catcher Michael Barrett could miss the rest of the season after he was hit in the groin with a foul tip and underwent surgery.

He will miss at least two to three weeks and was scheduled to be released from Northwestern Memorial Hospital on Sunday, trainer Mark O'Neal said.

Barrett was injured by Matt Cain's foul tip in the fifth inning Saturday. He left the game after batting the next half-inning. Barrett went to the emergency room and an ultrasound showed bleeding inside his scrotum. Surgery took less than an hour, O'Neal said.

"He had enough of a bleed that it needed to be addressed surgically," O'Neal said. "Guys get hit a lot. You see guys get hit and very rarely does it get to this extreme."

A Good Day, A Really Good Day

I went to church this morning for the first time in months and it felt really good.

I did my 12 laps around the high school track (5K) and took approx. 5 minutes off my time.

I arrived home, satisfyingly sore and sweaty, and got a call from a friend who wanted to meet for lunch at one of my favorite local joints. Cleaned up quickly and met her for one of my last outdoor meals at Poor Phil's, enjoying a crab cake, a frou-frou drink and mild temperature, blue skies and sunshine.

Caught the last half of the Cubs-Giants game, and while we did lose and Bonds did get yet another HR, it wasn't without its charming moments: (1) The completely adorable little boy in the bleachers who caught Bonds' HR did what any right-thinking Cub fan should do whenever an opposing hitter sends one into the seats -- he threw the ball back. Even though it was Bonds and it's possible that ball might have been worth something. Other right-thinking Northsiders got together and rewarded the kid a new Cub cap. (2) D Lee came off the bench to pinch hit with the bases loaded. A grand slam would have been nice, of course, but it was still a thrill to see him take a swing and drive in a run, even if it was just a sac fly. (3) Ron Santo, This Old Cub, led the crowd in "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I love Ronnie so; he's the continuity that connects my adult summers with my little girl summers.

And now I'm curled up, ready to watch the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon. This year it's out of Vegas, Baby! JER-RY! JER-RY! JER-RY! (Remember, if you're going to mock the man, you must support the cause. 888-HELP-MDA.)

All this, and heaven, too.

At least now he's easier to spot

Oh, I simply must develop a spine! My very nice, very old but very loquacious and very, very annoying neighbor, Mr. B., was seated out in front of the building for 20 minutes yesterday. Because of construction on the building next door, we can't use our back door. So Mr. B. was obstructing my only exit, and so I was trapped inside my building for 20 sunny, mild, blue-skyed minutes.

I know this is silly. But last time I was cornered by Mr. B. (the end of July), he completely bullied me into ordering Avon from him. So I chose some items I really don't need or want, and guess what -- he screwed up the order. Again. I simply cannot bear yet another conversation that goes on for pointless minutes and ends with him saying, "But I'll take care of you. Don't I always take care of you?"

No. No you don't, Mr. B. You screw up every order. You scare the crap out of me by ringing my bell at all hours, so I'll know you left yet another Avon catalog outside my door. If I keep the catalog, you come by and ask for it back. If I return the catalog with my order, you come by and tell me I'm supposed to keep it. I cannot take this anymore, Mr. B! I am being terrorized and tyranized by the oldest, sweetest and most male Avon Lady ever!

There is good news, though. He's taken to wearing a bright yellow baseball cap. I like to think of it as a bright yellow lighthouse beacon, warning me to stay away.

Labor I Won't Be Doing on Labor Day

I won't be scrubbing the underside of my bathmat. It grows black mildewy gook faster than … hell, I can't think of an example to illustrate the speed with which black mildewy gook grows. Can't we just say it gets icky dirty really often?

And so I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to keep it clean. And losing.

I bought a new one. It cost $8. Clearly it's a better use of my time to simply say "out with the old, in the with the new."

Geez! I can be so cheap at times. $8 for a new one. Why have I waited so long?

I'm the same way with my shower curtain. A new liner is less than $5, yet every time I dye my hair I struggle to make sure that all bits of splashed dye are rinsed away. What an incredible waste of my time.

Of course, I'm not always cheap. I'm travelling 2000 miles and staying in a nice hotel, all to see a ballgame.

It's happening! It's really happening!

I saw two rather attractive firefighters today, moving among the motorists at the intersection of Harlem and North, collecting donations for MDA in their big rubber boots.

I love firefighters. I love MDA. I love big rubber boots. And you know why, don't you?

JER-RY! JER-RY! JER-RY!

The Telethon is nearly upon us.

Keep Your Labor Day Karma in Balance. Remember, if you're going to make fun of Jerry (as in laughing at him, not with him), you must also make a contribution to MDA. (888) HELP-MDA or (888) 435-7632

Go West, Pudgy Middle-Aged Woman!

It's all coming together. My favorite baseball player is in Los Angeles, pitching for the Dodgers at least through October 1 (longer with the play-offs). My best friend is in Los Angeles four days a week, working on a special client project at least through October 1.

Clearly this is a sign that I should get myself to Los Angeles.

And so later this month I am going to Los Angeles for two nights. Hopefully one of those nights will coincide with Greg Maddux' place in the Dodger pitching rotation so I can gaze upon him one more time this year. When I'm not gazing upon my best friend, who will be seated beside me, having a beer and a Dodger dog.

So now all I have to do is clear up my skin and lose 20 lbs in the next two weeks. How hard can it be? Just because I've been trying unsuccessfully to do both for the last several years shouldn't deter me.

And I sank into nothingness

So I'm watching a Gidget rerun. She's writing in her diary, making a fake entry to pass the time, and she pens, "Jeff kissed me as I have never been kissed before, and I got goose-pimply all over." Then goes "EWWW! ICK!" and changes it to "Jeff kissed me as I have never been kissed before, and I sank into nothingness."

The thing that bothers me about this is that I remembered the line. This afternoon, Sally Field and I said, "and I sank into nothingness" together.

Considering that I am battling hormonal acne and that Gidget herself is now the poster girl for an osteoporosis drug, I think we can all agree that this show is very, very old. 40 years, maybe? And still I could remember, "And then I sank into nothingness." Do you suppose that when I was younger I had any idea what Gidget meant?