Shut up, Rowboat.

I came into a little bit of cash. I had a whole week to myself. I could have gone anywhere. I seriously considered flying to Venice. I’ve always wanted to go to Venice, especially considering the horrible reality that within my lifetime the entire city could be underwater. 

I started researching hotels and neighborhoods, museums and restaurants, until I slowly realized- I’d be alone. In Venice. 

This idea ended up getting thrown out for two reasons: one- because after getting over the inevitable midsummer stench, I imagine Venice to be an incredibly romantic city (I had not, at this time, ever been overly affected by things traditionally “romantic”. I don’t watch romantic comedies, read gushy girly literature and I am much more Rolling Stones and The Who than Andrew Lloyd Weber.). But to be alone in a city where I imagined being surrounded by beautiful couples who look like they are two perfect pieces of a puzzle stuck together for eternity, sharing their hand-holding bliss as they clumsily assist each other into the first gondola that comes along and giggle and smooch and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes as the stripe shirted pilot croons, did not appeal to any part of me except for my inner masochist. 

The second reason is because I’m a 5’ 11” blonde American...and even though I’ve never been to Venice, I’ve been to Italy. And I know the kind of trouble that combination breeds. And I didn’t need that kind of trip.

So, it was with great excitement that I instead booked a plane ticket to London, a train ticket to Stratford, a car to the Lake District and Edinburgh and another train back to London. I’ve been to the UK many times and even lived in London for awhile while I studied classical acting, but, as of the beginning of this summer, I hadn’t been to the UK by myself since 2001. At that time I was waist deep in a completely avoidable shit storm that required me to travel back to London for the second time in two months; that trip ended in me bringing back 8 times more emotional baggage than I arrived with. And I sat on that baggage for years, not going back to the UK, not dealing with it, just sitting on the bags hoping they’d naturally disintegrate. Walls went up, vunerability disappeared and the future uncrackable me was created. 

The current trip was great, though. Just. Friggin. Great... 

...Until I got to Stratford. It was only the 3rd day. And thats’s when I saw the rowboats...those God damn rowboats. 

I had just purchased a ticket to see “The White Devil” by the dark, violent, brilliant Jacobean playwright John Webster later that evening. I had a couple of hours to kill, so I took an innocent stroll along the river. The swans were swimming, famiies were kayaking, the flowers were gorgeous and the breeze was sweet. I was breathing it all in, feeling just fine. 

Then suddenly, without warning, there they were. Three God damn adorably charming wooden Stratford rowboats. Empty, tied to the little dock, floating there on the river waiting for someone and their perfect companion to take for a sunset row along the Thames. 

They were each labeled. 

“Antonio”. 

“Cymbeline”. 

“Romeo”. 

Their effect on me was instantaneous. Breath stealing. Blinding. Gut wrenching. I stood there, stunned and silent, with tears starting to stream down my face. I was staring at Antonio, Cymbeline and Romeo, mouth slightly open, as if they’d just called me a horrible name usually reserved for a middle school bully’s prey of the week. I felt offended by them. That they had purposefully invaded my perfect vacation, mocking me for being there, by myself, with no friend to row with me. That they had followed me and waited until I was finally at my most peaceful and took the perfect opportunity to sucker punch me right in my vulnerable little face. 

Here I was, in the birthplace of the poet whose works I used to lust after but ended up falling head over heels in love with. The 450 year old playwright whose brain I would love to insert into a corpse and create an Elizabethan Frankenstein if I could. I was here, in the most important of places to my theatrical heart, and these little rowboats were mocking me for being there by myself. They creaked as they swayed back and forth and knocked into each other in a symphony of insults composed for my ears only.

“Lost”

“Alone”

“Unable”

These words came across my mind just as suddenly as the visual of the boats did. These are words I fear. Words I work everyday to keep out of my life. I tried to get away from them. I kept going along the path. But as I walked alone they multiplied! 

“Banquo”. 

“Orsino”. 

“Benedick”. 

....................................................................................*sigh*

OK, rowboats. OK. You win. 

I sat down on the dock. Sunset in Stratford. I sat on that damp dock for half an hour. Staring at these row boats. Allowing myself to just look at them. To let my mind wander, to allow my eyes to puff up and explode with tears until my body couldn’t create anymore. I don’t even know the specific reasons I cried, other than the fear of those words. 

I was just simply...moved. Vulnerable. Present. Affected. Human. Breathing. For that half hour, my life became very apparent. Very beautiful. Very full. Very important. Very confusing. Very scary. Very....alive.

A month before I left I was having a drink with a friend who, after hearing me blather on about my problems and fear, trying to get him to justify any stupid feelings I was having, said something so simple to me: 

“Just feel it. Good or bad, just feel it."

I had thought about how to actually do that for a month. I had been trying my hardest to feel whatever it was I was feeling, honestly. I never succeeded. It was always forced, always obvious, always controlled... 

...until this moment. It took a bunch of clunking, floating, empty rowboats labeled with names of characters I’d only seen on stage and paper, but had apparently, because of my studies and passions and past-times, quietly seeped into my being and helped me bring my wrinkled, forgotten, moth-eaten emotions to the surface. Those guys pushed that baggage out of my eyes and my pores....and possibly a nostril or two (see: sleeves).

If anyone had seen me sitting there crying they would have thought I was absolutely insane or incredibly dramatic. And they would have been right. It was embarassing. But it was necessary. I had given myself permission to be affected, for one brief but very important moment, by the romance of Stratford, of Shakespeare, of my own life. I actually allowed myself, for the first time in years, to “just feel it”.

...I followed it up by watching the most violent, sadistic, selfish, gluttonous, amazing piece of in your face murderous theatre I’ve ever seen. And this made me just as happy and excited.

BALANCE.

I'm so special!

So... one of my eleventy jobs I have is teaching kids how to act and model and write and all that stuff that I am somehow qualified to do. It's a job I absolutely love because I always catch the kids surprising themselves when they let go of their fears and really show something about themselves that they have been taught to cover up for fear of being embarrassed.

Usually the first thing I do is have the kids go around in a circle and say their name, their age, what they like to do and then I have them name one thing they can do that they think no one else can do. Like a super special talent. This freaks them out at first because they all have that "I have no idea what to say- there's nothing special about me" look on their face, but after a couple minutes the talents that are revealed are usually hilarious and amazing. This always gets the kids talking and laughing and helps to break the ice.

And then today I started thinking about what special talents I might have. I have been particularly hard on myself the past few weeks because I feel like I have bad luck. And nothing is going right. And everyone else is more successful and deserving than I am. And that my life will always be hard even though I work my ass off. And that every good thing that happens to me is going to somehow not work out in the end and that no matter how hard I try I am just cursed. You know. It's that thing called "anxiety" and I get it from time to time.

So right now, as a way of battling that nasty "A" word, I would like to list my super special talents that I don't think many other people in the world have and that make me...well, ME...

1: I have double jointed shoulders. It's true. I can put the backs of my hands flush against my belly and bring my elbows together at 90 degree angles. This freaks people out. Especially when my elbows clap together. And the fact that my arms are freakishly long makes this even more entertaining. I've only met two other people who can do this. One is male and one is Canadian, so really, I might be the only female American who can do this. In fact, I am certain I am.

2: I can roll my stomach muscles vertically with absolute perfect precision. I can start from the bottom and go up and I can start from the top and go down. It might be a little perverse and a little weird, but I can do it and I have been able to since I was little. The really cool thing is that my daughter inherited this talent from me. Perhaps we will join the circus.

3: I can inhale and have my nostrils stick to the middle portion (septum? what the hell is that called?) of my nose. No need to hold my nose. I can do it with no hands! I call this my Cabbage Patch Kid impersonation.

4: I can stick spoons to my face like nobody's business. I have a very "strong" (eh hem) chin and high cheekbones and a little nose. These points of my face make for some excellent spoon hanging. My record is six spoons at once. It may have been even higher but my mom made me take them off before the bride and groom noticed.

5: I can drive with my knees. In fact, I probably drive with my knees more than I should. It's something I've always done and it's hard for me to imagine not being able to drive without this talent. I feel bad for those who can't. Makes driving while putting on mascara, eating a taco and texting so much easier!

There are other things I can do, like Ethel Merman and Katharine Hepburn impressions, or laughing like Krusty the Clown or getting any baby at any age to smile (I have not failed yet!), but the talents listed above are my personal favorites and the ones that I kind of hope end up in my obituary:

"Glamazon died in a fiery car accident Wednesday because she was driving with her knees, leaving behind two Glamazonian children, one of whom can roll their stomach muscles in an inherited sort of way and one who was always grossed out by his mother's lanky arms, unless they were wrapped around him. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the National Society for Pointless Facial Utensil Hangings."

There we go. At least I feel a little bit more meaningful than I did an hour ago...

Glamazon: one
Depression: zero

Sittin on the Dock of the Forum Shops

I got about 500 words into this blog entry and thought "these people who read this are way too smart to actually believe my justifications for my childish and dangerous behavior...just get to it and tell the damn story..."

...On July 4, 2008 at 3 A.M. I kicked a guy in a bar. So, following what is an obvious and natural human progression from kicking someone in a bar at 3 A.M., in early November of that year he and I went to Las Vegas. And man did we have an awful time. I will spare the details of my disappointment in our trip out of respect for myself, my family, my boyfriend, my boyfriend's family, the dude himself, his family and the human race in general. But man was it just awful.

When you are me and you are put in an unescapable spot such as the one I was in, you go shopping. It's the only way to not only guarantee peace of mind, but also a way to guarantee that said dude will not choose to go with you when you say, as you are half way out the door, "Yeah, I'm going shopping, are you coming along?", closing the door and not giving him a chance to answer. I was half way down the strip on this 80 degree day in my little khaki skirt and my little green top wearing my little gold aviators when I decided that desperate times call for desperate measures: I needed purse therapy.

There it was. On the shelf at the Gucci store in the Bellagio Hotel. The world's most beautiful, useful, classic yet edgy, carry able, durable, wearable bag of all time. The one that my best friend had bought months before and the one that I had secretly been plotting to steal from her...I have 2 children. I'm a single mom. I should not be buying an $1100 bag...is what I said as I handed the woman my credit card.

At last! A feeling of joy! Of self worth! Of a trip NOT gone horribly wrong! All due to this purse- this blessed purse that I was now proudly displaying over my shoulder with my little khaki skirt and my little green top and my little gold aviators. I called my best friend to brag. To feel like she and I were on the same plain; that we were now bound in history and space and time over the most gorgeous Gucci bag in the universe. We literally had a fifteen minute conversation. About a purse.

As I was talking to her I strolled across the street, taking note of all the horribly jealous women who were obviously eyeing my bag and saying to each other "did you see that amazing woman in the little green top? Her bag is to DIE FOR and don't even get me started on her aviators". A few of them even broke into a grand applause, as I vividly recall...When we finished our conversation I was already in Caesar's Palace, down a few ramps and in the middle of the forum shops eyeing even more over priced luxury items that might add more fuel to my fiery shopping frenzy. It was a Saturday. The Forum shops are INSANE on Saturdays. All these people buying items which they couldn't possibly afford and definitely don't need, but are caught up in their dreams that Vegas will fulfill some kind of horrible emptiness and loneliness deep deep down inside of their souls. Suckers. I'm so glad I'm not like that.

The shops were annoying. So many people in my way, so many people to deal with. I got to the end of the corridor where you are supposed to prance around a fountain to make your way up the other side of the mall when I realized I just couldn't stand being in this crowd anymore. It wasn't good for me and it certainly wasn't good for my precious new Gucci.

I found a little hallway branching off of the circular "look at me I'm a Roman fountain-don't you feel like you're in ROME" area. I walked down it, passed the mens' room, passed a drinking fountain (which definitely did not feel like a Roman one) and passed the ladies' room. There was a set of double doors at the end. The kind that looked like doors you took our of the high school gym when you finally get to leave one of those lame pep assemblies- the ones with the silver handles in the middle and the industrial strength locks at the top and bottom. These doors HAD to lead to somewhere I could escape this madhouse. Even if it were some random banquet hall or backstage to Bette Midler's show I could find my way out, surely. I push open one of the doors filled with hope.

The light from what was beyond was blinding. My hand dropped the door as I had to shield my face from the brightness. (My other hand was holding my shopping bag into which my other lame purse- also a Gucci bought on my previous trip to Vegas, but that's another story- was stuffed). As I found my Aviators on top of my head and brought them down to my face the door shut behind me. And there I was. Outside. On a loading dock. Somewhere not even close to the front of the hotel or even close to any sort of human existence. I turned around to the doors. Locked. I banged on the doors. Yelled into the crack in between the doors. Nothing.

I turned and look around. Just me, a dock, a driveway and some cigarette butts. "No problem" I thought as my logic finally kicked in. "I'll just walk around to the front of the hotel and go back down the strip". Easy, right? Wrong. This is not the Days Inn off I-57 in Mattoon, Illinois. This is VEGAS. Everything is an illusion. There is no logic. There is no easy way out. Walking the sidewalks and landscaping around this hotel felt like I was trapped in an M.C.Escher drawing. I did not lead myself to the front of the hotel as I had hoped. I led myself straight onto a sidewalk that was somehow perpendicular to the strip as well as raised above it, somehow, even though I do not remember walking any sort of incline or staircase.

It was now almost 2 o'clock in the afternoon and also about 90 degrees (But it's a DRY heat.). And I was on a street perpendicular to the strip. I couldn't even figure out how to turn around and get back to my safe little dock. I was trapped in some sort of dimension where the only things I could see were the "Muebleria Fantastico" shop, a liquor store that had a special on Marlboro Reds and a homeless guy who looked at me as though I was a filet mignon wrapped in bacon with a side of asparagus and a bottle of Dom Perignon. Or maybe a bottle of Mad Dog. Either way I obviously looked like something he would like to feast upon.

So in my little khaki shirt and my little green top and my little gold aviators I hurried up the road, clutching my new baby in my arms. I could SEE the strip from where I was. I just couldn't get there. It was down there and I was up here. I kept walking, humming "Down on Skid Row" as I went along, praying that I would at least find an empty cab rushing by me. They were all full. Or at least none of them stopped in this neighborhood. Not even for an out of town blonde Glamazon wearing a mortgage payment on her arm. (Sidenote: I lived in Chicago for many years. I'm not afraid of being in "bad" neighborhoods or even being assaulted (see: blog about Barney Miller, again...). This is how bad this neighborhood was. I was terrified. Because I was soooo out of place. I like to think of myself as cooler and more in touch that what I appeared as that day. But in reality, perhaps I'm not...

I must have walked for a mile or so. It seemed like it. I finally stopped when the street I was on turned into an on ramp to the interstate. The road just vanished and the whole thing became an chance to exit Vegas. Funny, I thought. But I had to turn around. Where the hell was I supposed to go? Im not about to go back to where I came from. And the cabs refuse to stop. I was even desperate to flag down a cop. It wouldn't be the first time I was returned home in a squad car. I was not above it. Then I remember that I think I had passed the employee parking lot for the Mirage... (I THINK it was the Mirage...to this day I'm not 100% sure...).

The hope of this parking lot actually existing and not being, well, a "mirage", drove my legs to work faster and stronger. I devised a plan. I told myself that I would go into the garage and find the entrance. There I would wait for an employee to come along and lead me through the restricted employees only part of the hotel and casino out onto the casino floor. Maybe said employee would give me a complimentary stay in the hotel for my trouble or possibly steal a steak from the back to feed me and my weary, war ravaged body. Or maybe I'd come across a bunch of fresh off of their shift Philipino dudes wearing wife beaters smoking cigarettes and playing cards in some back corner of the off limits area of the hotel. SOMEONE will help me, that's for sure. I mean, I'm me! Someone always comes to rescue me, right?

Oh crap. No, that's not right. Quite the opposite actually. Turns out I was right about the parking garage being real. Score 1 for Glamazon. And I did find that employees' door. Score 2. Problem was, it was deserted. Oh sure, there were cars around. But no people. I thought about just sneaking in. But that was another obstacle. Who knew that in VEGAS they have "key cards" for something called "Security"...Sigh...all I could see were concrete walls and cars. And I was hot. And tired. And really regretting my purchase. Really regretting my trip. Really regretting kicking that dude in that bar on July 4, 2008 at 3 A.M.. Really regretting a lot, actually. It's funny how life kind of slaps you in the face at the most unexpected moments. Who knew that I would ever be standing alone in the employees' parking lot at the Mirage (?!) hotel in Las Vegas reliving and questioning the events in it that lead me to this place at this time on this ridiculously hot Nevada day in November? What happened next is something that I hope and pray was caught on a security camera and played over and over again for entertainment by a group of wife beater wearing Philipino employees before their nightly game of craps.

The walls to the parking garage did not go up to the ceiling. They are actually only about 4 1/2" feet tall. The rest is just open air. I walked to one of the walls and over it I saw a lovely sprawling grassy area. The landscaping was really tidy. A little TOO tidy for just the back entrance to a hotel. Along this grassy area, aside from trees and flowers was- Yes! a curving driveway of some sort. I couldn't see where it led to or from because of the curves and the greenery, but it was there. And all of a sudden I saw a cab coming either from the hotel or going to it with someone in the back seat. Someone who looked as out of place as I did! Someone who probably had spent as much money as I had trying to credit Vegas with helping her get her little groove back. Another stupid white girl! I was saved!

The problem was- how do I get to wherever she caught that cab? There were only two exits- back out onto the street where I really didn't want to become a steak dinner or into the employees' entrance to which I did not have a card. Or....

See, here's the thing. I am 5' 11" tall. Hence, the Glamazon status. But this is not a proportionate 5' 11". It's actually quite the opposite. When I sit down I am shorter than my 5' 1" pals. I am all leg. 48" of lanky legs. I measure the wall against my legs and it came up to probably the top of my belly button. I didn't see this as an obstacle. I probably could have just hopped up onto the wall and swung my legs over and been don't with it. But I didn't. It was 90 degrees out, I had been walking for a couple hours and I had just been having a panic attack in the employees' parking lot of the Mirage (?!) about my life, my children, my actions up until this point and my very blurry future plans. I was not in what you would call a "clear" state of mind.

I took my shopping bag with my old Gucci and flung it over the wall. I took my new Gucci and flung it over the wall, too (I was over the purchase at this point). I removed my watch and my aviators. I flung them over, too. I walked backwards, focusing on my breath and the physics of the whole situation (Side note: I only took geology.). I probably bent down into a lunge just to make myself feel more powerful and I went for it...I pictured myself as Flo Jo- in the one armed one legged spandex fantasy suit- my extensions glimmering in the sun- my face puckering as my feet leave the ground and I become airborne, lifting my body 8 feet above my target and landing gracefully on the other side to the roars and admiration of the crowd, most likely the same women who had been admiring my purchase earlier in the day.

This is not exactly what happened. It was more like watching Nell Carter trying to escape a fire. Full of panic and regret that she can't just spring her body over an obstacle, but rather would run for the window, hit the sill, bounce back and forth, bruise her hip and when she finally hit the window sill she would propel her body out the window as hard as she could, having only the screaming children below break her fall. Only there were no children. Only bushes full of thorns, burrs, hatred and shame. There I was, lying on top of the bushes. Bruised and bleeding. And there next to me was my $1100 Gucci. I thought I heard it laugh in a condescending little Italian accent, "ha ha ha stupid American".

I was filthy. My little khaki skirt was covered in the kind of soot and muck only reserved for the top of a concrete wall in the employees' parking lot at a casino. My little green shirt was torn and sweaty. It took me a few moments to locate the watch and the aviators. I pulled myself together as best I could, picked up my stupid purse collection and made my way towards the road. A cab finally stopped for me somewhere in the middle. I think he was as surprised to see me as I was to have found him. My dirty, sweaty, stinky, regretful, embarrassed, exhausted and ridiculous ass got into the cab and said, with a dry and raspy voice not unlike Night Court's 'Selma', "MGM grand, please."

I opened the door to the room. And there he was, still laying in bed, watching poker at 4 in the afternoon. He had not moved. He was watching poker on TV. In Vegas. I hung my head in even more regret. He saw me, covered in burrs, filth, sweat and anger and said "What the hell happened to you?".

Me: "You need to go home. Now."

I spent the rest of my time in Vegas alone, wandering around trying to make sense out of why the hell I would think it was appropriate to kick someone in a bar at 3 A.M. on July 4, 2008. From then on I would be more adult. I would make better choices. I would stay away from the crazy life that I had been living and try to be more responsible...I mean, as soon as I got back home.

"If this is the worst thing that happens to me today....

....I'm going to be OK."

I seem to say that a lot. I have had an incredibly extraordinary life. I have done things, met people and been places that most people only dream of. I am blessed with amazing children. I am blessed with a good job and good family. I have friends around me who appreciate me. I have passion for who I am and the talents I was given. But I also have horrible horrible luck. So today, I would like to publicly display a list of the worst things that have happened to me and the horrible timing that has come along with them. OK, maybe not the WORST- that would include loved ones dying, etc...let's just say the unluckiest...No, I have never been in the middle of a war. No I have never lost my house in a natural disaster. No I have never been stranded without food or water for weeks. But I have had some ridiculous adventures that have turned into great stories that are fun to tell while we sit around and drink...

Here, the top ten unluckiest/most poorly timed bullshit that I have had to experience...in descending order...(as of how I feel today, March 29, 2012...my list will probably be different tomorrow)

10. In 1990 I was in a production of South Pacific with a community theatre group. I was practicing "Gonna wash that man..." when I tripped on a chair and broke my foot. This was the same day that I had gotten caught in band chewing gum and got a Saturday school from the most ridiculous, anal retentive, sexually repressed man/band director I had ever met. I couldn't stand this guy. It was also the same day I got into a fight in gym class with a kid who was making fun of my lanky legs. This was also the day that I had to meet with the principal and my parents about how much school I'd missed when she never talked with the nurse that I had had a horrible case of mono and this was the reason. This was NOT a good day. Eventually my foot healed and I luckily got to perform in the show and all was right with the world. Fast forward a month. I am in the last performance of "A Christmas Carol" with the same theatre group, including Carol, the woman I danced next to in South Pacific. We are half way through Act 2. Now with most shows, the last show is always bittersweet. This was no exception. We were a little hyper, a little somber. Carol and I decided to relive our South Pacific glory days. So we started to dance. And then came the part where we kick. It's very easy to do the dance in short khaki shorts and a white t-shirt. In my Act 2 of A Christmas Carol costume? Not so much. I kicked. My foot caught up in my skirt and all 5' 11" of me went flying backwards and landed in a pretzel like shape on the concrete floor. My collar bone was broken. ANd I was on stage in 2 minutes. I got up. I went back stage, in shock. I made my entrance where I was supposed to run into someone "accidentally". He did not know what happened to me backstage so all 6' 2" of him rammed right into me. My collar bone probably broke more. I did the scene. I don't know how but I did the scene. I exited. I laid down on the floor. The paramedics showed up and quietly wheeled their gurney being the audience and came to get me. The rest is an absolute blur. I quit band the next day.

9. I peed my pants in front of my entire second grade class. I didn't want to interrupt the teacher when she was talking to a visiting adult, so I stood there and peed my pants involuntarily. It never occurred to me to just make a break for the girls' room. I didn't want to get in trouble for running out. SO I peed my pants.

8. I was possibly a victim of random gunfire in Chicago. See the "Barney Miller" related post on this blog for details...the worst thing about it is that it may have been some kind of karmic self fulfilling prophecy as I had feared for many years that someone would shoot at me while I was driving. I had nightmares about it, I would fantasize about it as I was driving and several times had to stop my car and calm myself down about it all. And then it happened. To me. Alone.

7. I was finally asked by the big kids to play tag. I was in 4th grade on our family's yearly camping trip with our three best friend families. And when I say camping I mean the dad's would have a contest to see who get rent the biggest, most elaborate RV for the weekend. So it was basically like being on a concert tour in a kick ass bus but without the blow and hookers. I was the youngest of all the kids. Youngest by about 6 years youngest. I was also a weird little kid and had a weird sense of humor. The bigger kids didn't really appreciate it too much so I was usually left to hang out with my mom and dad and watch my mom drink champagne by a camp fire and watch my dad and the other men see who could rip up more $20 bills. Ahhh, the great outdoors...
Anyway, they asked me to play tag. For the first time ever. Flashlight tag. And I got put on a team with Jamie Holtz (yeah I used his real name) who was the second youngest, and his dreamy friend Devin Washer (yes real name). Off all the kids went into the woods to play. I was not allowed to hold the flashlight. And I had to be in the back of our three person line. Because I was a seven foot tall fourth grade girl and God forbid they be seen with THAT. In the dark. (a couple years later at a restaurant door county the same people would give me grief about sitting at dinner and turning blue from a shirt I HAD to have but would end up being a horrible lesson in fabric dyes and why you always listen to the Nepalese tag when it says "Wash before wearing"...but I'm not bitter.)

We hid in the most elusive and natural campground environment we could find to sneak up on my brother's team: THE LAUNDRY BUILDING. I know, really becoming one with the outdoors, right? We stood at the door waiting to spot my brother's team. There they were. "Go!" Jamie yelled as he bolted out the door with the flashlight and Devin close behind. I tried to catch up. I tried to see where they were going. I couldn't see a thing. I couldn't see the trees, I couldn't see the building and I certainly couldn't see the humungous green dumpster with the jagged hinge witting there just waiting for my left eye to come crashing into it. And that's what happened.

*SCREAMS SCREAMING SCREAMER SCREAM*

Imagine this: you are a mother drinking champagne with your best friends around a fire. You're having a grand old time reminiscing about your wild adventures in Hawaii or that time on that cruise you all took together or that lovely wedding so and so's daughter was in when she married that handsome pediatrician when suddenly your 7 foot tall fourth grade daughter comes stumbling out of the Wisconsin woods screaming her head off with her right hand over her left eye and her entire face covered in what you are sure is probably ketchup. You would think that the older kids were playing a prank, right? That's exactly what they thought.

SO the adults just sat there, with blank expressions, champagne glasses in hand. Connie the nurse stands up and comes over to me and removes my hand. "Oh dear- Sandy look at this".

What happened next I do not know. I remember laying in the RV on the kitchen table/extra bed with my mom applying pressure with a wash cloth. I do remember my brother freaking out in the back trying to disassemble the tent that he and his friend had been sleeping in. The tent was thrown into the RV in its totally assembled form by my dad who cleaned up our camp site in about 6 seconds flat. I remember hearing my dad ask someone directions to a hospital. Then I remember a doctor with a German accent. The German accent scared me a bit because all I thought about at that time when I met someone German is my dad whispering in my ear "Don't mention the war" which always made me giggle. Then I felt something roll down my cheek. I was certain my eyeball had fallen out.

*SCREAMS SCREAMING SCREAMER SCREAM*

Nope. It was a tear drop.

I had 4 stitches above my eye and 3 under my eye. And a tetanus shot I am sure. My eyeball was fine thank God. I went to school with huge bandages on the next Monday. They called me S-arrrrrrrr-ah for a little while. And then I had these huge red scars on my face that didn't fade until about 7th grade. My left eyebrow still has a tiny bald spot to remind me that every time I see Jamie Holtz from now until the end of our lives I have to make him feel guilty.

6. My car was stolen the night of my 21st birthday. STOLEN. On my birthday. While I was out in Wicker Park getting hammered. STOLEN. Never had anything else happen to me as far as my car goes, but they chose my 21st birthday to STEAL my car. The only thing worse the having your car stolen, is them finding your car three days later after the thieves had been living in it, then peed in it (did they have a second grader living with them?) and then left it close enough to the Humboldt Park impound lot that I had to go claim it. And keep it. (Insert honorable mention under car stories here: I got a speeding ticket on my way to get a divorce on April 8, 2008. And I was crying so hard when the cop was yelling at me that he called for back up.)

5. In the grand scheme of life, this isn't that bad, but it still pisses me off to no end: December 1993 I had my audition for acceptance into the theatre school at DePaul University. DePaul, in my mind, was my only option for college. I was going to be an acting major there. No other plan in place. So I went and auditioned and felt good about it. 2 weeks later I get my letter in the mail. I WAS ACCEPTED!! Of course, I was alone at home when I got the letter so I sped back to school to show my acting teacher the letter. And then I showed just about everyone else I've ever known (and their cats) the letter. I screamed my victory from the mountain tops! Then a few days later I got another letter which read something like this: "blah blah blah we regret blah blah blah it was a mistake blah blah blah you can come study playwriting though blah blah blah here are some complimentary basketball tickets for your trouble blah blah blah".........I cried for maybe 2 weeks straight. Or 2 hours. But it felt like 2 weeks.

4. This happened to me yesterday...So I have been struggling for a long time to get commercial work. I have always been cast as a character type and never as a normal looking person type. BUT on Monday I was cast in a commercial and I was ridiculously excited. I had every last detail ready to go for the shoot, which is happening as I write this...I have been under a lot of stress lately, I mean even more than usual, so I guess I'm kind of prime for getting sick...but what happened to me when I woke up yesterday morning can only be described as the REAL actor's nightmare. I woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head...and looked in the mirror. My bottom lip was HUGE and I had some kind of small village of gross growing out of my chin. What in the world? I have never had a fat lip before. Ever. I've never been punched in the face so I look like Jimmy Walker, I've never had an allergic reaction to anything and I certainly have never had some kind of infection on my face. SO I went to my mom's house and showed her. We iced it, we washed it, we tried everything. FInally I went to an aesthetician and explained to her "You need to get rid of this lip thing and whatever else is going on because I AM SHOOTING A COMMERCIAL TOMORROW". She steamed it, she caressed it, she even did some sort of dry ice thing. It looked a bit better. We hoped for the best. I took a nap for 45 minutes. When I woke up I was in terrible shape. I could see my lip under my nose when I looked down. My entire jaw was swollen. And it was getting worse by the minute. I went to the emergency care clinic. They had me sitting in a room by myself of ran hour and a half. And my lip grew and my jaw swelled. I left there in anger. I went to the ER. They took me in right away. Gave me a massive dose of Benadryl, a steroid and put an IV in me. The they determined that I had some kind of weird infection. IN MY FACE. So they put an antibiotic in the IV. And my face didn't go down. It was 8:00 pm. I finally decided with my agent that we had to remove me from the commercial. I. was. and. am. heartbroken. Such a cruel joke. Even as I write this I can only drink through a straw and eat mashed potatoes out of the right side of my face. Karma. I have some really really bad karma.

3. I have had a lot of unhealthy people in my family pass away or get very sick. This motivates me to eat right, to workout 5 times a week, to not smoke, to breathe. Yet I am the ONLY one in my family who has been diagnosed with a genetic mutation called "Factor 5" which means my blood clots eleventh times faster than normal people. I had no idea I had this until this past fall when I got a blood clot in my lower arm. I was put on coumadin for three months. I was taken off of birth control. I was told to be careful. I was told there's nothing I can do about these clots. I was told I could have a pulmonary embolism at any time because of this disorder. And the worst thing, I was no longer allowed to eat green, leafy vegetables. I've been cut off from my routine of massive amounts of salad, spinach, asparagus, broccoli, etc. Anything with Vitamin K (which also includes cranberries, green tea and agave nectar, all of which I live on). This vitamin K nonsense interrupts the coumadin...so I was on coumadin for three months. I abided by all the rules. Then I went to get my final ultrasound to make sure the clot was gone. It was! yay! No...wait. There's now another one in another part of my arm. Of which I had no symptoms. So now I have to take this horrible drug for LIFE. I live everyday with the fear that I have blood clots all over my body and at any moment one could move to my lungs or my brain without notice. AND I can't eat salad. I wonder why I even bother going to the gym and eating well and why I don't smoke. Oh yeah, vanity. Which is probably the thing that will kill me in the end.

2. hands down most painful thing I've ever endured: No, it's not giving birth to an 8 lb 11 oz baby boy or a 9 lb 6 oz baby girl. Nope, it was a staph infection in my spinal column. In 2001(and the day before my birthday...) I hurt my back imitating Molly Shannon's "I"m 50!" character from SNL. I was performing in Tony N Tina's Wedding in Chicago and I was playing a spastic caterer. For some reason, I thought it would be funny to imitate Molly Shannon but take it a bit further. When I said "ANd I can kick", I put my foot up on an audience member's shoulder...while we were both standing up...the next day I was in excruciating pain. I had herniated my three lowest discs in my back. After 3 months of therapy, pain management, shots in my spine and exercises, it didn't get better. I had to have surgery. upon researching the surgery I found that a tiny 1% of people who have it get a staph infection and it will either paralyze or kill the victim. Nah, won't happen to me, I thought. Doc, let's do this!

So I had outpatient back surgery. Was NOT given antibiotics before or after the operation. And was sent on my way to heal. The pain relief was immediate. I could feel my leg again, I could sit for more than three minutes without howling in pain, it was awesome.

10 days later: muscle spasms in my back that made child birth feel like a broken nail. I was stuck in the middle of my bed for 24 hours. My brother carried me to the car and we went to the hospital. Blood everywhere. Screaming agonizing pain. They gave me a muscle relaxer and sent me home. The next day: shaking and shivering. 5 paramedics. Off to the hospital, screaming, vomiting. Immediate MRI, immediate morphine drip. The next week I was in a morphine haze. Unable to move, sure that I would end up paralyzed. The hallucinations were constant and I didn't eat anything but ice chips. I thought the hospital was burning down, I thought there was an intruder in the middle of the night, I thought I was in Hawaii, I thought my family was having Easter Dinner in the hall without me, I thought I was in a camper (kind of like the one in Wisconsin...). I had to have another surgery. The abcesses were attacking my hips- if I hadn't gotten in there when I did I probably would have lost most of my muscle...another week after that I was still in the hospital on the antibiotics and the morphine. When I did go home I had a walker. And a cane. And a pick line in my left arm where I had to give myself injections every 8 hours for the next 8 weeks. I had to have home health care. I was a MESS.

I will never put my foot on anyone's shoulder again. At least not standing up...

1. And the number one stupid, horrible, worst thing that has happened to me....

I dropped my iPhone in water this morning and the ear piece won't work....I know, I know....stop crying for me. You're embarrassing yourself.

BUT, and say it with me..."If this is the worst thing that happens to me today I'm going to be OK."

The Elgin Experiment

I grew up in this town called Elgin, IL. When I was little it had everything a kid could want. Department Stores, theatres, restaurants, parks, pools, 25 cent ice cream cones, a rocket slide, caged buffalo, a box car derby, warring Greek restaurants and on and on....and everyone knew everyone else. It was awesome. And safe. And pretty. One side of my family has been in this town since the 1800's. The other side came here all the way from Sicily and set up a woodworking shop that is still in business, thank you very much...Elgin is a huge part of who I am. (I was born in 1976 by the way, so this isn't one of those "remember when JFK came to town and I got to shake his hand" stories that I had to hear 56 times at the Thanksgiving dinner table when my grandmother wanted to trump anything we had to say about our miserable little lives.)

But in the early 1980's something changed...I blame it on a mall opening one town north. Eventually the department stores in Elgin either closed or moved up there to try to survive. No one went downtown to shop anymore. My shoe store was gone. The shoe store next to the shoe store was gone. Brenner's was gone, forcing every man in town to go to Sears for their suits which in itself is a bigger tragedy than any other mentioned here. The chain reaction that occurred because of the lack of business in downtown was shocking and depressing. Elgin was still relatively safe, just God damn awful boring.

In the late 80's (it may have been earlier but this is my personal recollection as I am only 27...do the math, punk, I'm 27 and sticking to it) the gangs moved in from Chicago and started a minor reign of terror and everyone got scared. People started moving away and any movement that was still in downtown all but came to a halt. It was a ghost town. We kids started to say "To have fun in Elgin you have to leave". Making fun of Elgin (hilariously and cleverly nicknamed "Hellgin" by those of us who could read and write) became everyone's favorite past time.

Then in 1994, after years of absolutely nothing happening, the casino moved in. And during the next decade things started to change again...parks. restaurants. new construction. People even tried to open retail shops that were super awesome (R.I.P. "Simple"- I miss you.) Things had definitely perked up in town. So much so that "they" (whoever "they" are!) built brand new condos and townhouses in several areas throughout the slowly becoming functional downtown. It was slow going, but dammit, it was happening. People were actually coming downtown- even if it was for discount booze and nickel slots...

Fast forward to last weekend. My friend "Bosco" (we thought it would make her/him look super important and mysterious if his/her name was changed)leased an apartment right in the middle of everything downtown (Bosco is from WAY out of town and has only been here a couple years, so Bosco has only witnessed Elgin as it stands today. And Bosco likes Elgin!) I never thought I'd see the day where I felt like I was in a luxury Chicago high rise but the view outside was of the town where I had spent my entire childhood.

So I proposed an experiment...(I do this often to pass the time because I have realized that I am completely unable to just "hang out" without a serious purpose. I'm working on this, I swear...)

The question was this: Can we spend three days in downtown Elgin without having to leave for any reason whatsoever?

I wanted to see if Elgin had really changed to the point of being able to sustain a community on only what is offered within the limits of downtown. Could we live there the same way my grandma did- by not driving at all, only using the products and services in downtown to "survive" and having an all around awesome super duper time in the process? (Grandma would walk in heels everyday to work at a dress shop, uphill both ways...the heels were not part of the experiment.)

Well, after all that exposition, here is what we did and what we found out!

Friday, 5:30 pm: After a stroll from Bosco's parking lot where I wave bye bye to my Buick for 3 days, I take a stroll to Ravenheart Cafe for an iced coffee before I have a business meeting in the "new" fountain square plaza (my mom insists that the REAL fountain square plaza was where "the bank" used to be and there was a big fountain...on a square...or a plaza..but it was at the corner of Chicago and Grove. Whatever. There's still a plaza near it and there's a fountain, so I'm calling it Fountain Square Plaza. It's my blog and my story).

We sit outside on Mad Maggie's patio, which is really comfy and the service is great. We have our meeting. We could have had dinner but instead drinks are in order (which is a recurring theme throughout the weekend...). We get done what we need to do and I go on my way, stopping in front of Bosco's building to say hi to my friend (What's up Bob Mihelich! Woot!)and his beautiful family, who have just finished a dinner at Al's Cafe. (Which happens to be the first place I worked when I was 14 and was the only reason I ever went downtown back then besides whatever project I was working on at Hemmens...I still remember how to make the malts and my mom to this day thinks I hold some kind of priceless secret recipe in my brain for the Burns' malt. I let her think it's more of a mystery that it actually is. She and I have our days...)

Up to Bosco's place. What a balcony and what a view. You can see about 4 different church steeples, Old Main, the Casino, the plaza, the tower building and yes, pot smoking teenagers waiting for Mad Maggie's to open so they can catch a glimpse of whatever the hell band will be there (said pot smoking teenagers will make an appearance later. stay tuned.)

A good friend of Bosco's from another part of the world (can you say SYCAMORE?) is joining us for dinner. SO- we have another obstacle- can a foreigner be entertained in downtown Elgin?

We go to Toom Toom Thai Cafe for dinner. It's on Grove and it's FRIGGIN DELICIOUS. It's BYOB, which isn't a problem since Bosco and the foreigner have that detail taken care of...Nick's liquors is down the street! We have a huge feast of Thai food and not only is it all ridiculously tasty, but the service is great and the atmosphere is super cool. (*Redroom* *redroom*). Even the massage therapist from the Centre eats there. I saw her. It's true. That must mean it's good food. And very relaxed food, too.

From Toom Toom we walk up the street to my personal favorite bar in Elgin, Villa Verone. Have you been there? You should go. The food is insanely good and the owner, Pietro, will do everything he can to make you feel welcome. (Thursday night is ladies' night with $5 glasses of wine. Who likes that deal? This girl.) We have some (and by some I mean eleventy) post dinner cocktails and dessert. Any place that gives me a huge scoop of Spumoni with a wink and a smile is good by me! I see Jeff and Margaret Kim, who are taking over the world one Kyukido studio at a time, as well as my friend Barb and her family, who owns Dancer's Paradise. (Jeff and Margaret are not trying to take over Barb. That was a poorly written sentence). If you know anyone who dances, send them to Dancer's Paradise on W Chicago street right by the Dairy Queen. They have everything you could ever want including tap shoes in a size 11. Don't ask how I know.

We then walk...err, uh, stumble...up Chicago Street to The Elgin Public House where we run into the entire cast of Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, who were celebrating a successful opening night at Hemmens. Our friend from Sycamore is delighted, hiccuping and glassy eyed. The foreigner is satisfied. We walk back down Chicago Street, past the glitter-ified girls waiting to get into Medusa's and the hip, smoking, martini sipping pretty people outside Martini Room. TIME FOR BED.

(NOTE: Bosco has not installed curtains yet. Downtown Elgin is BRIGHT at night. Vegas bright. I sleep with my oversized Nicole Richie sunglasses on. As per usual.)

Saturday 5:30 AM
Smell that? My retinas are burning. Bosco...come on...seriously, curtains please. I turn over to go back to sleep shielding my eyes with my blanket, when I hear Sycamore is awake, too! Bosco goes to entertain him. I fall back asleep and when I wake up- BAM- 6 huge pastries and coffee from Pastigel, the bakery on Chicago Street near Douglas Ave. Bosco walked over there when they opened at 7 a.m. and Voila! Breakfast. 6 ginormous pastries for $5.40. Oh how we ate...Alberto, you make a mean Apple Fritter.

After 16 glasses of water, 2 pastries and a coffee I lace on my running shoes and run over to the Centre for my morning workout. I totally forget my ID. They let me in anyway because they know me. Sweet. I do my workout and run back towards Bosco's and find myself in the middle of 17 white festival tents between Hemmens and City Hall. What the hell? Festival? What festival? Richard Pahl informs me via Facebook that it's Fiesta Salsa and that he'll see me there later (which he never did. Richard, where the hell were you?).

After Sycamore getting on the road and a few loose ends to tie up with the apartment, we hit the pavement to complete our errands for the day, which are many! First up: LUNCH (there were a lot of loose ends). At the recommendation of Richard Pahl (who is apparently starring in this blog) and Amy V., we walk to Highland and Grove to Domani Cafe for the best Cuban Sandwich this side of South Beach...or, perhaps, Havana, if I had ever been to Havana...as well as an Iced Chai Tea Latte which beat the hell out of Starbuck's. We stuff our faces and make friends with the owner.

Then it's off to Highland and Douglas to The Razor's Edge. Bosco needs a haircut and everyone knows that Bruce Corn is the best barber in town. What a lot of people DON'T know, however, is that The Razor's Edge has a full staff and not only offers men's and women's haricuts, but manis and pedis and waxing and everything else you could want to make yourself look pretty as a picture...and a gumball machine.

Next stop is Salon Couture so I can get my Aveda products which I've convinced myself are so much better for me than any other products which is probably a lie but they smell damn good. On the way there we check out the diamonds in Shockeys and the treasure in Keeney's front windows. I get my product. I am happy. Bosco with the new haircut is happy. We're sooooo pretty.

OK, we need food for the apartment. Where the hell are we going to get food without walking allllll the way down Grove to Butera? I remember my sister in law telling me about a little secret. We walk east on Chicago Street (past Elgin Books, an antique shop with some records in it (R.I.P. Apple Tree), Simple Balance Yoga Studio, a tattoo placed that I can't remember the name of even though I got my first tattoo there... and the YWCA) then south on Chapel and we find "La Roca", A small grocery store with everything from Jarritos to fresh cuts of meat. (And Snow Cones outside! SCORE!)We get a dozen eggs, some Chihuahua cheese and a couple bottles of water. A protein filled breakfast for the next day. (We like to pretend like we're on this really strict diet. We're not. See: Spumoni, above).

We walk back down the hill to Bosco's apartment, drop off the groceries and head off to Fiesta Salsa. Here we find salsas made by all these different area restaurants and we are to sample each of them and vote at the end. (I voted for Red Bar's salsa- so many roasted red peppers, it was delicious. Al's Cafe wins in the end). Question: have you ever eaten 20 different salsas, washed them down with a virgin pina colada being sipped through a straw sticking out of a hollowed out pineapple being used as a glass with a 2 foot doilie on a stick poking up above your head on a 110 degree day? I have. We walk back to Bosco's to cool off.

....And Wolverine is on. WOLVERINE. I can't say no to that movie. EVER. I am a dork. (See: shoulder tattoo of Milhouse and Star Wars collectibles in my kitchen) The plans we had to go to dinner and to see live music at Mad Maggie's or Public House get pushed back a bit as we watch Hugh Jackman and Liev Schreiber hunt eachother down.

Fancy Schmancy Dinner Time: Dundee might have the Anvil Club but WE have the Casino! That's right, we get dressed up and walk through Festival Park (which still has kids playing in it at 8:45 p.m.- sweet) to Buckingham's at the Casino. Along the way we find ourselves getting a contact high from the pot head teenagers we saw outside Mad Maggie's the night before. They're just walking down the street smoking a joint. Wow. That's brave.

Once Harold and Kumar are gone, it's time for Oysters and Chateaubriand (or however you spell it). Oh. My. God. FANTASTIC. It might be at the boat, but I highly recommend taking your out of town guests or your girlfriend who you want to impress (or possibly undress) to Buckingham's. Ask for Juan. He knows his stuff.

After dinner we take my leftovers (I'm on a diet, remember??) back to Bosco's and meet up with the newlyweds, Despina and Giotis, at Martini Room. It's not as packed as it usually is on a Saturday night, but we have the best waitress I've ever had there- her name is Christina. The only thing better than her service is the DJ's song selection, which includes everything from Grandmaster Flash to En Vogue to Michael Jackson. It was like being back in high school- except with less booze.

We walk back to the apartment and go to sleep, facing away from the window this time.

Eggs are good! Score! Thank you La Roca! And the muffin from Pastilega is still fresh! YAY! And don't ask me how the Ghiradelli mint chocolates from Buckingham's were the next morning. We're on a diet...

After brushing the chocolate and mint out of my teeth, we get ready for the day. We have A LOT to do. First up: we need Aleve. Uh oh...this is the first thing we need that we just can't get. Medicine. The drug stores in Elgin all went away a long time ago. According to my calculations, the closest drug store to downtown is the CVS at Summit and Dundee. Eew. Totally not walking there...Crud. We'll have to drive.

I also need some other beauty type things that are non Aveda (have I mentioned how vain and beauty obsessed I am?). Again, no drug store to buy this. I decide I'll get them later. Bosco needs curtains and we are going to buy curtains if it kills us...there's nowhere to buy curtains...that I know of (please please please correct me if I'm wrong....).

So there we were. We needed housewares and aspirin and couldn't get them in downtown Elgin...so we had to climb in the Buick and go off to Walgreens on the West Side (I don't particularly care for CVS)and then what the hell, let's go to IKEA.

But when we got back we DID go to AL's for lunch and were waited on by Kyle, the world's friendliest waiter who, even though he called me "m'am", was a nice closer to the experiment. (Good luck hitchhiking through Colorado and Oregon next week, you crazy bastard!)

Finding: Elgin is full of friendly, talented people who still have a loyal sense of community and are mostly proud and hopeful for their town. There were only 2 things that we really needed that we couldn't find. However, groceries, haircuts, hoity toity beauty products, books, vintage vinyl, yoga masters, fitness centers, random food festivals, joint smoking slackers, food from eleventy different nations, live music, live theatre, old friends, new friends, friendly wait staff, cheap ass breakfasts, great coffee, diamonds, U-46 gym uniforms and a SHIT LOAD of alcohol is available in downtown Elgin. But if you have a headache from the sun shining directly into your eyeballs from a naked window in a high rise, you're out of luck.

The only thing that was missing was Barney Miller himself...

Actually a story from 2005, but needed to be rewritten and posted. Everything is true. God bless the CPD



So- I had the scariest thing happen to me last night.........ready?.here
goes........................I had been at Duffy's on Diversey with Gina (in
town from L.A.), Carrie Bruno, Dez, Damian, Melissa and Adamczak. I was
driving, so thank God I had not been drinking. I had to leave about 1:30 cause, well, I
have kids and I have to be an adult, right?

SO I leave them all there and get on my way. I go west on Diversey and
right before I get to Ashland I think "hmm....the projects are coming up
soon, I'm going to turn right on Ashland and take it up to Addison and take
that to 90. "SO, I turn right and go North a couple blocks when BLAM! My
driver's side window explodes- fucking BLOWS UP. So I start freaking out
because I've just been shot at. I tear out of there like a bat out of hell.
There's glass flying everywhere- I'm screaming crying- I try to call all of
those guys still at the bar- I finally get ahold of Joe- but what the hell
do I expect him to do? So......I get off the phone with him (and now I've
sent everyone into a panic- and it was both Carrie and Melissa's birthdays-
nice of me to cause drama when they're having drunken fun). I have no idea
where there's a police station except in my old neighborhood, so I drive all
the way to Pulaski and Irving Park. I didn't want to stop because I had no
idea where this gun fire came from- no idea if I was being followed- and I
was completely alone. I had a cab driver who had pulled up next to me at a
light in a worried frenzy because here I am- this chick screaming crying
with glass all over her driving around Chicago.

Well, here's the conversation I had at the police station with come beat
cops and "Wojohowitz", the cop who was very pissed off to be on desk duty
that night......

ME: (Getting out of my car and running into the police station, covered in
glass, black make up all over my face, flip flops flopping in pure panic)
(to cop #1): Can you please help me?

COP #1: (walking John Wayne style slow up to me) What's wrong?

ME: I think I was just shot at- can you please look at my car?

COP #1: *SIGH* Sure.

We go back outside with his partner- a 5'2" asian dude who looked lkike
Bobby what's his name from Mad TV and all I could think of was his Connie
Chung.

They turn on their mag lites and kind of look in the car- didn't open any
doors or anything.

COP #2: You can go to the car wash down the street- they have vaccuums.

ME: Um......I realy don't feel like going to a car wash at 2 a.m.

COP #1: Well, we could follow you and watch to make sure you're OK.

ME: I think I'll handle it later.

COP #2: Probably just random gun fire. You can either go inside and file a
report or call 311.

ME: (INNER MONOLOGUE) 311? The grafitti number? Are you out of your
MIND???????????????? I WAS JUST ALMOST
MURDERED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

COP #1: Yeah, just vaccuum that up and call your insurance tomorrow after
you file the report.

ME: I think I'll file it here and now. I really don't feel like getting in
the car just yet.

COP #2: (Says something to the effect of) Suit Yourself

So I walk back in- keep in mind that I am still crying like a baby at this
point- I walk up to Wojohowitz- seriously the dude was the Polish missing
link- he doesn't look up from his BOOK he is reading.

ME: Excuse me

W: (doesn't say a damn thing- just looks at me)

ME: Can I file this report with you?

W: What's it for?

ME: I was shot at through my driver's side window.

W: Where'd it happen?

ME: A little North of Diversey on Ashland.

W: Diversey and Ashland?

ANOTHER COP, (we'll call him Fish): That's 19th District. They're at Belmont
and Western

ME: You want me to drive to Belmont and Western?

FISH: That's their district. You should have gone there.

ME: You know, if you guys are too busy here to help me, I'll call 311 and
file the report.

W: No, that's fine.

ME: I'm sorry, I'm just really shaken up

W: (In the most SARCASTIC, CONDESCENDING TONE OF ALL TIME) You want me to
call you an ambulance? (And laughs)

ME: Please, no.

W: What was the address where this happened?

ME: I don't know- 2 blocks North of Diversey on Ashland.

W: Well, I need an address.

ME: I have no idea

W: Well, I NEED an ADDRESS.

ME: Diversey and Ashland!

He throws down his pencil and goes and asks onE of the other officers about
the address situation

He comes back

W: I'm just going to say 2800 North Ashland. Is that OK?

ME: Absolutely-knock yourself out

FISH: Yeah- that was probably (eats a bite of a sandwich) just gunfire from
the projects over there.

ME: Well, that makes me feel better (nervous laugh)

W: What's your home phone number? Area code first.

ME: 224-569-2677

W: 224?

ME: Yeah- they ran out of 847 numbers

I have to repeat the number to him 6 times until he gets it right.

He then finishes the report on the computer with the help of THREE other
officers- and at one point they actually mistakenly called 9-1-1. How that
happened, I'll never know.

After 15 minutes- and I'm still crying- freaked out - and NO ONE has said
"are you OK" or even a good ol "Calm Down melodramatic woman". Unbelievable.
This is the state of the world.

Anyway, he hands me a carbon copy

W: your report number is (insert any number here, preferably 666)

He then pulls his book back out and continues where he left off

ME: Is that it?

W: yeah. You can go.

FISH: Oh- there's a car wash down the street where you can go vaccuum up the
glass.

ME: Thanks.

I go outside and begin the process of getting the glass off of my seat and
the dashboard so I don't blind myself on the way home with shards of flying
glass

COP #3: (following me outside) so you're from Elgin?

ME: No, actually, I live in Huntley now

COP #3: Well, nothing's going to happen to you out there, is it? (Laughs)

ME: Well, we'll see (As I'm now picking up glass off the street so no one
gets a flat tire)

COP #3: You'd better hurry back out to the country. It's going to rain.

ME: (Looking right at him and bugging my eyes out)
YAAAAAAAAY........YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!

COP #3:(Just looks at me blankly and turns to walk to his car)

I get the hell out of there and drive 40 minutes home with the window down and it's cold.

Ready to Be a Parent? Part III

In the continuing list of ways to prepare yourself for a life of role-modeling, parent-teacher conferences, diaper changes and anxiety attacks...

1. Get a job at an animal shelter working with the puppies. Sit in the room with the puppies while they're awake and yip yip yipping for hours on end. Try to talk on the phone to your accountant, agent, best friend or pizza delivery service. Keep your cool and don't you dare yell. They're just puppies. They don't know any better, you horrible person.

2. Put locks on everything. Lose the keys. When you find the keys, shove them into the lock out of anger for losing them in first place and jam the lock. Try to rip open the cabinet or door in anger and fail. Call a locksmith. He'll help you retrieve your DVD's, heart medicine or porn in no time flat. Save the locksmith's number.

3. Fold the laundry (which I encouraged you in a past blog to NEVER stop doing). When you are done, and before you put it away, run around the room blindfolded. Fall directly into the folded laundry and pretend like you're swimming in it. Refold without complaining.

4. If you are female, throw away all of your beauty products: make up, hair sprays, perfume, nail polish, etc. you wont have time to use it...EVER. If you are male, stop bathing. You won't have time or energy to wash.

5. Get yourself and anyone else in your home to make sure they pee before falling asleep. All I'm saying is there was quite a mess in the fridge one time when a certain 6 year old who was famous for sleep walking did just that...

You're almost a pro now!