I will not obsess, I will not obsess, I will not obsess

Today I am fixating on:

The winter storm warning in Denver. My best friend is flying there from LAX this afternoon. According to weather.com, the snow should be done falling by the time he arrives. But he is very precious cargo and I don't trust those Denver runways. If any of you knows any DEN personnel, please ask them to be very particular with their shovels and snowblowers today. Thank you.

The McCartney-Mills divorce. It's dawned on me that if any of Heather's accusations are true, I don't want to know. Yet I will hear it so I will know. And this will make me sad.

My niece's birthday. My kid sister is a useless blob of protoplasm and won't let me know how the family is celebrating until the last minute. This is how my sister gets to exert control. I understand that. I just hope the poor kid doesn't interpret the lack of a formal, planned celebration as any reflection on her.

You know, considering how much energy I expend on situations I cannot possibly control, you would think I'd sleep more soundly at night.

Only 5 months till Spring Training

The Dodgers are interested in re-signing Greg Maddux!

"I think we saw what we looked like the second half of the year with Greg, and I liked the look of it," GM Ned Colletti said. "I have an interest in bringing Greg back, and I have an interest in adding to that." Maddux is expected to either return to the Dodgers or retire, with the former being the most likely scenario.

Look! I'm smiling!

I still love it with all the madness in my soul

She's still in here, somewhere. The girl who first heard, and was transformed by, Born to Run. I may have a mortgage and an office that overlooks Michigan Avenue, I may need bifocals, but I'm still in here. And Bruce can still reach me.

I'm having one of those days. Everything is low energy and a little blah. Part of it is that art director, who is sucking my energy away. Part of it is the mass exodus of coworkers (OK, perhaps two doesn't constitute a mass, but still ...) Part of it is that discomfort that comes from being in a holding pattern, performing in a dress rehearsal every day, waiting for the real show to start.

So I reached for The Boss, because he knows. He knows that I'm scared and thinking that maybe I ain't that young anymore … He knows my tendency to hide beneath my covers and study my pain … He knows I'm lonely for words unspoken … Oh, hell, why didn't my parents just name me "Mary?"

"Wendy" wouldn't be bad either. She's the one who gets to show him that love is wild, that love is real.

I'm so glad I put this CD on. Somehow it's all easier to take now. Thanks, Bruce.

No more tears

I am not an insensitive bitch. I know there are those who will disagree with me out there, but really, I'm not. It's just I work in a deadline-driven environment and we are paid to do good (or good enough) work within a predetermined budget and timeline. And I'm a pro.

The art director I'm paired with most often is going through marital troubles. This results in lots of confiding, much staring into space, and worst of all, many tears. I find this frustrating and embarrassing.

I have never cried in the office. I cannot imagine a circumstance where I would -- short of dropping an Xacto knife blade first onto my sandal-clad foot.

I know she considers me her friend, so that makes my kicking her ass even more difficult. She wants me to sympathize with her, and when we aren't working on deadline I try. But this week I need her to do her job, and her attention fades in and out.

And then there's the just the fact that I am simply repulsed by people who cry in public. I can't handle it. All that vulnerability. (Not to mention the splotchy face and the snots.)

I shall work on honing my empathic skills. I shall try to remember what my boss likes to tell me, which is that no one has ever died from a missed due date. I shall try to lighten up. Really I will.

Because I hate feeling like an insensitive bitch.

Back in the saddle again ...

Here I am at my desk, wishing I was anywhere else. I'm soooo tired. Maybe this is to be expected on my first day back to work after four days off. Or maybe I've simply fallen victim to a particularly virulent strain of ennui.

If I get out of here at a reasonable time this evening, I want to make sure I walk my 10,000 steps. It could just be that I miss exercise. I love this adorable little G4 with all my heart, but it's not like it's doing anything for me physically except bringing me closer to carpal tunnel syndrome.

It's not funny, but ...

... it kinda is.

Over the years I've read story after story about how cheap Sir Paul McCartney is. Ok, he was a slum kid and early poverty obviously left its mark. But still, he must have known the woman he married and had a child with well enough to know that this would happen. As much as all this mud must hurt him, he made a decision. He chose not to give her the multi-million dollar settlement she asked for. He put a price on his privacy and his dignity, and now he's paying it.

So even though I still love Macca, I can't help being amused by the songs that apply to this sad situation:

"You Never Give Me Your Money"
"Can't Buy Me Love"
and, of course, "The Fool on the Hill"

At least I didn't pack a lantern

I hate doing laundry, and yet today I had to do three loads. I completely overpacked, bringing clothes along to Las Vegas that I never wore. Since the clothes I did wear got smokey, and since they were packed alongside the unworn clothes, they still smell of smoke and needed washing. Except for the sweaters, which I must drop off at the dry cleaners.

Geena Davis in Thelma and Louise epitomizes my approach to packing. At the beginning, Louise picks Thelma up for their quick weekend getaway. Thelma comes out with all kinds of shit, including a lantern. Louise tells her to leave the lantern behind because the cabin has electricity. Thelma tosses it into the backseat anyway, saying, "In case there's some escaped psycho killer on the loose, who cuts the electricity off and tries to come in and kill us."

Why does Titanic still fascinate us?

After at least four movies, two plays, countless books and documentaries, the Titanic is still big box office. We went to see the exhibit of Titanic artifacts at the Tropicana Hotel in Vegas and I was surprised to find that at 9:00 PM on a Saturday night, there was a line.

There are many things to do in Vegas that aren't as sad as revisiting the ship that broke in two and sank to the bottom of the sea nearly a century ago, yet both my friend Karen and I wanted to go. Why?

This is the third time I've seen this particular exhibit over the last 10 years or so (Toronto, Chicago and now Vegas). Yes, I'm that geeky. It was my friend's first visit, but she was pretty well versed in the tale, too. Afterward we talked about why this was what we chose to do on our Saturday night out on the town.

She believes the Titanic story is compelling because so much went wrong, a convergence of mishaps, and if, at any step of the way, something could have happened that would have changed the outcome. Before the ship even launched, it was decided there should only be life boats for half the passengers (which was all that was required by law in those days), the lookouts forgot their binoculars onshore but didn't want to interrupt the big launch celebration by going back for them, one of the ships nearest the Titanic reportedly shut off their radio communications overnight, etc., etc., etc. That's why my friend believes this is one of the biggest "what if" stories of all time.

I think it's because it's so easy for us to put ourselves in everyone's shoes. How would I have felt if I'd spent years building a ship that sunk before completing her maiden voyage? If I lived then, would I be one of the first class passengers (60% survived) or one of those in third class, en route to the American dream (only 25% were saved)?

And then there's Kate and Leo and the big blockbuster movie. When I saw the replica of the main staircase, I could envision Jack and Rose. That movie is now and forever part of our culture.

The old gray mare ain't what she used to be

I am referring to both myself and to Vegas. I just returned from the most uneventful weekend I've ever spent in Glitter Gulch. Not that I didn't enjoy myself; I did. It felt great to cheat the calendar and walk around in the warm sun again, this time with a frozen daiquiri in hand. We laughed a lot. But I got tired so much more easily than I did five years ago, when I was last there. What happened to the lass who couldn't sleep and was out at the tables by 8:00 AM? This time I slept in as late as possible both days. And the crowd, while more dense, seemed older and more subdued, as well. Maybe Las Vegas and I are both aging fast.

Fear of flying

This isn't a literary reference to Erica Jong and sexual liberation. I mean it in the literal, I-don't-want-to-get-on-that-plane way.

So I shall try to tattoo these statistics into my heart:
• The death risk related to flying in a commercial plane is 1 in 10 million, while the odds of dying in a car crash are 1 in 5,000.
• In 2000, more people died in bicycle related accidents than in plane crashes.
• I'm flying American, one of the 10 safest airlines (as defined by number of reported "incidents").

I have the beginnings of a cold so I'm already feeling a little drowsy. Consequently I don't want to take the Xanax I will be carrying in my purse. But I will have it in my purse. And should my heart start beating so hard you can see it through my blouse (as if I was a character in a Warner Bros. cartoon), I will not hesitate to pop one.

I believe in Vaughnistan

So happy to hear that Jen and Vince haven't broken up. It's pathetic, I know, but I actually do care.

First of all, I felt bad for her that, while Friends was winding down and she was facing a new chapter in her career, she also had to deal with whether or not her husband was falling in love with another woman. Then she had to watch him have the most famous, most beautiful baby of the year with this woman ... all while we were watching her. It was so cool that Courtney Cox and Matthew Perry seemed to stick her like glue when she was at the center of the tabloid tornado. I liked that the Friends were her friends, as well.

I thought she handled it with a lot of grace. Plus it was just upsetting to me that Jennifer Aniston isn't pretty enough to hold her man. I mean, if that's true, what chance do the rest of us have?

Then there's Vince. He's a local boy and a Cub fan. Plus there's something very sweet and down-to-earth about him. And funny. Pretty fads, Mr. Pitt, but talent is forever.

Of course, this "reconciliation" could just be a publicity stunt to coincide with the DVD release of their movie, The Breakup. But I'd rather believe in love.

Who stole the Topinka? Someone call the cops!

Somebody stole the Topinka!

Our Republican gubernatorial* candidate, Judy Baar Topinka, resides in the Chicago suburb of Riverside. Her son, Joseph, is a Major in the U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Corps. Joe and his wife, Christina, live in Washington state where he is assigned as the Center Judge Advocate for Madigan Army Medical Center located at Fort Lewis, Washington. He is a graduate of the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and Northern Illinois University Law School.

The above facts are lifted almost verbatim from the "family" section of her official website, judyforgov.com.

So where's her husband? He's missing! I demand to know who stole the Topinka!

I have been fixating on the missing Mr. Topinka for months now. I even emailed the Chicago Tribune, our paper of record for this gubernatorial campaign, to get to the bottom of it. They don't even know. According to the Tribune fact checker, the last reference to Mr. Topinka is related to their legal separation in 1981.

If they are still legally married, and she wins, won't he automatically become First Lady of Illinois?

Obviously I find all this funny because ... well, it is. The other candidate, Governor Rod Blagojevich, is locked in mortal combat with his father-in-law, a powerful Chicago alderman. It was allegations made by Alderman Richard Mell in the local press that has fueled much of the speculation about Rod's vulnerability to bribes. So it's not like family hasn't already played a role in this campaign.

And when it comes to federal campaign, spouses play such a big role. Ask Hillary Rodham Clinton and Teresa Heinz Kerry.

So sing it with me, please, "Topinka, Topinka, WHO STOLE THE TOPINKA?"

*"Gubernatorial" is one of my all-time favorite words.

It's been a hard day's night

The London tabloids are abuzz. Lady McCartney has unleashed publicity hell on poor Sir Paul. She claims in her newly-filed divorce papers that her former hubby is:
• a drug-taking alcoholic
• physically abusive, beating her up while she was pregnant, stabbing her with a broken wine glass, and choking her
• not supportive of her role as mother, objecting to her breastfeeding by bellowing: “Those are my breasts.”

Of course none of this matters to me. I don't see how any of it could be proven in court and (with my exhaustive knowledge of British law) I'm not even sure a judge would consider it in a divorce case that seems to be about division of property.

And I love him. I have loved him since I was 6 years old and saw him on The Ed Sullivan Show, singing, "Close your eyes and I'll kiss you/tomorrow I'll miss you/remember I'll always be true ..." It's going to take a lot more than mud slung by one-legged lingerie model to change that.

I do wonder, though, if now he isn't sorry he didn't pay her those few lousy extra millions she required to just slink away in silence.

Well, this was humbling

I went to the doctor today (thanks for asking, Ms. Hickory). It was my bi-annual blood test to make sure that my cholesterol meds are still effective and haven't damaged my liver (or is it my kidney?). Yes, that makes me feel sexy.

My doctor, a genuinely nice women and one of the few doctors I have who seems to remember me from visit to visit, complimented me on my weight loss and my skin and how generally healthy I look. She's confident that we will all be pleased with the results of my blood work. Yea! I still get delighted when a voice of authority tells me I have been a good girl.

Then we started talking about my headaches. Oh, those headaches. Debilitating and terrifying, once one hits I literally cannot function for 4 to 6 hours. I initially thought they were alcohol-related because each hit right after I had a drink. But, as my best friend pointed out, beer doesn't trigger these terrible headaches, neither do most vodka drinks. So we developed a little liquor diary and discovered that the two drinks that set the raging headaches off both contained lemonade. I shared this with my doctor and she agrees with him -- it's something in the lemony mixer that triggers migraines. She cut me a script for special migraine medication and, when I wondered why lemon drinks would bother me now, after years of drinking them. Hormones, she said.

Perimenopause. Oh, good. I'm a perimenopausal woman with migraines and high cholesterol. Yes, I feel sexy tonight.

Remembering The Golden Girl

I like Meredith Vieira and am glad she's the one NBC tapped for the Today Show. During the hype leading up to her Today debut, many articles and news pieces used Meredith's quote about not hiding her femininity: "I'm going to be the broad in broadcasting."

Ding, ding, ding! Where have I heard that phrase before? In the early 1980s, when Jessica Savitch was the rising star at NBC News, she laughingly told the story of her discouraging experiences in college, "In those days, there were no broads in broadcasting."

There was something very moving about Jessica Savitch. Like Meredith Vieira, she had a smooth, low-pitched voice. (A voice that I, with my obnoxious squeak, would kill for.) She seemed on top of it and knowledgeable, but there was an accessibility about her, too. You sensed that she knew her stuff not because she was naturally brilliant but because she'd done her homework. She was great looking, to be sure, but not in the creamy, beauty queen way that Diane Sawyer is. You could imagine Jessica wrestling with hot rollers (it was the 1980s, after all) or a bad skin day. In short, she seemed like any of us -- if we worked hard enough. She didn't make it look easy, but she did make it all look worthwhile and more than a little fun.

Her rise at the network was meteoric. And, according to the books I've read, it was a case of "too much, too soon." Barbara Walters had gone to ABC, women were suddenly in vogue, and there really weren't that many newswomen at local stations. Lots of "girl reporters" covered soft features, but the networks were suddenly hungry for women who could do hard news. NBC found someone in Philadelphia who clicked with viewers and they brought her to Washington to cover the Capitol. She wasn't ready. But she had signed an enormous contract and didn't tell anyone how ill-prepared she was. NBC wanted their money's worth and made her the weekend anchor of the nightly news. She was a substitute co-host on both the Tomorrow Show and the Today Show where Meredith sits now. While audiences loved her, and she was featured in magazines and in local newspapers, she simply wasn't ready. She wanted to do well ... she had studied Edward R. Murrow and wished to follow in his footsteps. Instead she cracked under the pressure.

Behind the scenes there was a turbulent relationship with Ron Kershaw, a broadcast journalist she just couldn't stay away from -- a mentor she both loved and depended upon. Between 1977 and 1982 there were two marriages, both ending badly. The first was to an older, wealthy businessman who was besotted with her. Seems he finally got sick of being treated like her dog walker and after little more than a year, they divorced. She almost immediately remarried her gynecologist. Within months, he hung himself in their garage. She had a stalker who somehow got past NBC security to confront her in an empty office.

All of this went on while she maintained her Golden Girl persona on air. Then, on October 3, 1983, she melted down on live TV. She was on camera less than a minute, doing a quick news update between sitcoms, and became incoherent. Millions of viewers saw her slur her words and lose her place. People called the switchboard, afraid she was ill. She said it was a combination of cough syrup and a malfunctioning teleprompter. Her agent said she'd suffered a knock on the head earlier in the day. Her coworkers weighed in by taping straws to the nostrils on her official portrait in the hall at NBC.

On October 23, she was dead. A car accident after dinner with a new man.

There's a fictionalized, romanticized version of her life and love affair with Ron Kershaw. It's Up Close and Personal, with Redford and Michelle Pfieffer. If only she could have lived the life Hollywood made up for her. There was a poignancy about her, a humanity, and she had a gift for connecting with viewers. She also worked very hard. I believe she deserved better than life handed her.

There's a scholarship program established in her memory at her alma mater in Ithaca, ensuring that it will be easier for broads to get into, and succeed in, broadcasting.

Justice for Templeton!

Growing up, Charlotte's Web had an enormous impact on me that is still felt today. For example, I do not kill spiders. If I come upon one indoors, I collect it on a tissue and take it outside. After all, like Charlotte, any spider could be someone's mother. Or a hero about to rescue a pig.

Likewise, I do not regard rats as a scourge. Lazy, perhaps, and certainly moody. But how can rats be bad? Templeton was a rat, and he was a fixture in the barn with Charlotte and Wilbur.

That's why I'm upset about the notice posted in the vestibule of my condo building. It seems that with construction on the buildings to either side of us, many otherwise invisible creatures have been uprooted from their usual homes and are settling on our front lawn. Whatever. Everybody has to be somewhere.

One of these unfortunate, newly homeless animals is a rat. According to the notice, we must be careful in the front yard because the Village has put poison around the base of our tree, where a rat hole has been detected.

He's lost his home, people! Must he lose his life, too? He's lived next door his entire rat life and up until now, none of us has noticed him, so what's the big deal? Well, apparently one of my neighbors -- the mother of a 3 year old -- vehemently believes that poor Templeton has to be destroyed. I don't want to get in the way of her maternal passion, so I'm keeping my reservations to myself, but I don't like the idea. I'm also not sure that having poison out front is that much better or safer for children than a rat, anyway.

Lou. Lou. Lou.

We have a new manager. Lou Piniella. I predict he will receive a warm welcome in The Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field.

A beloved outfielder in New York, a fiesty and often-ejected manager, I also predict he will be like Leo Durocher, the Cubs manager when I was a little girl. Piniella will bring us glory. Maybe not in 2007, but certainly by 2008. And he will completely steal the spotlight from the gloryhound gay-baiter, Ozzie Guillen.

Lou. Lou. Lou.

We may have finally reached critical mass

I believe in the two-party system. I get misty when I hear patriotic songs. I don't believe in the politics of destruction and try to vote FOR a candidate, rather than against his opponent.

However, I have lived in Cook County all my life. The only way to maintain my idealism is to look the other way, or at least look at certain situations and wink.

But this gubernatorial race makes it hard.

Judy Baar Topinka was treasurer alongside our former Governor, George Ryan. The one who is convicted and headed to prison, where he will most likely die while serving his sentence. The misdeeds Ryan was found guilty of are horrible, even by Cook County standards. It is hard to believe that JBT wasn't aware of the shenanigans.

Even if she didn't know what then Governor Ryan was up to, look at who she chose as her running mate. Joe Birkett. One of the convicts that Northwestern University students helped take from death row to exoneration was Rolando Cruz. Birkett was in charge of the attorneys who zealously prosecuted Cruz. I would prefer it if when the State of Illinois executes someone in my name, that the defendent be guilty. I'm old-fashioned that way. (Oh, I know; George Ryan helped reform the death penalty in this state. Nothing here is simple.)

JBT is running against the incumbent, Rod Blagojevich. I have always tried to like him. He ran a brave campaign last time, winning an office so tainted by corruption I was amazed anyone would want it. I had hoped he would be a breath of fresh air. That was before Tony Rezko, the Governor's fundraiser, was indicted. Rezko is not in the country right now and rumor has it he will avoid prosecution by simply staying out of the country.

Peee-eeew.

Even I am having a hard time overlooking that.

I'm voting for Blagojevich, but I don't really care if he wins. For the first time I am agreeing with my more cynical friends who say, "What difference will it make? They are all crooks."

My highly personal metaphor

In Laurie's world, Books = Men.

I love books. I love men.

I can find something good, valuable or fun in even the silliest, lowest-brow volume of chick lit. I can find something attractive and endearing about most men, even the ones I know I should dismiss as time wasters.

There's an instant chemistry between me and a book; within the first few pages it either grabs me, or it doesn't. There are men I "click" with right away, and men I simply don't.

Once I choose a book, I want to like it, and can be very stubborn about giving up on it. A recent example of this is End of the Dream by Ann Rule. I usually like Ann's books and this one got good reviews. But this one introduces too many characters too quickly (who is he again? why do I care?) and the plot, while a true story, is just too convoluted for this old brain. I tried to like it, but it took me two weeks to go 50 pages and finally I just gave up. It's now sitting on my dining room table, taunting me.

Unfortunately this stubborn streak is more virulent when it comes to men. I wish I could say that I have had the self awareness to give up on a relationship after just two weeks. After all, I spent my twenties on Stevie!

Why aren't I more upset?

My immediate team of coworkers is small, 9 in all. I know one of my merry little band is resigning Monday morning. I suspect a second will, as well. They will be hard to replace, and when we get busier, their absence will mean more responsibility for me.

How's this for a kick in the ass? The one I know for sure is leaving is someone who begged and pleaded that I suspend my own job search, that I stick it out for a while to help her become acclimated to this job, to our client. That was 6 months ago. Now she's out of here, following a former boss to a new job.

And then there's the fact that of the six who remain, I can't stand two of them.

I should be furious. I should be worried. I should be anxious.

But mostly, I'm just thinking that I have a short workweek and a trip to Vegas ahead of me.

Have I mellowed? Or is there a delayed stress reaction in my future?

Mets vs. Cardinals

So this is what hell looks like. As a Cub fan, I can think of no worse match up.

As I understand Major League Baseball, one team has to win this play off. I suppose, then, that I am for the Cardinals. For while I hate the Cards, I only do so because I was raised to. Generations of my family has just hated the Cardinals because that's what right-thinking Northsiders do.

The Mets, though. It's personal with me and the Mets, as it always is when your heart gets broken. I was still a little girl, but I loved just about every one of those Durocher Cubs. They were my team, a great team. And those 1969 Mets came out of nowhere, like the posessed demons they are, to dash our hopes. I hate the Mets.

So I guess all I can say is, "GO DETROIT!"

This is very bad news

I knew it was coming, and yesterday was the day. I received a postcard from Guthy Renker, officially announcing that my beloved Time Release Moisture is no longer available through Principal Secret.

I called in and changed my next order. In December I will receive Reclaim Night Cream instead. We'll see. I'm trying to maintain an open mind, but I'm not happy.

I know I'm fixating. But this is what I do. Takes my mind off how much I hate my job and how I keep getting these annoying little tension headaches and how today is payday and it's time for me to sit down and actually attack that stack of bills that awaits me on the dining room table.

Belated props to the Birthday Boy

October 9 was the anniversary of John Lennon's birth. Perhaps that's why I've been thinking of him so often lately.

Or maybe it's this "shut up and sing" shit I keep reading about Streisand. I think it's amazing that anyone would actually begrudge her using her own stage show to express her opinions. I mean, I just shake my head. She's an interpretive artist and it's her show. Artists have been commenting on our society, tweaking and annoying us, at least since Uncle Tom's Cabin. You don't like what Babs has to say? Change the channel when she appears on your TV and don't go to her show. But saying she shouldn't speak her mind from the stage ... that's downright unpatriotic. What's next? Should authors stop using the pages of their books to express themselves? Directors stop using film?

I also think it's interesting that no one complains when a country western singer performs a song that celebrates the Iraq war. Or when Patricia Heaton does interviews lauding Bush and his policies. Isn't she "just a sitcom actress?" Shouldn't she just "shut up and be funny?" Or when that blonde Mrs. QB is all conservative on The View. Or what is broadcast 24/7 on FOX. I would never complain about any of those things either, because while I disagree with all of them, I think dialog is essential. Everyone should have a voice. Especially artists. We live in a free society, and freedom of self expression is one of our cornerstones.

I realize I think this is good and right and natural and important because I grew up on The Beatles. I'm a Paul Girl. I love him. (No, really. I have loved him since I was 6 years old.) But I always thought John was really neat. Paul has inspired decades and decades of romantic fantasies, but John inspired me to think. One of the first political songs I ever "got" was "Revolution." I agree with John. It's our responsibility to work within the system for change. I've supported candidates with time and money ever since I've been old enough to vote.

"Power to the People," "Happy Christmas (War Is Over)," "Imagine," "Give Peace a Chance." Look what happened when John "shut up and sang," folks. I love thinking of what he'd be doing now, at age 66. I like to think that while their musical styles are different, he'd be touring, too. And like Streisand, speaking his mind and shouting down hecklers. Though I think instead of dropping the F bomb he'd say, "Sod off!" (I also think it's interesting that people complain that she swore at someone who paid hundreds of dollars for his ticket. Isn't he the asshole for interrupting a show that he knows his fellow audience members spent hundreds of dollars to see? This whole thing is just befuddling to me, like I've fallen down the rabbit hole.)

Just as there was John, there's Paul. John tried to heighten our political consciences, Paul believes we need "Silly Love Songs." The world is flexible enough for both points of view. You don't like politics mixed with your easy listening? Barry Manilow is touring, too, and his ticket prices are lower than Streisand's. Go see him instead.

But we shouldn't try to discourage the artist from commenting. Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, Robert Redford, George Clooney, Bruce Springsteen ... all of them have used their art to expand my horizons and I'm grateful. Most of all, I'm grateful to John Lennon, who turned me on to it all. Funny how it was a Brit who turned me on to one of the best, one of the most intrinisic things about being American.

Happy belated birthday, John. I still miss 'ya.

Thanks, neighbor!

Frasier's dad, John Mahoney, has come home. Since the series ended, he has been living full-time in his Oak Park apartment, the one he's had for decades. Even when Frasier was being filmed, Mr. Mahoney would come home at least once a month. When I first moved here we were literally neighbors. Since I bought my own place, we're about 5 blocks apart. We've never met, but I have seen him around town over years, usually during the holidays.

I appreciate that when he is interviewed, he is careful to say that he has come home to Oak Park. He specifies this fabulous village. He works downtown, but he lives in Oak Park.

All the best people do.

Pretty in Pink

I couldn't sleep and decided it was time for a change. I think I like this template. And if I don't, no reason why I can't change it back.

Greetings from the Stoney End

Barbra Streisand has been in the news a lot lately. Her ticket prices, her politics, her dropping the "f bomb" from the stage. Whatever. I love her voice. I love most of her movies, but I completely love her music.

One of my favorite performances of hers is "Stoney End." The song was written by Laura Nyro, who also recorded it. So did Linda Ronstadt. But no one's performance touches Babs'. It's her passion, her rage, her pain that sets hers apart.

I've been listening to it a lot lately. It helps to know that Babs knows where I'm at, that Babs gets it. And she got far enough beyond it to charge up to $800/ticket and swear at people from stage. So there's still hope for me.


I was born from love and my poor mother worked the mines.
I was raised on the good book, Jesus, till I read between the lines.
Now I don't believe I want to see the morning.
Going down the Stoney End, I never wanted to go down the Stoney End.
Mama, let me start all over. Cradle me, mama, cradle me again.
I can still remember him with love light in his eyes,
but the light flickered out and parted as the sun began to rise,
now I don't believe I want to see the morning.
Going down the Stoney End, I never wanted to go down the Stoney End.
Mama, let me start all over. Cradle me, mama, cradle me again.
Never mind the forecast cause the sky has lost control,
cause the fury and broken thunder's come to match my raging soul,
now I don't believe I want to see the morning.
Going down the Stoney End, I never wanted to go down the Stoney End.
Mama, let me start all over. Cradle me, mama, cradle me.
Going down the Stoney End, I never wanted to go down the Stoney End.
Mama, let me start all over. Cradle me, mama, cradle me again.

I must be in a better mood today ...

... because complete strangers are making me angry again (whereas yesterday they would have just made me cry).

Bally's Health Club. A woman with very long legs decides that the amount of bench space we get in the locker room must somehow correlate to our height. She spread out her handbag, her water bottle and her big gym bag all along the bench so that when I sat down, I was barely in the same area code as the locker with my belongings. Rude! Rude! Rude! It would be nice to have such a sense of entitlement that I felt I somehow deserved more space than anyone else. (It also would be nice to have her legs.)


McDonald's. My niece has begun spending time at Mickey D's with her friends. She is in 7th grade now, and there are no busy streets and she has her cellphone, so I guess it's OK. (But she does have a real love affair with food, so I wish her friends still preferred Panera because as fast food goes it's of higher quality.) Her birthday is coming up so I bought her an Arch Card, loaded with $5, to slip into her card. Today it occurred to me that, even at McDonald's, $5 isn't going to go very far, so I tried to add another $5. It says on the card and on the website that you can reload the card anytime. Unfortunately, the only ones who don't seem to know this are the counter staff at the McDonald's on Wabash in Chicago's Loop.

The fresh-faced, polite kid behind the counter wanted to be helpful but had no idea how to accomplish what I was asking of him. So he called over his supervisor, who spoke heavily accented English and seemed confused about my request, too, but for different reasons. He took my $5, played around with my card, swiping it several times, grumbled something and disappeared. Then he brought me a new card which he assured me was worth $5. Instead of loading the card I originally handed him, he had erased it.

Okay ... but then I'm still out $5, aren't I? It took me forever to explain this to him, and he was the polite kid's SUPERVISOR. The kid understood me, the people in line around me understood me, but the supervisor did not. I told him to forget it, that I just wanted a $10 bill and no card, and to get out of there. Somehow, in his eyes, all this was my fault.

So I'm sorry, Beck, but it's back to Panera for you. Their food is lower in fat and they understand their own gift card program.

Gals I'm glad I can't channel

As I wrestle with issues of self esteem and personal direction, I would love to go to a Ouija board and get help from a pair of former First Ladies (see below). There are other famous women who have dealt with similar issues on a much grander scale, and their life stories have touched me enormously. But even if we could somehow meet for a cosmic tea party or perhaps sit down for girl talk and cosmos in some celestial bar, I don't think I would take their advice.

Diana, Princess of Wales. Beautiful and beloved, her death was a shock and it left a void that people still feel today. She was revered for her selfless charity work. She was admired for her fashion sense and charisma. She also dealt with bulimia/anorexia, post-partum depression, insecurity about her intellect and a dramatic, self-destructive streak a mile wide. For example, back in the early 1990s she was rumored to be enamored of a married man in her social circle named Oliver Hoare. (Whether or not they were actually lovers has never been established, has it?) She became so overcome by her love/infatuation with him that she made a series of anonymous phone calls to his home. It became such a nuisance that his wife called the police, and the trail led back to the (then) future Queen of England. (I haven't done anything that desperate and dopey … yet. Though I understand her impulse.) These scandalous revelations don't diminish her in my eyes, they enhance her humanity. But I don't think she's a good role model for me just now.

Marilyn Monroe. Oh, the hold she still has on us! My neice is just 13, yet knows Marilyn on sight and asked me recently if I thought she killed herself. Who among today's actresses could still command our interest almost 45 years after her death? She was luminous on screen, yet was so wracked with insecurity that some days she just couldn't leave her dressing room and show up on the set. An international, intergenerational sex symbol, she needed pills to sleep … alone. Always recreating herself, she seemed tormented by the circumstances of her early life. (I know it's a cliche but it still works: Marilyn Monroe just couldn't shake Norma Jean Baker.) To me, she's a perfect feminist cautionary tale: this is what happens you try to make yourself into who "they" want you to be. She seemed to have relinquished all of her personal power to the people around her. That's why, in answer to my neice's question, oddly enough I hope she did kill herself (or at least died as a result of an accidental overdose). Suicide is referred to as death "by one's own hand." When people say Marilyn was murdered, they even take that final, most personal decision away from her.

Mary Todd Lincoln. OK, she wasn't a babe. But she did win the heart of one of the greatest men of all time, so she had to have something going for her. Yet she was ultimately a tragic figure. She was smart, well educated and savvy enough in the ways of politics that she was able to help her husband realize his ambitions. (And what lofty ambitions they were for a poor country lawyer!) She was intellectually curious for a woman of her time, spending time with soldiers, newly freed slaves and even spiritualists in her attempt to learn more about the world around her. Her life story is one of staggering loss, though. Her mother died when she was very young, she had a tumultuous relationship with her stepmother, and she was at her husband's side when he was murdered. Even worse, of her four sons, only one grew to maturity, and he had her institutionalized. I don't know if her depression was caused by all this grief or if she had always been wound a bit too tight and this cavalcade of loss just pushed her over. It doesn't matter. Poor Mary wasn't strong enough to take what life gave her. I am especially haunted by an assessment of Mary, because I believe it's true of me, too. "She did the wrong things well."

Help me out here, girls

I am unhappy. No, let me rephrase: I am discontented. Everything about my life is positively … OK. Fine, I guess. Good enough.

The things that are bothering me are things that I wish didn't. I don't know how to change them and so I wish I could avoid spending another moment thinking about them. I think of women in the public eye that I have read a great deal about, and I wonder what counsel they would give me.

HILLARY CLINTON. I don't like my looks and I have no real sense of style. I remember one day, not that long ago, when I was sitting in my best friend's office, looking out the window at the Lake. We had been talking business and all of a sudden he got this bemused look on his face. "You dress as though you don't own a full-length mirror." I was wearing a green t-shirt, tiny green earrings, green watchband, slender green ring (coordinating shades, not entirely monochromatic), blue jeans and blue/white tennies. I thought that, when you consider my green eyes and red hair, I looked kinda nice with green around my face. I had no idea that people -- people who LIKE me -- were looking at me and saying, "Oh, fashion victim." I am that clueless. Now the friend who made the comment believes (believed, I guess) that I am bright and that smart women like me don't care about our looks. He is wrong. He is so wrong.

So come on, Hill, give me your secret. How do you handle it? How do you just stand there, knowing everyone is evaluating your looks, knowing your pantsuits and hair and makeup are being judged as much as the content of your remarks? Does it hurt when you are found lacking in this basic "female" art? Or do you say to yourself, "Shit, I'm not a geisha; I'm serious and I've got my shit together"?


JACKIE KENNEDY ONASSIS. The thing I admired most about JBKO is her self containment. No one knew what she was thinking. If she was hurting, it didn't show. She remained sphinx-like. I also admire her for, ultimately, doing as she pleased. She had the strength to go her own way and stay true to herself. I don't even know who I am sometimes. I'm nearly 50, my life is more than half over, and I still can't figure out how she did it. How do you rise above the stuff the swirls around you and find/maintain your inner peace, your sense of self? How do you withdraw into yourself, into that secret place, where you were able to appreciate the positive and timeless things in life while disregarding the rest? Pulling into myself used to recharge my battery, but this time it's not working. What would you do, Jacks? (Also, how come you always looked so effortlessly good?)

Nothing works

I thought that a stolen day off to enjoy one of our last sunny and warm afternoons would refresh me. It didn't.

I thought that doing something constructive -- putting away my summer clothes, taking out my winter clothes -- would make me feel productive. It didn't.

I thought that doing something charitable -- dropping off a bag of clothes to Goodwill -- would make me feel as though I have value. It didn't.

I thought having a guy flirt with me -- the one in line ahead of me at Parky's hot dogs -- would make me feel like everyone doesn't peg me as a pudgy middle-aged lesbian. It didn't.

I am in a very dark place these days. And tomorrow, when I return to work, that coworker of mine is going to glom onto me like a carbuncle. In a weak moment I offered her the seat next to mine at a play this Wednesday (my regular theater buddy can't make it). I'm not looking forward to it. She's in love with her victimhood, and I'm working hard to resist mine. I don't want her sapping me or bringing me down.

I'm seeing my shrink on Thursday. She has her work cut out for her.

Consider Goodwill as you go thru your closets

Today I dropped off 7 t-shirts, a polo and two sweaters. In return I got a nice little receipt for the tax man, and the knowledge that I helped people right here in my neighborhood get jobs.

www.goodwill.org

Dammitall!

I had planned to stay incommunicado today, inaccessible to my best friend when he tries to let know about his weekend in Disneyland and his preparation for tomorrow's big meeting. I was going to not respond to his emails, not pick up or return his calls. Of course, in order to do that, he would have to call me or email me first. And he hasn't. Thereby depriving me of my petty, immature fun.

Is it a sin?

We're very slow at work these days. I am in a tender place emotionally. I don't feel like speaking to anyone. So I called in sick. But not sick for me. I made up a story regarding one of my cats and a trip to the vet. I took this route so that if my boss decides he needs me, I can come in this afternoon with having to feign (cough, cough) a cold or flu.

Now, though, I'm worried about kitty karma. Have I put one of my felines at risk with my deception?

I will try to do something productive with my additional day off. Maybe go through my clothes and put some aside for Goodwill. Perhaps that will square it with The Powers that Be.

And now for a little culture

Did you know there was more to me than baseball, the Beatles and lurid crime programs? Well there is! And here are my recommendations, my reviews of the best of the best …

THE PIRATE QUEEN. Elaborately staged and always entertaining, The Pirate Queen is premiering here in Chicago. Because it's the pre-Broadway engagement, we knew going into it that the show was going to need a little work. And it does; it's too, too long and the male lead is a little blah. But the story -- of Grace O'Malley, the wife, mother and pirate queen who clashed with Queen Elizabeth in long ago Ireland -- is compelling, the sets are sumptuous, and the Pirate Queen herself is terrific. Stephanie J. Block is all passion and spirit and pipes. And she's the voice of Barbie on the TV commercials! So I got to see Barbie herself, live and in person!

THE DEPARTED. Gruesome and great. I'm not a big Scorsese fan, but this is the best film I've seen in a long, long time. Jack Nicholson is a goofy cartoon of evil, but it's the same over-the-top performance audiences (not including me) have been loving for decades. Leonardo Di Caprio draws us in with a diffident, pained, charismatic performance. For me, the real revelation was Matt Damon. Good Will Hunting is sure as hell not very good here. The dichotomy between that angelic face and his depraved action creates a fascinating tension. Mark Wahlberg isn't pictured on the poster, but he's great in this, too.

Look! It's Kate McArdle!

Except for a Today Show interview regarding the tragic death of her son, I haven't seen Susan Saint James in ages. I loved her on Kate & Allie and I'm happy to see her tonight, on the USA Network's Law & Order: SVU marathon. She plays a defense attorney and she looks great, though startlingly blonde.

The subject matter of the show is, as always on SVU, tough. But there's something amusing about this episode, for it's a reunion of old sitcom stars.

Look, there's Angela Bauer from Who's the Boss! Judith Light is on the bench for this episode.

Look, there's the mayor and the gay guy from Spin City! Barry Bostwick and Michael Boatman are co-counsel.