Back to the grind

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

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

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 (Two bags of magazines, catalogs and outdated correspondence yesterday alone!)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

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

Unable to part with Johnny Depp

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

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

Or I could just look at Johnny Depp.

I'm sticking with Johnny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing to do except to wait and to hurt

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

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

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

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

My own worst enemy -- that's me.

Here's to a Yankee Doodle Dandy Weekend

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

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

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

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

Waiting … just waiting

We have to get a project out tonight. First I had to wait around for the account team to get it together so they could share the client-requested changes. That happened a little after 12 noon. I did my little wordsmithing, and now I'm waiting for the art director so I can make sure all the changes were implemented properly. Waiting … waiting …

The waiting makes me nervous. I wish I was at the health club, working off all this energy. But I can't go to lunch yet. Have to be here when the art director is done. I wish I was at home, watching legal history being made on Court TV. I wish I was on the phone to my best friend, who I haven't heard from since Friday. I wish I was having a beer, or a Xanax.

This job isn't really that hard. We just make it hard. For example, the art director just sent corrected files to everyone, including our production team, before I had a chance to review them. They aren't correct. Now she'll have to do them again (which will probably result in a major pout) and the production team will get confused as to which file to use. And it all could have been avoided if she had run things past me first.

I've been in advertising forever. Very little that I see surprises me anymore. I've been in this situation before. It's just that as the years go by, I seem to have less and less patience. The deadlines and the adrenaline aren't exciting anymore. Now they are just annoying. Perhaps because over time I have learned how unnecessary so much of this activity really is.

Waiting … waiting …

He's still there.

My best friend called, and somehow even everything is a little better. He's still out there. He still reads my emails. He still cares about me. His life is hectic and without a schedule -- both he and his wife are looking for jobs, they are selling the house themselves (are FSBOs ever easy?), preparing to move. Just because he doesn't have the time, or perhaps it would be fairer to say we don't have the synchronicity we once did, to allow him to sit and talk with me for hours on end doesn't mean I don't cross his mind. I still matter.

I trusted him with my secrets and with (a reasonable facsimile of) who I really am. He has seen me more vulnerable than most people have. Partly because he revealed himself to me early on, I believed I could trust him. For a long time, I suspected this friendship was a sturdier lifeline for him than it was for me. I was just beginning to get used to having someone I could lean on. Then one day in April … POOF! Gone. It was cruel, and scary.

And, as he says, "not part of the plan." After all, he was laid off. Sucker punched. It's not like he abandoned me, no matter how much it feels like that. And while I feel a tremendous sense of loss, his whole life changed overnight. I need to remember that.

I have decisions to make. I can't stay at this job. I have to organize my search and get off my butt. I have to get over this feeling of aimlessness and inertia. And I have to do it without the steady hand of my best friend on the small of my back. He has too much on his plate right now to give me as much support as I want.

But he's still there. His new life will take shape, gel, and settle into a routine and he's shown that he will make space for me. And I can get through this.

I still have my friend. We're just different. Our relationship is evolving. But he's still my friend.

When do you tip? Help me! Please!

When my refrigerator arrived from Sears, I tipped each of the two young men who installed it and hauled the old one away. They were gracious, but slipped the $5 into their pockets without even looking at it. Clearly, they were accustomed to receiving tips. They did a nice job, I'm assuming they don't get paid a great deal and that (like waitstaff or cab drivers) tips are an expected portion of their income.

Today, two men from a local, independently-owned appliance store came over to install my new air conditioner and haul the old one away. While less physically taxing, this was a more complicated task than the one the Sears duo had to do. As they were leaving, I did the same thing. I handed each of them $5. They both looked so surprised and happy.

The AC installation was a bigger deal than rolling in the new refrigerator and plugging it in. After they left me, they were off to install a new range, which had to be far more complicated than my window unit. So why would they be surprised by the tip, while the Sears deliverymen took theirs as their due?

Is it a major chain vs. independly store thing? Is it that the Sears guys were (probably) independent contractors while the gentlemen who came over today were employed by the store? Were the Sears guys also unaccustomed to tips, but just better actors?

And am I supposed to tip these people, or not? Who makes the rules, and how am I supposed to know them?

When is a friend not a friend?

When you realize you miss him entirely too much, that's when.

It's a long, complicated story, but my best friend (my "office spouse," as they like to say in the magazines) was laid off on April 7. I haven't seen him since. He's moving to Denver, so I know realistically I may never see him again. (Yes, we say that won't happen; but everyone says that, don't they?)

So here we are, two months later. And while I miss him differently, it would be a lie to say I miss him less. It's not a stabbing ache anymore. It's more a constant, throbbing pain. I miss the man who used to call me or email me a dozen times a day. I miss knowing where he went for lunch, and him asking what I'm going to with my little nephew this weekend. I miss gossiping with him about coworkers. I miss the in jokes. I miss having late dinners with him when we'd compare notes on our childhoods. I miss looking over at him when he's driving and noticing that little chicken pox scar near his hairline.

We still talk (rather) regularly. I heard from him both via phone and email last Friday. But here it is Wednesday! Where is he?

Getting his house ready to sell. Exploring new job opportunities. Spending time with his wife and daughters (his real family).

I have lots of friends that I go weeks without hearing from. This is not quite 5 days and I am very, very sad.

I think it's time I admit that he is not my friend. I'm in love with him. And it's very, very sad, too. Married, with children, living in another state … Nothing is ever going to come of this. Because he's a very good guy and a better dad, I'm not even sure I want anything to happen.

I'm just very, very sad.

Hooked on Dolls. The Valley of the Dolls DVD.

I saw this movie for the first time in the early 1970s. I was babysitting, the kids were asleep, and I watched it on a color TV with a rabbit ear antenna as I consumed Pepsi and a huge bag of potato chips. It was a transforming moment. For while I had heard the book and movie were racy, scandalous and poorly done, none of the adults I knew who whispered about it ever acknowledged how really, really FUNNY this sucker is. And that night I was enchanted by the camp of it, what a riot it was, and realized "the Generation Gap" extended to more than just music.

The two disc set is a celebration of everything that makes this movie (unintentionally) great. The beautiful clothes. The back-combed hair. The "serendipitous" plot (Anne gets the first job she interviews for, then moves effortlessly from secretary to supermodel). The stupid songs ("this is my yard and I will try hard to welcome friends I have yet to know"). The horrific dialog ("Broadway doesn't go for booze and dope." "What the hell! Let 'em sag." "How do you like that? It won't even go down the john!" "Neely, you're being ob-nox-ious.") Plus extras. Screen tests. Karaoke. It's a completely irresistible wallow.

It's impossible to stress out about my mounting appliance bills, or impending work deadlines and presentations, or Mark Prior's problems on the mound when I'm watching Barbara Parkins tumble glamorously into the surf and then decide to kick "the dolls." Back home in Lawrenceville. With Aunt Amy. You go, girl! And thanks for the respite.

Sick of making do, getting by

It's hot this weekend. Really, really hot this weekend. I hate the heat. So I was going to spend a relaxing weekend at home, in the AC, glad that I don't have to be outdoors any longer than absolutely necessary.

The AC in my bedroom is in its death throes. The thing is so loud, and right now it's 86º in there. Hopefully once the relentless sun goes down, it will cool down to 80º. I went to the local appliance store and spent just under $300 for a new one, which should be installed this coming Friday -- six days from now -- if I can get the time off work. In the meantime, I'm living in my now aptly named living room, which is cool and comfortable, except for the fact that my fully-functioning through-the-wall AC sets off the circuit breaker every few minutes.

Mailed my mortgage payment this morning. Life is not supposed to be this way. Being a homeowner was supposed to free me from the tyranny of lazy landlords, to allow me live like an adult, to enjoy my alone time in comfortable surroundings. So far this summer, I've gone more than a week without a refrigerator, living out of a styrofoam cooler on my kitchen counter. Just got the new refrigeratortaken care of, and now the bedroom AC underperforms. The roof leaks, damaging my carpet. My bathroom is a 1950s pink Pepto Bismol nightmare. My kitchen counters look like something Jane Jetson would have chosen. I have plans for the bathroom and the kitchen, but every time there's an AC or a refrigerator snafu, those bigger projects move further into the distance.

Right now I'm discouraged. And sad. And overheated.

Icky Vicki of the Main Post Office, Oak Park, IL

There was a package waiting for me at the post office. Good news. So I swung by on my way to work to get it. That means that the first person I dealt with was Vicki. And that wretch could ruin Mother Theresa's day.

A tall, stoic woman of indeterminate age, Vicki usually only handles passport requests. I guess that makes her one of the aristocrats of the USPS window personnel. Because there was a line that morning, someone told her she had to wait on us. The unwashed. Plain old consumers there to mail packages, buy stamps, and other tasks that it's beneath her to help us with.

I had my package receipt and my driver's license out before I reached the window. I handed them to her. She did not make eye contact with me, glanced at my info, and grumbled. "It's going to be one of those days," as she ambled back to get my package. Which she wordlessly plopped on the counter. And without making eye contact with me, hit her service light and called "Next!" Just to cause her agita, and because I insisted she address me, I coolly but politely asked, "Am I not able to buy stamps at this window anymore?"

"How many?" she asked. Yipee! I got her to speak to me! OK, I got her to grumble and grouse at me. But it's something!

Vicki, Vicki, Vicki. Where's the love? Why are you so horrid? Don't you realize we pay your salary? Don't you know that the UPS Store is just around the corner, and is populated with nice people?

Plus, it's amazing how an early morning encounter with a witch like Vicki can cast a shadow over your whole day.

My motor is racing

I can't relax. I can't chill out. I'm under a lot of stress at work these days (which I resent, because it's not client-generated; it's internal agita we're inflicting on ourselves), but that's not unique. I've been working in advertising agencies since 1992; I know this shit happens. But for some reason tonight I can't unwind.

I've worked out. I've turned to junk TV (Law & Order rerun). Nothing is working. Nothing is distracting me. If I was a Warner Bros. cartoon character, you could see my heart beating through my shirt.

Drink or pill? Xanax or vodka? Is one better (or worse) than the other?

There's something else that reliably calms me down when I'm in a mood like this. But I'm not seeing anyone right now.

I'm going with Xanax. I don't need to worry about a headache later.

An infomercial on PBS?

I'm watching a blonde with a very thick Hungarian accent -- Dr. Denese of the Manhattan Anti-Aging Clinic -- talk about how to battle wrinkles and restore elasticity. She's recommending her sunscreen, her glycolic treatments, her moisturizer, etc. There are few things I enjoy more than skincare, so I'm watching with rapt attention.

But this is on Chicago's Channel 11. WTTW. Our PBS station. Should an infomercial about minimizing fine lines really be on our PBS station?

What about the McLaughlin Group? What about an architecture tour along the Chicago River? What about a panel discussion about the condition of Cook County Board President John Stroger, and the public's right to know? What about Arthur and his sister, DW? What about Arthur's glasses? Since his ears are on the top of his head, what holds his glasses on? (But I digress.)

I'm not against infomercials on PBS, really. But if Channel 11 is going to air these half-hour commercials, then I'd prefer it if there weren't pledge breaks, too. They keep cutting away from Dr. Denese to the Channel 11 studios so we can see the operators standing by, waiting to take my call. There's something about this set up that just seems wrong to me.

Discovering the balance in Homeowner's Karma

My new refrigerator arrived this morning! It is adorable, with recessed Euro handles. When I bought it originally, I wasn't this enthusiastic. But now that it's here, I love it. And besides, living out of a styrofoam cooler was a drag. The delivery men were on time and pleasant. So being a homeowner should be good again, huh?

Well, no. I guess it's Homeowner's Karma that for everything that goes well, something has to go bad.

It rained pretty hard last night, and there was a corresponding wide stain on the carpet in my hall. I'm on the top floor, and when water seeps in through the roof, it travels down the walls and comes out through my hallway carpet.

Not only am I not crazy about the (I fear) permanent damage to my carpet, in November 2003 I paid $1600 in special assessments to have the roof replaced. (The new roof didn't even last as long as the refrigerator I bought in 2002.)

I have such dreams for this place! I want to modernize the bathroom. I want to make the kitchen more austere and less busy. I'd been toying with the idea of hardwood floors for the living room/dining room/hall, but now I don't know. If the floors of my fourth floor unit are going to continue to be flooded, what's the point?

al-Zarqawi: This is "good news?"

I worked very hard on behalf of Senator Kerry's election in 2004. A day doesn't go by that I don't wish 11/02/04 had ended differently. I believe we would all be better off with someone with his wisdom, experience, and commitment to public service at our helm.

That said, I simply could not believe his official (no kidding, check out kerry.senate.gov) press release, addressing the death of al-Zarqawi:

"Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was a brutal terrorist and his death strikes a blow to al-Qaeda in Iraq. This ruthless thug who abused the true meaning of Islam was an intruder on Iraqi soil and it's good news that he's dead. Our troops did an incredible job hunting him down and destroying him, and all of America is proud of their skill and commitment."

Good newsthat he's dead … our troops did an incredible job hunting him down and destroying him … this from the same decorated war hero who said, regarding this opposition to the death penalty, "I know something about killing. I don't like killing."

The Senator is not "flip-flopping" here (something he rarely did, despite what Rove & Co. convinced the public). He has always been in favor of the death penalty for terrorists. It's not the content of his press release that bothers me -- it's the macho, blood-thirsty tone.

The Berg beheading was horrible. That Abu Musab al-Zarqawi released a video of it is even worse. I am not defending the murderous terrorist.

But likewise, I do not regard it is as "good news" that he's dead. No one's death is "good news" to me. His capture and subsequent trial -- like Saddam Hussein and Milosevic -- that would have been "good news" to this proud American. We're a nation of laws, and I want the world to see that.

And I'm feeling a little wounded by Senator Kerry right now. Perhaps the aggressive language of press release is veteran/machismo talk -- the way military men show respect for one another. God, I hope so. Otherwise, I suspect that he may be pandering, turning up the volume on the "manly" talk, because he realizes that his outspoken advocacy for early withdrawal from Iraq makes him vulnerable to charges that he advocates a "cut and run" policy. That would make me unutterably sad.

Jinx!

I got up this morning at 4:00 with really hideous stomach pains. In the interest of delicacy, let's just leave it at that.

Stress goes to my gut, and I've been plenty stressed. I had planned to try to take Monday off -- see yesterday's post -- and I wonder if I didn't somehow will this on myself.

I have to try to let this go. Worrying about the coverage gap between men and women when it comes to life insurance, and how to solve this scintillating problem, can wait until Monday.

I'm sooo tired

I ain't as young as I used to be. I just finished a concept presentation to my client, and I'm exhausted.

I used to get off the on deadlines, the pressure, the adrenaline rush. Rising to the occasion. I thought it was terrific to be the "go-to" girl, the one the team couldn't do without.

No more. I'm no longer interested in being the star. When I took this particular job in 2004, I negotiated for time off as a bonus rather than money. Now all I want is the opportunity to take that vacation time. Our timelines are so tight that I don't know when I'll be able to enjoy a long weekend. June doesn't look too promising …

Right now I can't bear the thought of going back into the office, dealing with my coworkers again. It just feels exhausting. I remember when it felt like a team; pulling together for long hours, working together toward a common goal, once felt like summer camp. At this very moment I hate them all.

Tomorrow I'm going to ask my boss for permission to at least work from home on Monday. That would be nice. Maybe I just need a little quiet time alone to recharge. Right now, my ideal weekend would be to take a few long walks, stock up my new refrigerator (arriving Saturday), maybe a movie or a rented DVD or two, and no demands. No conversation. Just me. Ah ...

One more thing about That Girl …

During the credits, every time I see the New York skyline, my heart sinks a bit. No World Trade Center. Of course, That Girl was filmed in the mid 1960s, so the Towers didn't exist yet. But in a way that makes it even more poignant. New York was younger then. We all were.

Maybe it's because I work in a big city (Chicago) in a famous skyscraper (AON Tower, aka The Standard Oil Bldg.). But 9/11 creeps up on me every now and again and weighs me down a little. I think it's like a birthmark or my vaccination scar. It will fade bit by bit, but it never disappears completely.

Waiting for a very specific phone call

I got in and saw the red light flashing and the words, "Message Waiting," on the Caller ID display. I checked and saw that my mother had phoned during the afternoon when I was out. "This is it," I thought, as I dialed into the voicemail for messages. I figured I was about to pick up the particular call I have been awaiting/dreading.

It wasn't THAT call. It was just my mom wanting to share cute anecdotes about my niece and nephew. Being a doting aunt, I'm always up for those. But when I called her back, the specter of THAT call hung over our conversation …

When I was in high school, back in the long ago 1970s, a 40-something relative molested me. He and I were alone together -- my parents had dropped me off over there for some reason I can no longer recall and, since I was only 15, I was unable to drive. While fondling me, he pointed out that we weren't blood relatives, so if we were to have sex it would be "OK." Completely creeped out and horrified, I insisted he drive me home.

I told my mother about this at the time. Her reaction was: "Don't tell anyone." She didn't ask if we had intercourse, if I needed to see a doctor, if he had hurt me. She just didn't want my father, nor my uncle, to know. She was afraid my father would do something out of a sense of obligation -- after all, he was my father. And my uncle had never liked this relative, so God knows what he would do. Best not to tell anyone.

End of story.

Only it's not.

My mother loves me. I know that. She doesn't understand that on that day, so many years ago, what she was telling me was that my body didn't matter, my confusion and revulsion and rage didn't matter, and that no one in the family was on my side. (After all, my dad and my uncle would have acted out of a sense of duty or to perpetuate an existing vendetta -- not because anyone had any particular affection for me.)

My mother is an ACOA (adult child of an alcoholic). Keeping up the appearance of a "normal" family is her defense mechanism, the only she was able to face the world. If the molester had been a stranger, I have no doubt my mother would have not only confronted him, she would have called the police. But it was family. Our "normal" family. Peace must be kept at all costs -- even if the expense was me.

I forgive my mother, but I can't forget. Every now and again, the way I was devalued, the way I was tossed over the wall to keep the peace, kicks back and colors something in my life today. After a lot of therapy, I am able to recognize when this is happening and try to minimize the impact.

But lately, here's the thing. My molester is almost 80 now and in bad health. He's going to die soon, because that's what happens to old men in bad health. I don't care about his fate. That's between him and God and besides I haven't spent much time with him since I moved out of my parents' home and I'm not sure I would recognize him if I passed him on the street.

Still, I dread getting that very specific call. Because I will be confronted with an unpleasant dilemma. Relatives from Michigan and Florida will undoubtedly come in for the service. I can either explain to my cousins why I'm not attending his final send off, or I can cover for him one more time. I can show up for the wake and/or funeral, listen to him be eulogized as a great guy, and make sure that, even in death, every member of our family appears "normal."

I don't know which option would be easier, or harder.

Appreciating That Girl

I got the entire first season of That Girl on DVD, and I'm into it. I know it's crap. But that doesn't mean it can't be fun. (Of course, my taste is suspect, as I did recently download Bobby Sherman's "Easy Come, Easy Go" and "Julie, Do 'Ya Love Me" onto my iPod.)

Marlo Thomas isn't much of an actress. Her "sincere" mode is anything but … all whispery voice, tremulous smile and shiny eyes. But oh! Her clothes! I am completely loving the clothes! Mini skirts and solid-colored shifts and pastel, belted trenches. And the accessories! Little bags with chain handles, big sunglasses worn atop your head, lush fake eyelashes. Very Carnaby Street by way of New York.

And while the show is pretty predictable and trite now, there's no questioning the influence it had on me as a very little girl. I grew up wanting to be Ann Marie. I wanted to be out of the suburbs and into the city. I wanted a life as different from my parents' life as possible. I wanted independence and privacy (and a great trenchcoat). And I do work on Michigan Avenue, I do have a decent career, I do have a nice (albeit messy) condo … and a lovely green trenchcoat.

So thank you, Marlo/Ann. And I wonder about 30 years from now, how many girls today will be thanking Carrie Bradshaw/Sarah Jessica Parker for inspiring them to move into the city?

Is this anyway for a grown woman to behave?

Yesterday I was feeling quite virtuous after doing 8 laps around the running track at the local high school. I was moving rather briskly back home because I was looking forward to squeezing in a refreshing shower before settling down in front of the TV to watch Jennifer Aniston on Live with Regis and Kelly. (Hey! It was my day off! I'm entitled to watch junk TV if I want to!)

As I approached my building, I saw one of my neighbors, Mr. B. He's sweet and elderly, and has some of the more unfortunate traits that can beset the elderly. For example, he's always trying to get me to buy Avon products from him. At first I thought this was cute. Not any more. He always gets the orders wrong and sometimes forgets to send them in at all. Last time he handed me a multi-page printout from Avon and asked me to go through it to see if I could figure out what I received and what of mine was backordered. As respectfully as possible, I declined. I've been trying to be supportive because I thought, "hey, old guy on a fixed income, trying to get by." I could be in the same boat someday, right?

Turns out Mr. B. not only owns his condo unit outright, he also owns the one next door and is renting it out at a nice profit. I hope I can afford to be in that same cushy boat someday!

Now that I know this, my patience with Mr. B. is waning. I just didn't feel like standing there, all sweaty, hearing him say that he needs me to "order, order, order," and that he is always looking out for his best customers, like me. So I ... um ... turned on my heel and walked in the other direction. Two blocks out of my way. Hoping to avoid eye contact and conversation with him.

I was successful. But I feel so childish! Will I never grow up?

The "joys" of being a homeowner

This weekend I hate owning this condo. It won't cool off! We're close to breaking a record for Memorial Day heat and humidity – since the mercury isn't dipping much overnight, this brick building is like a brick oven. With the AC going fullblast 24/7, the coolest my bedroom has gotten is 79º. My refrigerator isn't working very well, but the freezer is. The manual suggests this might be because "the room temperature is too hot." I KNOW! I KNOW! I believe my cable box is possessed. It's the only logical explanation for the way fuses have blown with frightening regularity two nights in a row (about six times between 7:00 and 10:30 PM) and the box eerily chooses channels on its own. (Very Poltergeist.) And I still need to have the bathtub faucet replaced.

Let's see now: That's hopefully just a visit from the cable guy, but perhaps a visit from an electrician. Maybe a new refrigerator. I know I need to have the plumber back here. That's potentially a big expense, and definitely a lot of waiting around for workmen. Oh, for the glory days when all I had to do was place a single call to my janitor and ask him to take care of it! (Of course, I've had to deal with some pretty wretched janitors during my career as a renter; my favorite one used to approach everything – no matter what the problem was – by accusing me of flushing a tampon down the toilet.)

I thought I was a wee bit ahead financially, so I updated my wardrobe with some nice pieces and bought a Roomba. Now I wish I hadn't. I have a fund especially for household mishaps, but I so hating dipping into it. (Yes, I know that's what it's for. I still hate touching it.) And if I need to, I can skip a mortgage payment or two, as I'm paid through the end of year. But.But I'd rather not; I would love to get this place paid off.

Oh, well. I will try to keep my own personal thermostat low as I work through these problems by repeating my personal mantra, "tax-deductible mortgage interest, tax-deductible mortgage interest."

At this very moment, I'm a happy Cub fan

It's the first inning. We're playing Atlanta. They are putting the legendary John Smoltz on the mound, against some little puppy pitcher we just brought up, Ryu. Ryu gave a homerun up to the second batter he faced. Oh Lord, thought I, here we go again …

Oh, Laur of Little Faith. Right now, at this moment, at the end of the first, we're up 4 to 1! That's 4 runs on 3 hits. Against John Smoltz!

I am not writing any more. I've been a Cub fan too long. I know it's still early. I know we can blow it. I don't want history to diminish this happy moment. We've had so few this month. Right now, we're ahead 4 to 1. And I'm going to savor it.

Stuff, stuff, and more stuff!

This month alone I've visited Goodwill three times and divested myself of 8 t-shirts, 9 jackets, 6 sweaters, 2 dresses and a pair of shoes. You might assume that this means my dressers and armoire and closets are now spacious and organized. You would be so wrong. This entire condo is still a mess, overrun with STUFF.

I have a terrible time parting with things. Going through my clothes, I imagined I was with Clinton and Stacy from TLC's What Not to Wear, and they're encouraging me to toss the obsolete, inappropriate and season-after-season unworn pieces. That helped a little. But I still suffer from "donater's remorse," and wonder would it really be so awful to go into Goodwill and buy some of my stuff back.

Of course it would! A family of three once lived in this condo, which I – just only me – have filled to the brim with my crap.

It's my goal this weekend to get my wardrobe completely in shape. Everything that goes back into a closet or a drawer has to fit, be in style and be wearable. That may mean a little rendezvous with the tailor or dry cleaner, but so be it. I have got to get a handle on this clutter and mess.

And so far, we've only discussed the clothes. I can no longer eat at my dining room table because of all the paperwork strewn across it. I can't spread out on my sofa without kicking a stack of magazines onto the floor. This condo is overrun with STUFF. I wonder at what critical juncture I will cross from the line, going from merely messy packrat to pathological hoarder. I wonder if I have crossed that line already.

Well, wish me luck. I fully intend to spend today, tomorrow, and Monday if I must, getting this condo presentable. I'm not talking House Beautiful or Martha Stewart Living. I'm saying that I should be starting the summer in a home that wouldn't leave you shaking your head and wondering, "How does she live that way?"

Hooked on Pogo, Hooked on Next Time

I love Pogo. I love Word Whomp, the slots, solitaire and most of all, Turbo 21. These online games of chance have me obsessed. I play them whenever I can (though, just in case anyone from the office comes across this blog, NEVER during work). I am not very good at any of these games, but that does not deter me from spending as much time as I can playing them. Before work in the morning, while watching the news, and truth to tell, right now. Turbo 21 is open on another screen right now, and I'm hastily typing this entry during the intermission. If I get carpal tunnel, it won't be from writing scintillating financial services copy, it will be from Pogo.

What is it about casino games that hook us? Is it the promise that next time it will be better? I think so. Next time I'll be successful. Next time I'll win. It's the romance of next time.

And, if you dare, www.pogo.com

A glimpse of the old Mad Dog

As of yesterday, the Cubs losing streak has officially stopped being funny. Future Hall of Famer #31, Greg Maddux, was inept. When that happens, you know the wheels have come off.

The 40-year-old whiz kid has been the only bright spot, the only source of pride, for the North Side lately. The NL pitcher of the month in April, he was 5-0. Now in May, he's 0-4. This is soooo not like him.

I cannot find it in my heart to be angry at #31, though. Or even disappointed. Because he loves the game, and he cares so much. The quiet, controlled Professor of the past decade or so gave way yesterday to the old Mad Dog of this rookie years. When he left the game in the 6th, he grabbed a bat and put a water cooler out of its misery.

He wasn't mad at the umpire. He didn't blame the weather. There were no complaints about how lukewarm Cub bats have been without D. Lee. Not from #31. When asked how the Cubs could snap this streak, he said, "Play better and win. Win. That's the only way to do it. Talk is cheap." No alibis. Just professional pride.

I know that for him, the next game is the key. And that the next time he takes the mound, he'll be the pitcher that Jane Fonda praised for his ability to be mentally and physically relaxed, regardless of the pressure. That's the Professor I've gotten used to, and admire so.

But I also admired the passion I saw when he took that water cooler out. As long as that fire is still burning inside of him, I know someday there will again be joy in Wrigleyville.

Shopping for a life I don't have

I live in a very nice 2BR condo on the top floor of a very nice building. The neighborhood is terrific. While I long to redo the bathroom someday, this is a perfectly adequate home.

It's not the home I shop for, though.

Right now I'm charging my brand-new Roomba. This place is not so big that I shouldn't be able to vacuum it myself. I just wanted a Roomba.

I have a catalog right here called Art & Artifacts. I can't part with it because I love so many of the items in it. Like the Chicken Coop Cubbies. These vintage cubbies are great for storing all kinds of stuff, and this condo is certainly overrun by stuff. And the sage green color would look great in here. Except it measures 34" x 30" and I have absolutely nowhere to put it. (Too much stuff, wouldn't you know.) There's a limestone serenity angel in here that is enchanting, but I don't have a garden. In the Sundance Catalog, I came upon a bronze bed that is just too intense and cool. It doesn't match any of my bedroom furniture, though. My furniture is perfectly serviceable, I chose it myself and have no real desire to change it. I just wish I had an additional bedroom that I could decorate around this divine bronze bed.

What does it mean that I gaze at items I can't afford or can't use? Does hanging onto these catalogs hold me back, weigh me down with paper and keep me from organizing my surroundings and getting on with my life? Or am I just indulging in harmless daydreams?

You never give me your money ...

The Beatle puns are starting to turn up everywhere, even in the legitimate press like TIME and NEWSWEEK, in reports on the McCartney-Mills break-up. So far I've seen, "Baby, You're a Rich Man, and Now I'm a Rich Woman," and "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Man," and, of course, "Can't Buy Me Love."

I may be in the minority here, but I believe the official statement about how media attention broke them up. The second Lady Mac seems to suffer from Carolyn Bessette Syndrome. You know, "when my husband said the press would criticize everything about me, I had no idea he meant that the press would criticize everything about me." I'm not minimizing how demoralizing that level of scrutiny must be. It just surprises me that Heather Mac, like Carolyn Bessette, didn't see it coming. Beatle wives have historically had a rough time of it. Isn't "Yoko" the universal synonym for "bitch?"

I get the impression that, unlike Linda, Heather wanted her own identity and resented being regarded not as the new Princess Diana, but instead as a little tart with a shady past who is really not good enough for Paul.

Oh well, as the poet and philosopher Carrie Fisher once wrote, "If it didn't end badly, it wouldn't end at all." Maybe the McCartney-Mills marriage was never supposed to last forever. After Linda died, Paul looked more than an open wound than like a romantic troubadour. If Heather and baby Beatrice brought him back to the living, then we should all be grateful for this short-lived union.

Besides, it gave us this bad joke (courtesy of Martin):
"Why won't Heather get anything in the settlement?"
"Because she doesn't have a leg to stand on."

It's OK to laugh as long as you know you should feel bad about it.

I could listen to him all day

Former Senator John Edwards is being interviewed on ABC right now. Love the blue eyes, love the hair, love the voice. Oh, I completely approve of everything he is saying about Iraq, Katrina, immigration, etc. But it's incidental to the blue eyes, shiny hair and moonlight-and-magnolias voice.

I could not have been more passionately for Senator Kerry. His career, his ideology, his dedication to public service inspired me. I worked hard for him, raised as much money as I could for him, and still cannot believe he didn't win. He was the right man for this time, and it breaks my heart to think of what we rejected when we chose Bush.

But I never found myself resting my chin on the heel of my hand, gazing upon Senator John Kerry.

Oh God, he's mentioning his lovely wife Elizabeth. I love how he loves her. And look, there's his late son's Outward Bound pin, right there on his lapel. I have such a crush on John Edwards.

I don't know how I feel about the possibility of a President I'm hot for. It seems wrong somehow. Like being attracted to your minister. Or your uncle. Ick.

On the other hand, those eyes, that hair, that voice ...

Be careful who you Google

Decades ago I was involved with two very different men. One was sweet, stable, sensitive. The other was charming, gorgeous and tormented. A Glenn Fry song was popular at the time, "Are you gonna stay with the one who loves you, or are you going back to the one you love?" That's kinda how I ended up with Bachelor #2. The results were disastrous. But I learned a lot, about myself and others, so I refuse to regret my decision.

This past week I received an invitation to a graduation party. Bachelor #1 has not been a bachelor for a long time and his son is graduating from high school. I was enormously touched that he invited me to the party. He's one of those guys who said we'd remain friends, and meant it. What a classy guy.

This did, however, get me thinking about Bachelor #2. So I Googled him. Oh ... my ... God. The sexual narcissist who dealt and used coke is now a devout Catholic who writes enjoys writing letters to the editor. By the ton. He's against gay marriage, and wonders why the United States Government doesn't wise up and follow Catholic teachings. That the whole separation of Church and State thing is beyond him doesn't surprise me -- he never was very bright. But when I think of how he used to tease and encourage the affection of gay men to further his drug business (and I've never been 100% sure that tease is all he did), I am amused and amazed. He's also against anti-smoking laws, raising the minimum wage, and divorce. Considering how promiscuous he was back in the day, this also leaves me amused and amazed.

I'd like to believe that he has found God and turned his life around. But instead I honestly think that this is a chameleon who is adopting whatever pose suits his purposes.

The funniest thing I found was information about a lawsuit he filed. He bought a house beside an airport and was in court because he had no idea it would be so noisy. (Like I said, he was never that bright.) In addition to wanting money related to the real estate and house itself, he was suing for "loss of consortium." It was tossed out of court, as well it should have been. I had sex with him for years (when he was younger) and know it was not worth that much.

I admit it. I'm hooked.

I'm writing this as I watch American Idol. I've assiduously avoided it the first four or five seasons -- just as I've avoided Survivor and The Apprentice.

But I admit it. Now they've got me.

I'm a big Taylor fan. He's such a sweet-natured, original goofball, and his sound reminds me a little of Johnny Rivers. Before tonight I couldn't stand Kat. But she just finished "Ain't Got Nothing But the Blues" and "Over the Rainbow" and she sounds less like a Mariah wannabe. Elliott seems like a nice enough guy, but he doesn't seem at all special to me. Go Taylor. Go Taylor.

And now I feel like I'm one with the rest of the country. All I have to do is vote and then I'll be an official citizen of Idol Nation.

What's a friend to do?

I have a close friend who has been dear to me from the moment we met in 1992. We couldn't be more different. He's male, I'm female. He's gay and I'm straight. He's been in a serious relationship for decades, and my commitment/compromise issues are legendary. He's Puerto Rican, I'm German-Irish. And yet somehow, almost immediately upon meeting, we connected. As he likes to say, "We're family."

He moved down to South Florida ten years ago, and every year he welcomes me as his guest for New Year's. I write to him weekly. We work hard to stay relevant in one another's lives.

Which is why I'm so upset this morning. His last note to me (received yesterday) is almost incoherent. I suspect he was loaded when he sat down to put pen to paper.

I was surprised and saddened by how much he drank while I visited him over the holidays. One day he had four glasses of wine BEFORE dinner. One he sipped while he was getting dressed. Then, of course, he had his Campari with dinner and another glass of wine with dessert. Six drinks in about nine hours. And he did stupid things -- like forever forgetting where he left his bike. Make that "bikes." He had two in the parking lot of the motel where I was staying, and his lover had to come by with the car to get the bikes home. The booze also made him a bit argumentative. (We actually almost had an argument over -- I'm not kidding about this -- whether or not Natalie Wood was a schizophrenic.)

Because I love him so, and usually enjoy him so, I felt it was important to mention my concerns to him. Maybe there was an underlying work stress, or a problem in his romantic relationship that I wasn't privy to. No, he said. He was simply indulging more during my visit because it was his holiday, too, and this is what one does on holiday. I didn't want to argue, I wanted to enjoy the rest of my visit, so I let it go. And I saw no reason to bring it up again.

Until I got the note yesterday.

Should I mention it? Should I send the note back to him so he can see how silly and difficult he is when he drinks? Or should I just keep my mouth shut?

The latter, I guess. People don't stop drinking because their friends recommend that course of action; they stop drinking because they are ready to stop drinking.

Butmy silence doesn't mean I don't care. I care enormously. This is breaking my heart.

And I Love Him

A rather startlingly unretouched photo of Paul McCartney recently appeared on the cover of AARP magazine. Next month Macca turns 64 and because he immortalized that age in song, I imagine a good many mags will feature him the way AARP did.

Now that we're down to just two Beatles, seeing the passage of time and the mortality it implies etched on his face made me a little uncomfortable. Then I dug it. We all know how old he is, so why should he pretend otherwise? He's Sir Paul, dammit. He's entirely too cool to have to bother with anything as superficial as cosmetic surgery. (Which is not to say I wouldn't have it done if I could afford it, but I'm nowhere near as cool as Sir Paul.) I do remember reading somewhere that when he's not performing he wears fake nails because 50 years of plucking and strumming have worn his away. Of course, I also read somewhere that Jackie and Onassis were behind JFK's assassination.

But I digress.

Paul. My Paul. Paulie. Macca. The man has provided the soundtrack of my entire life. I fell in love with him when I was 6 years old, sitting in front of my parents' console TV, and I heard him sing, "Close your eyes and I'll kiss you/tomorrow I'll miss you/remember I'll always be true." He sang about romance in an innocent, tender, uncomplicated way that even a first grader could relate to. And oh, how he looked while he sang! Those big brown eyes, that perfectly straight nose, that tiny rosebud mouth. I told my mother, "He's so pretty it hurts to look."I still feel that way. Even when I look at the AARP cover.

In HELP!, during "Another Girl," Paul strums a bathing suit clad "bird" like a guitar. His hand slips and he looks so naughty and delighted. At that age I wasn't completely sure what breasts were for, but if Paul liked them, I would concentrate very hard on growing them.

By high school "the lads" had gone there separate ways. But I returned to The White Album again and again. "Who knows how long I've loved you/you know I love you still/shall I wait a lonely lifetime/if you want me to, I will." A love song to someone I hadn't met. Only Paul understood how cold all those shallow and clumsy teenage boys left me. But his song reassured me that the fault wasn't mine. I simply hadn't met my soulmate yet.

"Jet." "Silly Love Songs." "No More Lonely Nights." "My Brave Face." "Put It There." All the way to "Lonely Road" and "Fine Line." Each song inspires a specific memory of a time and place. And even the memories of heartache are bittersweet because they are accompanied by that timeless troubadour's voice.

So he's no longer young. That's okay. Neither am I. We've come down the road together this far. I look forward to enjoying the journey with him for many more years to come.

In Praise of 5 Missing Lbs.

I lost 5 lbs.! It's amazing how it has changed my outlook on life.

Years ago I was a size 6. At the time, I thought that was great. Looking back at old photos, I realize I was a bit too thin. Plus there's the fact that it didn't come naturally to me. I was a size 6 thanks to compulsive exercise and an unhealthy fixation on what I ate. I'm not a pretty woman and I wasn't a pretty girl. But I thought if I could have the best-possible body, I'd be attractive. It didn't help that in those days I was involved in a very destructive relationship and then trying to make sense of its aftermath. I weighed myself twice a morning (before I got into the tub and then again before I got dressed for work) and kept a diary of the lbs. My self worth was so dependent on my weight that I'd be filled with self loathing if the scale read anything over 109 lbs.

I grew up a bit and decided I was paying entirely too much attention to the bod. So I became a workaholic. Moved from copywriter to creative director and traded the stationery bike for a laptop computer. And found myself a size 14.

I hated how I looked, but I told people (and, less convincingly, myself) that this was a good thing. I should be defined by my brains and accomplishments, not my dress size. And besides, I had a nice bust for the first time in my life. I tried very hard to ignore that everything else developed, too. I was glad, even grateful, for my business success because it helped

Then I got my cholesterol results. As Paul sang with Wings, "Hi, hi, hi." So I decided to get healthy. In addition to Lipitor, I modified my diet and decided to move more. I bought a pedometer and tried my damnedest to get 10,000 steps in. I forsake the elevator and trot down the four flights of stairs every morning. I try to do 20 minutes of cardio 3x/week.

My cholesterol is down 100 points. I have lost 5 lbs. And I'm a size 12.

I'm going to try to keep regarding this as a health issue. I'm going to strive to think of this not as one aspect of my personality, not something that defines me. I'm going to work at keeping it in perspective.

But I'm also going to enjoy the fact that I have a waist again.

Lost and Found

Last weekend, while doing laundry in the machines I share with the other condo owners, I lost a black trouser sock. I kept the lone sock, unable to part with it, because its mate could turn up again. You never know … So I tossed it to the bottom of my laundry basket, along with the other lone socks.

Then, after my workout as I was changing back into my street clothes, I noticed I had lost an earring. A new earring. Since I'd only worn this pair once before, I just couldn't part with the single yet. So I slipped it into one of the pockets of my cavernous purse.

Yesterday I noticed someone had draped my black sock over the laundry room chair. Today I spotted something green and shiny beside the treadmill and recovered my earring.

It's remarkable how happy these instances have made me. I guess it's true that little things mean a lot. And that perhaps what I had lost and have since found is more than a sock and an earring. Keeping the single sock and the lone earring were unreasonable acts of hope that were rewarded. Maybe it was just God's way of reminding me to have faith in a positive future.