Crossroads – An Opinion Poll

As if it sensed my desire to return to simpler farming ways, my cell phone is trying to cut itself out of my life by contracting a fatal disease. I think it has avian bone syndrome, because if I touch it the wrong way, it dies. When I close the phone, it dies. If I make more than one call without immediately recharging it, it dies.
I went into the Sprint store this weekend to get a new battery, and they looked at me like I had ripped a rotary phone out of the wall, dangling cords and all, slammed it down on the counter and asked them to show me how to text message from it.
“Uhh, yeah. We don’t carry batteries for that model anymore.”
Of course they don’t, because I bought the phone there A WHOPPING 18 MONTHS AGO so clearly the technology is now long since obsolete. Why on earth would I think they might actually stock batteries for the Samsung Paleozoic 2200?
“Yeah… and the batteries cost about $60, so you might just want to think about getting a new phone.”
AHA! The truth comes out. Self-destructing phones that keep you forever bound to the carrier because there’s still six months left on your contract so you have no choice but to stick with them and sign another 2-yr agreement. EVIL GENIUSES DAMN YOU TO HELL!
Well, sometimes I’m just fine biting off my nose to spite my face, so I may just say screw you to Sprint and get all mavericky. That’s where I need some advice, though.
Do I:
a) Get a new regular phone with a different carrier
b) Get a Blackberry
c) Get an iPhone
d) Get the Google phone
e) Get a 1981 Magnum PI mobile phone (with bag) at the Goodwill and find some tech geeks to rig it to work
f) Get that prepaid phone I saw hanging by the batteries in the Jewel-Osco
g) Keep my phone on life support long enough for my contract to expire, and then ask you guys again what I should do
h) Reject all forms of electronic communication in favor of letter writing
What say you?

Goodbye, City Life

I don’t know how to say this other than to just come right out with it: I’ve been cheating on you. I’ve started a secret blog. In fact, it’s so secret that when I just tried to pull it up, Blogger said it didn’t exist, but that was just because I forgot the URL. It’s that secret.
My new secret blog is actually a joint venture with my friends Natasha and Dee-Dee, except that Dee-Dee still hasn’t accepted my invite to co-author it and probably forgot that we started it, so it’s really just a secret blog between Nat and me. It’s that secret.
I don’t want anyone to feel hurt, but it’s just that there are some things going on in my head right now that I can’t talk about on this site. Secret things. Things that involve my hopes and dreams.
Okay, fine – I can’t keep this from you any longer: I want to buy a farm. My friends and I have dreams of one day trading in the hustle-bustle of city life for a calmer, quieter existence, living off the land. I want to live like the pioneers did, milking cows and piling hay into big stacks and rendering lard. But I want plumbing and WiFi. So it’s kind of a survivalist website, where Natasha and I mostly just post links to sites to learn how to can peaches. Next month we’re taking a cheese-making class. After that I want to take bee-keeping or animal husbandry. It’s a start.
Anyway. I just wanted you to know, because maintaining this secret blog has really been eating at me. Not eating at me like something really bad like the deformed bear from that movie, Prophecy, but definitely eating at me like something annoying that you can’t quite locate, like a deer tick.
Oh, I feel so much better now that I don’t have to keep living this lie. My name is Jenny and I want to grow stuff and then kill stuff and eat that stuff. And maybe sell some of that other stuff at a farmer’s market. And I won’t be ashamed any longer.

Sharks

Last week, I heard the news story about some guy who jumped into the ocean and punched a shark in the face to save his dog from being eaten alive.
True confession: I’m terrified of sharks. I’ve never seen one, well, not outside of an aquarium at least, but anytime I hear about shark attacks, it just freaks me out. You can’t beat a shark, you just can’t. You can’t outswim them – what, are you stupid? Sharks are killing machines. They have rows and rows of teeth that never stop growing. Did you hear me? NEVER STOP GROWING!
And did you ever see when they jump up out of the water and their eyes roll back and their lips pull back? Killing machines. Big time.
So no way am I punching a shark to save my cats. I totally love my cats and have raised them since they were just wee seven-week old kittens, but seriously. No way. What the hell were my cats doing in the ocean in the first place, that’s what I’d like to know.
But here are some things I would punch to save my cats:

  • Medium-sized carp

  • Chicken (but not a goose)
  • Old lady with a walker
  • Paperboy under the age of 12
  • Chihuahua
  • Garter snake

What did you do yesterday?

Here’s what happened to me last night:
I had a dance recital of some sort, got out on stage and realized I was wearing two different shoes. They were both huge wedges, but one was open-toed and the other was not. I ran upstairs into what turned out to be my childhood bedroom and found the matching shoes. It seemed like no one noticed.
I got laid off from my job and then at lunch, ran into an old friend who said she could get me an interview with Waterman pens, which I’m completely obsessed with, and I remember thinking, “Wait a minute – you’re a poet. How do you know corporate marketing people?” But I wasn’t about to look a gift interview in the mouth, so I happily agreed. The only catch was that I had to interview at that exact minute. I was wearing crappy jeans and big construction boots so I ran to the shoe store next door to my office only to find that it had gone out of business. My friend offered me a pair of flip flops, but I refused. I decided to try to wing the interview despite the terrible first impression I would make in my outfit.
On my way out of the empty shoe store, I ran into a nice looking older, bearded man in a tweed suit. We were in the stairwell and he grabbed my hand and placed a handful of old European coins in it, then smiled and walked away. I started giving them out to people as good luck charms, when everyone suddenly began chasing after me for my centimes. As I was running away, I dropped my favorite 50 lire coin on the stairs.
I made dinner for the Pope and had to sneak him into the ladies room to clean off his (robe? smock? dress?) when he spilled food all over it. I made him change into civilian clothes so we could escape unnoticed. He really liked my cooking, or at least he said so.
So what have I learned about myself? I have some sort of foot fetish and this Nyquil Sinus Nighttime Formula has one hell of a kick. Whoa. Seriously though – what’s up with me and the shoes? I’m not even going to look up what that means.
And my apologies, because I know that telling people what you dreamed about is slightly less interesting than having to look through photo albums from co-workers’ vacations, but I think I’m still kind of buzzed.

Learning is Fun

I think I might have dengue fever, so the best I can do is to post an educational video for the young ladies out there. I particularly like the way the narrator pronounces, “men-stray-shun” and “matooring” (as in, your body is matooring).
Watch. Listen. Learn. Enjoy.

I wish Disney would do more collaborative films with Kotex.

Maybe Not Just Yet

Wednesday
Sipping wine with friends after class, I confess my dream: to one day – either from brain fever or a nasty spill – lose the filter that prevents me from acting on the inappropriate thoughts that flash in my mind throughout the day. I tell them that I want to become an anonymous vigilante, known only by the tag I leave behind in blood red spraypaint – Smackberry.
“Have you heard about the maniac running around the Loop?” they’ll ask each other, waiting in line at Starbucks.
“I know. I can’t believe they haven’t caught the guy.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I just don’t feel safe anymore.”
Like a wild animal, I stalk my prey: harried, self-important office drones who can’t look up from their Blackberries long enough to realize that they’re blocking the entire staircase while people are trying desperately to get to their destinations. People who enter a revolving door but are too busy double-thumb texting to actually push the door, relying on others to carry their weight. Co-workers who come to strategic planning meetings and glance up every four minutes only to give the impression that they are actually paying attention to the discussion instead of scrolling through unimportant email after unimportant email.
My only weapons are my cheetah-like speed and a rolled up copy of Crain’s Chicago. Disguised by some sort of bandit mask – maybe I’m wearing roller skates or something, too, because I’m not a very fast runner – I sneak up on my victims and smack the Blackberries right out of their hands so that they fly high into the air and smash on the concrete.
I poke them in the chest with the magazine for emphasis and then run – or skate – away, as my victory cry carries off into the distance, “Smackberry!”
One day, they will fear my wrath.
Thursday
AM:
I walk into the lobby of my office building and see a crowd of harried office drones who have gathered around the heating vents.
It appears a tiny and disoriented sparrow has flown into our lobby. I can hear feathers against metal as it tries to hide in the vents. A pile of notebooks, briefcases and Blackberries has amassed on the floor as people stop to help catch the bird.
A man on one side, a woman on the other, they approach the bird sound. The man very gently reaches his hand underneath the vent, then cups the other hand over it as he pulls out the scared, but noisy, bird. He holds the bird close against his stomach as he walks out and places it in the bushes outside.
He grabs his notebook, his briefcase and his Blackberry and walks to the elevators.
PM:
I get on the train behind a stylish yet harried 30-something woman who alternates between typing away on her laptop and dashing off quick emails on her Blackberry. A slightly disheveled 40-ish woman asks if the woman would mind moving her bag so she can sit down next to her. The woman obliges, and instantly returns to her work.
“You’re really fast. At that.”
She looks over, “I’m sorry?”
The woman mimes typing in the air, “That. You must do it a lot.”
“Oh, yes.”
She shifts in her seat and returns to her work.
“Oh, I’m sorry – I know I probably smell. It’s just, I’ve been really busy lately and didn’t have time to shower. I don’t usually let myself go like…”
The business woman is confused, “What? Oh, no. No. I… I was just leaning against the window. It’s fine.”
“I was running to make the train. Didn’t think I was going to catch it. The doors almost slammed right on me!”
“Hm.”
She’s wearing a black sleeveless shirt that reveals a long thin bruise on her upper arm. I search for a thumbprint. She fans herself with a magazine, sets it down on her lap, then reaches back to lift her bottle-blond hair as if to pull it into a ponytail. Before she lets her hair drop, I can see the fine, damp strands stuck to her neck and beads of sweat dripping down.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a Discman, fiddles with the cord for a moment, then starts listening to her music.
“It’s not too loud, is it?”
“Hm? No.”
“Okay, good. I just got this CD player and I like to listen to it. It helps make the time go faster.”
The train conductor comes down our aisle. “Where you headed?”
“Waukegan.”
“$7.65.”
“Oh. Oh no. Seven?”
She looks down at her purse, “I thought it was $5.65?”
“There’s a $2 fee if you buy the ticket on the train.”
“Oh, I…”
She looks down into her purse again, but before she can look back up, the woman next to her hands her a $5 bill.
“What? Oh… are you sure?”
“Yes, please,” she smiles.
“Oh. Oh, bless your heart.”
She hands the woman her change and thanks her several more times. She puts her headphones back on as the other woman scrolls through her emails.
One Day
They’re safe for now. I’ll set the mask aside for the time being, as I have seen the good in their kind. But know that Smackberry is watching. Always watching.

“We’re about hope”

Sometimes you just need to watch a heartwarming video like this to remind you of what’s important in life. And to remind you that babies just take and take and take.

Hacked

I’m pretty sure I have a malicious virus on my computer. I don’t know a lot about computers, but I’m pretty sure it’s one of those Trojan horse viruses. Nothing’s really wrong with my computer, that I can tell, but I know my system was hacked because when I got my Netflix in the mail the other day, there was a copy of Year of the Dog in one of my red envelopes.
So it had to be a virus. I’m telling you right now, there’s no way I put that movie into my queue. So this hacker isn’t trying to steal my passwords or drain my bank account or hijack my email to send juvenile messages to all my business contacts. He’s just trying to gaslight me into thinking I actually paid to see Year of the Dog.
I want to do whatever I can to fight internet crime, so let this serve as a warning to you all: if you suddenly get Year of the Dog in your mailbox from Netflix – DO NOT OPEN IT! Just put the envelope in a plastic bag, scrub your hands thoroughly and call the FBI immediately.
Learn from my mistake. Even though I knew there was no way – even in the drunkest of stupors – that I put that movie in my queue, I still for some regrettable reason decided to pop it into my DVD player. It was like the forbidden fruit.
I started watching it and at first everything seemed great. It had that Molly Shannon in it from Saturday Night Live – I always thought she was funny – and some other really good actors like John C. Reilly and Peter Sarsgaard and Laura Dern. Didn’t all three of them get nominated for Oscars? I feel pretty certain that they were all in Oscar nominated films, at some point. Maybe they didn’t win, but clearly they keep good company.
But then, about 10 minutes into the movie, Molly Shannon’s little beagle – who is the center of her universe – dies. I know some people are going to be like, SPOILER! Why didn’t you warn us!? And here’s why – I want to spoil this movie for everyone so that no one ever watches it. So you know what else happens? She gets another dog and that other dog is psychotic but not in a funny Turner & Hooch sort of way, more like in a Cujo sort of way. And at one point, this new dog mauls a crippled dog to death so it has to be euthanized. The end.
I stuck with this movie until the end, because I kept trying to see the good in it. Just when I was about to walk away, they would tease me with something that kind of resembled a plot, only to dash my hopes again. You kind of think that she’s going to get together with John C. Reilly, but then he turns out to be a hardcore hunter and she’s an animal activist. And then you think that maybe she’ll fall in love with Peter Saarsgard, but he’s playing some sort of a eunuch so that can’t work out.
I’m sure people are thinking, why didn’t you just leave when you had the chance? And I guess all I can say to that is don’t judge me until you’ve sat a mile in my pants. Anyway, I want to make sure that no one ever has to go through what I endured, so I decided to put together a helpful guide so that you can learn to recognize the warning signs.

Top Five Signs Your Netflix Account Has Been Hacked

1. There is a Molly Shannon movie in your queue

You’ll never see me again

Slow walk
Snapping
Rhythmic hips
And more hips
Shoulder pop
Shoulder turn
Head nod
Down, look down
Hair swing
And back
And turn
Heel
And step
Heel then step
Snap
0:59
Jesus
And hold
Hold
Jesus to airplane spin
Hands up
And whip spin
Heel
Turn on heel
Knee up
And left
Knee up
Rhythmic hips
And more hips
More hips
Shoulder pop
Shoulder turn
Spin
And spin
And spin
And spin
Jesus.

I <3 NYC

It’s really been too long since I’ve visited New York City. And nothing makes me miss it more than a horde of Chucky look-alikes roaming around Times Square. How come Chuckies never come to Chicago? Lucky New Yorkers.
NYC Chuckie 2.jpg
NYC Chuckie.jpg
NYC Chuckie 3.jpg
via Neatorama