I come from a family of bathroom readers. I grew up knowing the top of the tank was no place for fake flower arrangments, decorative sea shells or boxes of Kleenex. Sunset Magazine, Time Life's The Tower of London, Nancy Drew Mysteries -- I've read them all in the john.
But when it comes to lavatorial literature, the ne plus ultra of the Peterson can was always the World Book Encyclopedia.
Mind you, this is no ordinary encyclopedia. First off, it's written for children, so the articles contain many telling silences and intriguing circumlocutions to get around the off-color facts of real life.
Add to that the fact that our WB collection was purchased around 1970 -- and never replaced -- and you have yourself 22 volumes of alphabetized fun.
So when I make my yearly pilgrimage to the Peterson homestead, I immediately check the bathroom, and if there isn't a volume waiting, I head straight to the bookcase, select a World Book at random, and set it on the tank. By the end of my stay, it will be joined by two or three more.
Though a newcomer, Eamon has taken quite readily to this tradition. A bathroom reader himself, he has quickly grasped the value of outdated history and science delivered in 9th-grade-level bitelets. And I'm very proud to say that during our most recent visit, he managed to improve upon the tradition.
Shortly after we arrived at my parents' house, I took a bathroom break, stopping first at the bookshelf. I randomly selected volume D. Later that day, I returned to the 'reading room,' and found volume D splayed open, face up, on the tank. Now understand, this is not to form. One does not typically leave bathroom books open, so I sensed that something was up. Upon careful perusal, I found the entry for "Daly, Marcus" at the bottom of the page. Copper baron, Irish immigrant, recurring reference on HBO's Deadwood, Marcus Daly is also - rim shot - a near relation of my better half.
In this simple gesture, Eamon had augmented our family tradition by making it interactive and, ultimately, competitive. Because, clearly, I couldn't let it go at that.
So, for the rest of our stay, each trip to the john resulted in a message for the other, communicated by way of World Book. If I left behind a graph showing that venereal disease resulted in the highest number of innoculative injections in 1969, Eamon answered with an entry on "Living with High-Level Radiation."
But finally, I trumped him. I came across a reference that could have no equal. It cannot be captured in words. You must see it for yourself.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #25: The part where I come face to face with my predecessor
It's widely known that my husband, prior to meeting me, dated nearly every woman he's met. Which makes for a lot of ex-girlfriends floating around. In fact, our bridal party included no fewer than one ex-girlfriend and one passionate high school crush.
So I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised to discover yet another link in the chain. Eamon and I were out with my dear friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt (aka Sweet Pea), the theater editor at Time Out Chicago. He was taking us as his guests to see the new musical, Was, which was being staged at Northwestern University. (A godawful affair, but no more on that here.) As we we stroll to the theater, Eamon mentions that he once dated an actress who, to the best of his knowledge, is still in Chicago. He mentions her name. Stacey Magerkurth.
And Sweet Pea stops dead in his tracks.
Of course he knows Stacey. And oddly enough, didn't meet her as part of the Chicago theater scene, as one would expect. Instead, they have some convoluted, Kansas-based friendship that goes back years. And we are all agog at the smallness of the world.
So subsequently, I receive an Evite from Sweet Pea for his annual Xmas shindig, and lo and behold, there's Stacey in the "Yes" column. Eamon, sadly, can't attend.
I arrive at said party, and shortly thereafter, a very friendly woman and her date show up. And Sweet Pea nonchalantly introduces "Stacey." And I shriek, "This is Stacey!" Thankfully, she figures out why I'm shrieking, and she shrieks. And then we hug. And then we shriek some more. Then we talk about how Eamon tends to cancel plans, and how FastWeb (Eamon's former place of employ, the place, in fact, where he and I met) killed their relationship.
Later, as we chat, it comes up that she and Eamon broke up in Sept. 1998. Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief. Eamon and I started dating in November of 1998. Phew.
So I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised to discover yet another link in the chain. Eamon and I were out with my dear friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt (aka Sweet Pea), the theater editor at Time Out Chicago. He was taking us as his guests to see the new musical, Was, which was being staged at Northwestern University. (A godawful affair, but no more on that here.) As we we stroll to the theater, Eamon mentions that he once dated an actress who, to the best of his knowledge, is still in Chicago. He mentions her name. Stacey Magerkurth.
And Sweet Pea stops dead in his tracks.
Of course he knows Stacey. And oddly enough, didn't meet her as part of the Chicago theater scene, as one would expect. Instead, they have some convoluted, Kansas-based friendship that goes back years. And we are all agog at the smallness of the world.
So subsequently, I receive an Evite from Sweet Pea for his annual Xmas shindig, and lo and behold, there's Stacey in the "Yes" column. Eamon, sadly, can't attend.
I arrive at said party, and shortly thereafter, a very friendly woman and her date show up. And Sweet Pea nonchalantly introduces "Stacey." And I shriek, "This is Stacey!" Thankfully, she figures out why I'm shrieking, and she shrieks. And then we hug. And then we shriek some more. Then we talk about how Eamon tends to cancel plans, and how FastWeb (Eamon's former place of employ, the place, in fact, where he and I met) killed their relationship.
Later, as we chat, it comes up that she and Eamon broke up in Sept. 1998. Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief. Eamon and I started dating in November of 1998. Phew.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #24: The part where I realize this is not what I imagined my life would be
The other night, I was walking home from Chicago Women in Publishing's holiday party, and it struck me with great force: This is not what I expected my adult life to be.
Let me back up a bit.
This thought stole upon me as I walked down the middle of my street at 1opm. It had been snowing since the afternoon -- our first big snow of the season -- so there'd been precious little plowing or shoveling. Tire ruts make for the easiest way.
The first snowfall is like a holiday. Everything's bright again. Everyone is running late everywhere. Conversation is easy, even with strangers. Lawns and sidewalks are re-born as smooth expanses of white, pristine and inviting.
The wind had died down, and the flakes drifted down like manna. The street wasn't quite deserted. I passed a gang engaging in snowball warfare.
I didn't join in, but I could have. The holiday party I was returning from was ... shall we say ... well lubricated. It concluded with a wine tasting. The cold could not touch me.
So here I am, California native, wandering down the middle of a street. A marvelous fact: How did I learn it's ok to walk down the middle of the street on days like this? A car sneaks up behind me -- I can't hear it because that's the other effect of new snow, every sound is muffled -- and the driver lightly taps on the horn. I step smartly out of the way, no ill will. It's a smooth, instinctive exchange. We're sno pros.
Which makes me think: In what possible alternate reality would I ever have imagined my adult life like this. I remember imagining snippets of my adult life when I was a kid; usually just brief scenes or conversations, markers of where I might be. Often, they were set in the 1940s. Always in black and white. Which is odd.
But they never involved an adult Kay wandering through snow-clogged streets of Chicago.
And then it strikes me. I could make a snow angel. I'm tipsy enough. It's not that cold. I'm sure my lawn is smooth and inviting. And what's more, it would be the last thing I need to make my transformation into this new person I am -- one whose lived in the midwest for 15 years, whose adulthood does not involve a cast strangely reminiscient of Myrna Loy and Jimmy Stewart.
So snow angel it is. I fall straight backward onto my now glistening lawn, dimly surprised at how trusting I am off all this fluff. The snow is light; big flakes so weightless they don't even pack when they fall. I nestle in for a moment, then flap my arms and legs, the way I've seen small, bundled children do it in the movies. The snow squeaks as I push it aside. Drunk-cautiously, I raise myself up, careful to put my boots inside the boundry of the angel's skirt, and leap to the sidewalk. I don't leave any footprints.
Let me back up a bit.
This thought stole upon me as I walked down the middle of my street at 1opm. It had been snowing since the afternoon -- our first big snow of the season -- so there'd been precious little plowing or shoveling. Tire ruts make for the easiest way.
The first snowfall is like a holiday. Everything's bright again. Everyone is running late everywhere. Conversation is easy, even with strangers. Lawns and sidewalks are re-born as smooth expanses of white, pristine and inviting.
The wind had died down, and the flakes drifted down like manna. The street wasn't quite deserted. I passed a gang engaging in snowball warfare.
I didn't join in, but I could have. The holiday party I was returning from was ... shall we say ... well lubricated. It concluded with a wine tasting. The cold could not touch me.
So here I am, California native, wandering down the middle of a street. A marvelous fact: How did I learn it's ok to walk down the middle of the street on days like this? A car sneaks up behind me -- I can't hear it because that's the other effect of new snow, every sound is muffled -- and the driver lightly taps on the horn. I step smartly out of the way, no ill will. It's a smooth, instinctive exchange. We're sno pros.
Which makes me think: In what possible alternate reality would I ever have imagined my adult life like this. I remember imagining snippets of my adult life when I was a kid; usually just brief scenes or conversations, markers of where I might be. Often, they were set in the 1940s. Always in black and white. Which is odd.
But they never involved an adult Kay wandering through snow-clogged streets of Chicago.
And then it strikes me. I could make a snow angel. I'm tipsy enough. It's not that cold. I'm sure my lawn is smooth and inviting. And what's more, it would be the last thing I need to make my transformation into this new person I am -- one whose lived in the midwest for 15 years, whose adulthood does not involve a cast strangely reminiscient of Myrna Loy and Jimmy Stewart.
So snow angel it is. I fall straight backward onto my now glistening lawn, dimly surprised at how trusting I am off all this fluff. The snow is light; big flakes so weightless they don't even pack when they fall. I nestle in for a moment, then flap my arms and legs, the way I've seen small, bundled children do it in the movies. The snow squeaks as I push it aside. Drunk-cautiously, I raise myself up, careful to put my boots inside the boundry of the angel's skirt, and leap to the sidewalk. I don't leave any footprints.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #23: The part where I pretty much rock the house as a cook
So I'm checking the fridge for dinner fixin's, and it's pretty grim. Mother Hubbardsville, as my father would say. I have a few potatoes, some seriously decrepit broccoli, and the tail end of a pint of sour cream that Eamon bought because the store was out of whipping cream.
How did I know that I could cook the potatoes in just enough water to cover plus a few teaspoons of chicken boullion?
Why did I think to throw a few cloves of garlic in as well, and a handful of dried tarragon?
How is it possible I thought to steam the broccoli, then add it after the potatoes were soft? And then to whirl it all together with my fantastic immersion blender?
And what on earth possessed me to temper the sour cream by adding a bit of the hot puree and mixing before adding the mixture to the pot, to avoid curdling?
The salt and pepper to taste? Well, that was obvious. But the rest? It is futile to ponder the source of genius.
How did I know that I could cook the potatoes in just enough water to cover plus a few teaspoons of chicken boullion?
Why did I think to throw a few cloves of garlic in as well, and a handful of dried tarragon?
How is it possible I thought to steam the broccoli, then add it after the potatoes were soft? And then to whirl it all together with my fantastic immersion blender?
And what on earth possessed me to temper the sour cream by adding a bit of the hot puree and mixing before adding the mixture to the pot, to avoid curdling?
The salt and pepper to taste? Well, that was obvious. But the rest? It is futile to ponder the source of genius.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #22: The part where I admire an exquisite critique of an actor by a playwright
I'm (again) writing author bios for a high school reading programs; this time, Harold Pinter. According to my research, Pinter gave this note to an actor in one of his plays:
"Michael, I wrote dot, dot, dot, and you're giving me dot, dot."
Brilliant.
"Michael, I wrote dot, dot, dot, and you're giving me dot, dot."
Brilliant.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #21: The part where the Christmas spirit is re-defined
Kristen has asked if I'm going to have a Christmas party this year. I am not. I'm just not up to merriment for some reason. I tell her we're not even putting up a tree.
She replies:
(16:33:26) wow
(16:33:29) i even put a tree
(16:33:33) and i don't believe in jesus
(16:33:47) but i believe in hallmark barbie keepsake ornaments
She replies:
(16:33:26) wow
(16:33:29) i even put a tree
(16:33:33) and i don't believe in jesus
(16:33:47) but i believe in hallmark barbie keepsake ornaments
Crazy Crap Item #20: The part where I make a play date
We are entering the depths of winter, so I find myself cut off from all of civilization. The saddest part is that there are very few glimpses of the small fellows who gad about on my front lawn all summer long.
Apparently, some of my little fellows feel the lack as well. Eamon was out shoveling the walk the other day, and fell into conversation with our neighbor Ann. She recounted that when Jack, her 4-year-old, saw that it had started snowing, he shouted out, "It's snowing! Let's call Kay!"
Eamon advised her that it would've been a good idea.
So today, I get this lovely email invitation:
subject: On behalf of Jack
Hello Kay,
Jack would like you to come over and color or do play dough one of these days. He's free Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons around 3:30 or 4. Would either of these times work for you? Let us know.
Thanks
Ann
So now I have a play date.
Apparently, some of my little fellows feel the lack as well. Eamon was out shoveling the walk the other day, and fell into conversation with our neighbor Ann. She recounted that when Jack, her 4-year-old, saw that it had started snowing, he shouted out, "It's snowing! Let's call Kay!"
Eamon advised her that it would've been a good idea.
So today, I get this lovely email invitation:
subject: On behalf of Jack
Hello Kay,
Jack would like you to come over and color or do play dough one of these days. He's free Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons around 3:30 or 4. Would either of these times work for you? Let us know.
Thanks
Ann
So now I have a play date.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #19: The part where we find stars everywhere
So, Eamon has a new favorite toy: The Warriors Playstation game. Yes, based on the trashy B movie from the '70s of the same name. For the last few weeks, all our leisure hours are accompanied by the clanging of beer bottles and the battle cry, "Warriors, come out and play-ee-ay!!"
The new game, of course, is a marketer's dream come true. It ties into a movie that's virtually forgotten, and can appear on any number of second-rate cable stations, along with frequent plugs for the new game. To whit: today, on Spike, the so-called network for men.
And so it is that Eamon and I while away a Saturday, each tap-tap-tapping away on our laptops, reclined on our hide-a-bed in front of the TV as this fine piece of cinema plays.
And as we watch, who to our wondering eyes should appear but Mercedes Ruehl in the coveted role of "Policewoman in Central Park." Stars are everywhere, if you only take the time to look.
The new game, of course, is a marketer's dream come true. It ties into a movie that's virtually forgotten, and can appear on any number of second-rate cable stations, along with frequent plugs for the new game. To whit: today, on Spike, the so-called network for men.
And so it is that Eamon and I while away a Saturday, each tap-tap-tapping away on our laptops, reclined on our hide-a-bed in front of the TV as this fine piece of cinema plays.
And as we watch, who to our wondering eyes should appear but Mercedes Ruehl in the coveted role of "Policewoman in Central Park." Stars are everywhere, if you only take the time to look.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #18: The part where I find out how Ebert feels
You know how when you see a clip of a review on an ad for a movie, you always try to fill in the blanks of the real review -- assuming, of course, that the movie producers have excerpted comments that sound complimentary, but were actually part of a pretty severe slam?
Well, much to my amusement, I recently learned that a review of mine has been used in just that way.
I was Googling my name in search of an article of mine that was posted online, and ran across a website for a theater company I had reviewed earlier this year. Friends, it was not pretty. A heinous, heinous show that still ranks in my top 5 of worst shows I've reviewed.
According to the theater's website, here's what I said:
"...finely tuned, perfectly timed ensemble" -Kay Daly TimeOut Chicago
Now, here's the context of that clip:
But it takes finely tuned, perfectly timed ensemble playing to bring together these disparate strands, and oddly, that is precisely what this improv comedy troupe fails to achieve. Instead, director Hall and his cast give free reign to random associations and sensory overload, sacrificing focus in a frantic quest to top each moment and each other.
I feel so used.
Well, much to my amusement, I recently learned that a review of mine has been used in just that way.
I was Googling my name in search of an article of mine that was posted online, and ran across a website for a theater company I had reviewed earlier this year. Friends, it was not pretty. A heinous, heinous show that still ranks in my top 5 of worst shows I've reviewed.
According to the theater's website, here's what I said:
"...finely tuned, perfectly timed ensemble" -Kay Daly TimeOut Chicago
Now, here's the context of that clip:
But it takes finely tuned, perfectly timed ensemble playing to bring together these disparate strands, and oddly, that is precisely what this improv comedy troupe fails to achieve. Instead, director Hall and his cast give free reign to random associations and sensory overload, sacrificing focus in a frantic quest to top each moment and each other.
I feel so used.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #17: The part where it becomes clear why some people need to cheat
So as I'm waiting on hold (checking to see if our new health insurance policy is active), I decide to check out Craigslist, my favorite place for finding writing gigs. And what should I come across but an ad with an appealingly desperate title: "Writing Help!!"
I'm far too seasoned a pro to think any such ad is worth responding to. To the experienced eye, this ad really says, "I'm not a legitimate employer, and will offer you peanuts which I will then neglect to pay." But, still, one must read such ads. And it says:
Reply to: mailto:lani4678@aol.com?subject=Writing%20Help%21%21%20Date: 2005-11-28, 10:38AM CSTI have a deadline in 3 weeks for 4 college 10 page papers. I have to graduate.And I cant write all four in that time. Can you help for a reasonable price? Im willing to pay 45 dollars for each paper. Ok, one is a 5-7 page paper about beowulf. One is a 8 page paper about measure for measure research(Shakespeare). One is 10 pages about Shaw. Another one about Milton. Im really interested in having the shakespeare paper done. I can do the rest. Shakespeare ASAP!! If I can knock one out the way I think I can do the rest pretty strong. So, I have written 7 pages of the shakespeare research but I wrote it a while ago and i didn't write the work cited pages. So since I've written the shakespeare i'd pay $35. But the quotes are in their. i just need it to get a low A. Can you help? My number 404-751-8986 Lanita
Compensation: negotiable
This is a contract job.
no -- Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
no -- Please, no phone calls about this job!
no -- Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
no -- Reposting this message elsewhere is NOT OK.
Naturally, I'm repelled at the idea of plagiarism for pay. But what amuses me more is that this dimwit puts her ACTUAL EMAIL ADDRESS, PHONE NUMBER AND FIRST NAME. I'm still on hold, so I think, let's see if I can find out who this person is. So I google her email address. The first link I check gives me her full name, which is unusual enough to warrant another google search. Within a few clicks, I know her home town AND the school she attends.
And because I'm now off hold and need to get back to work, I'll probably not give into the temptation to point her current college dean to her ad. But, oh, it would be just.
I'm far too seasoned a pro to think any such ad is worth responding to. To the experienced eye, this ad really says, "I'm not a legitimate employer, and will offer you peanuts which I will then neglect to pay." But, still, one must read such ads. And it says:
Reply to: mailto:lani4678@aol.com?subject=Writing%20Help%21%21%20Date: 2005-11-28, 10:38AM CSTI have a deadline in 3 weeks for 4 college 10 page papers. I have to graduate.And I cant write all four in that time. Can you help for a reasonable price? Im willing to pay 45 dollars for each paper. Ok, one is a 5-7 page paper about beowulf. One is a 8 page paper about measure for measure research(Shakespeare). One is 10 pages about Shaw. Another one about Milton. Im really interested in having the shakespeare paper done. I can do the rest. Shakespeare ASAP!! If I can knock one out the way I think I can do the rest pretty strong. So, I have written 7 pages of the shakespeare research but I wrote it a while ago and i didn't write the work cited pages. So since I've written the shakespeare i'd pay $35. But the quotes are in their. i just need it to get a low A. Can you help? My number 404-751-8986 Lanita
Compensation: negotiable
This is a contract job.
no -- Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
no -- Please, no phone calls about this job!
no -- Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
no -- Reposting this message elsewhere is NOT OK.
Naturally, I'm repelled at the idea of plagiarism for pay. But what amuses me more is that this dimwit puts her ACTUAL EMAIL ADDRESS, PHONE NUMBER AND FIRST NAME. I'm still on hold, so I think, let's see if I can find out who this person is. So I google her email address. The first link I check gives me her full name, which is unusual enough to warrant another google search. Within a few clicks, I know her home town AND the school she attends.
And because I'm now off hold and need to get back to work, I'll probably not give into the temptation to point her current college dean to her ad. But, oh, it would be just.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #16: The part where I learn to appreciate football
From downstairs, I hear some hullaballoo involving the words "Bears" and "Get 'em," followed by frantic footsteps on the stairs. Eamon announces, "Chicago Bears football is brought to you this week by smooches. Every time the Bears score, swooties get smooches." And I am smooched.
Go, Bears.
Go, Bears.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #15: The part where I ponder the meaning of certain preferences
In this time of rampant holiday travel, I've decided to resurrect some thoughts I had some time ago about my feelings on travel, espcially as the compare to Eamon's feelings on same:
They say opposites attract, and while I hate to rely on clichés, I think this one may hold true. At least, that’s my thinking after one year of marriage. Don’t get me wrong: My husband Eamon and I aren’t totally at odds. We share a lot in common. But we have one major difference of opinion that I think speaks volumes. My husband loves to go to the airport. I love the hospital.
This might seem like a trivial difference, maybe even an incidental one, but I’d contend it actually gets at the heart of who we are – and paradoxically, why we fit so well together. Let me explain.
Eamon loves to travel, but that’s only part of why he likes hanging out at O’Hare. More to the point is that he loves what the airport represents. For him, the airport is a place where anything is possible. It offers a million options, all readily available. Let’s say you go to drop a friend off for a flight to Florida. At a moment’s notice, you could join them, or maybe hop a plane to Rome instead. Granted, you’d better have some critical documentation and a lot of cash on hand, but the point is, you could do it. Bam! Rome. Bam! Rio. Bam! Seoul.
But there’s more to it than that. With a million options on hand, you have a million decisions to make. Play your cards right, and you could radically improve your situation. Arrive early, and you might be able to fly standby on an earlier flight. Got a few frequent flier miles? Try sweet talking the agent into upgrading you to first class.
The point is, at the airport, you live by your wits. You improvise. You optimize. You fend for yourself. And Eamon loves that.
Now let’s consider my favorite place: the hospital. You’re told when to arrive, what to bring, where to go. They know you’re coming. They’re ready for you. When you need to move about in the hospital – if you’re given that privilege – you are told precisely where you need to go. Sometimes, it’s made devastatingly simple. “Look down. See that blue line? Follow it to the surgical check-in desk.”
Frankly, I like that. I like being looked after, being assured that there’s a system in place that dictates where I need to be and when. I can relax at a hospital. Surgery won’t start without me.
In other words, it’s the total opposite of air travel. At an airport, I never feel like I can “leave the driving to them.” Consider my personal air-travel bugaboo: the connecting flight. You pay upfront to be able to get from point A to point B. The airline can’t do that, so they offer to take you from point A to point A1 to point B. To top it off, you’ll have precisely 20 minutes to change planes at point A1, even if you need to run all the way across the airport to do so. You paid for the trip, they know you’re there, but if you can’t make the connection, they will leave without you.
For someone like my husband, that’s life. There’ll be another plane along later. He trusts that, despite the chaos, he’ll manage. The airport simply gives him the opportunity to demonstrate his bravery, wit and confidence in the face of setbacks.
Me, I’m not so sanguine. They promised me a trip that I paid for in advance. They told me what time it would happen. They made it impossible for me to make it. They betrayed me.
But it’s really not the inconvenience that bothers me. Instead, it’s the greater existential crisis I find so troubling. At the airport, I’m reminded that the world is a slippery and undependable place. I do not get to be passive and trusting. I must fend for myself. I must watch my own back.
Which gets me back to how opposites attract. If I have to be at an airport, I want my husband with me. When he’s around, I don’t have to watch my back; he watches it for me. He doesn’t panic when the airport sets us adrift on the cruel currents of fate; he revels in the situation. He looks for opportunities to play the system and make our trip a little better, faster, more efficient. He creates a wee hospital for me within the big, scary world of the airport. But more importantly, demonstrates the fun of freefall, and helps build my confidence in my own resources.
And he benefits, too, from my hospital-like love of organizational systems. While I’m no freefall expert, I’m a whiz-bang at creating my own safe, autopilot world. It’s a trait Eamon has learned to value.
“Where are my socks?” he wails as he frantically dresses for work.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I imagine they’re in the sock place.”
“There’s a sock place?”
I gently explain that there should always be a sock place, and if he hasn’t got a sock place, he should designate one immediately lest sock panic threaten again.
So that’s how our marriage works. True, we’re not always in the same place, but we can connect, and our connection is sustained and enriched by the vistas of opportunity we reveal to one another. Even if that vista is sometimes only a “sock place.”
They say opposites attract, and while I hate to rely on clichés, I think this one may hold true. At least, that’s my thinking after one year of marriage. Don’t get me wrong: My husband Eamon and I aren’t totally at odds. We share a lot in common. But we have one major difference of opinion that I think speaks volumes. My husband loves to go to the airport. I love the hospital.
This might seem like a trivial difference, maybe even an incidental one, but I’d contend it actually gets at the heart of who we are – and paradoxically, why we fit so well together. Let me explain.
Eamon loves to travel, but that’s only part of why he likes hanging out at O’Hare. More to the point is that he loves what the airport represents. For him, the airport is a place where anything is possible. It offers a million options, all readily available. Let’s say you go to drop a friend off for a flight to Florida. At a moment’s notice, you could join them, or maybe hop a plane to Rome instead. Granted, you’d better have some critical documentation and a lot of cash on hand, but the point is, you could do it. Bam! Rome. Bam! Rio. Bam! Seoul.
But there’s more to it than that. With a million options on hand, you have a million decisions to make. Play your cards right, and you could radically improve your situation. Arrive early, and you might be able to fly standby on an earlier flight. Got a few frequent flier miles? Try sweet talking the agent into upgrading you to first class.
The point is, at the airport, you live by your wits. You improvise. You optimize. You fend for yourself. And Eamon loves that.
Now let’s consider my favorite place: the hospital. You’re told when to arrive, what to bring, where to go. They know you’re coming. They’re ready for you. When you need to move about in the hospital – if you’re given that privilege – you are told precisely where you need to go. Sometimes, it’s made devastatingly simple. “Look down. See that blue line? Follow it to the surgical check-in desk.”
Frankly, I like that. I like being looked after, being assured that there’s a system in place that dictates where I need to be and when. I can relax at a hospital. Surgery won’t start without me.
In other words, it’s the total opposite of air travel. At an airport, I never feel like I can “leave the driving to them.” Consider my personal air-travel bugaboo: the connecting flight. You pay upfront to be able to get from point A to point B. The airline can’t do that, so they offer to take you from point A to point A1 to point B. To top it off, you’ll have precisely 20 minutes to change planes at point A1, even if you need to run all the way across the airport to do so. You paid for the trip, they know you’re there, but if you can’t make the connection, they will leave without you.
For someone like my husband, that’s life. There’ll be another plane along later. He trusts that, despite the chaos, he’ll manage. The airport simply gives him the opportunity to demonstrate his bravery, wit and confidence in the face of setbacks.
Me, I’m not so sanguine. They promised me a trip that I paid for in advance. They told me what time it would happen. They made it impossible for me to make it. They betrayed me.
But it’s really not the inconvenience that bothers me. Instead, it’s the greater existential crisis I find so troubling. At the airport, I’m reminded that the world is a slippery and undependable place. I do not get to be passive and trusting. I must fend for myself. I must watch my own back.
Which gets me back to how opposites attract. If I have to be at an airport, I want my husband with me. When he’s around, I don’t have to watch my back; he watches it for me. He doesn’t panic when the airport sets us adrift on the cruel currents of fate; he revels in the situation. He looks for opportunities to play the system and make our trip a little better, faster, more efficient. He creates a wee hospital for me within the big, scary world of the airport. But more importantly, demonstrates the fun of freefall, and helps build my confidence in my own resources.
And he benefits, too, from my hospital-like love of organizational systems. While I’m no freefall expert, I’m a whiz-bang at creating my own safe, autopilot world. It’s a trait Eamon has learned to value.
“Where are my socks?” he wails as he frantically dresses for work.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I imagine they’re in the sock place.”
“There’s a sock place?”
I gently explain that there should always be a sock place, and if he hasn’t got a sock place, he should designate one immediately lest sock panic threaten again.
So that’s how our marriage works. True, we’re not always in the same place, but we can connect, and our connection is sustained and enriched by the vistas of opportunity we reveal to one another. Even if that vista is sometimes only a “sock place.”
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #14: The part where all questions are answered
Just in time for the holidays, the USPS provides much needed holiday mailing information.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #13: The part where we find out why the romance package costs only $10
This weekend was romance time in Daly-ville. Our anniversary is November 16, so we high-tailed up to Long Grove, IL, for a leisurely weekend of sleeping, swimming, eating, and avoiding the quaint shoppes.
For some reason, even though Long Grove is a hopelessly cheesy tourist trap, there is nary a place to stay in town. No hotels. No beds-and-breakfasts. No youth hostels. Nothing. So we book a room for two nights at the Wyndham Hotel in Buffalo Grove, a nearby burg.
Eamon, casanova that he is, springs for the Romance Package -- which includes a king-sized room with cathedral ceilings, a bottle of champagne, chocoloate-covered strawberries, and complimentary breakfast to accompany the "morning after." And all for the budget-friendly price of $10!
Reality was a whole different magilla. The champagne? A bottle of Cook's. We shared our complimentary breakfast -- a buffet in the dining room -- with members of a girls' ice hockey team. But the best part was the chocolates.
As is well known to all who know me, I will eat virtually anything coated in chocolate. Pencil erasers? Broken glass? Mmmmm, I say. Bring it on.
In lieu of chocolate-covered strawberries, the good folks at the Wyndham supplied a plate of dubious treats covered in Saran wrap. A few, small, underripe berries (naked as the day is long) accompanied by the stalest chocolate coating I've ever encountered, wrapped around neon-bright fillings of orange, magenta and green. They were ghastly.
I only ate three.
For some reason, even though Long Grove is a hopelessly cheesy tourist trap, there is nary a place to stay in town. No hotels. No beds-and-breakfasts. No youth hostels. Nothing. So we book a room for two nights at the Wyndham Hotel in Buffalo Grove, a nearby burg.
Eamon, casanova that he is, springs for the Romance Package -- which includes a king-sized room with cathedral ceilings, a bottle of champagne, chocoloate-covered strawberries, and complimentary breakfast to accompany the "morning after." And all for the budget-friendly price of $10!
Reality was a whole different magilla. The champagne? A bottle of Cook's. We shared our complimentary breakfast -- a buffet in the dining room -- with members of a girls' ice hockey team. But the best part was the chocolates.
As is well known to all who know me, I will eat virtually anything coated in chocolate. Pencil erasers? Broken glass? Mmmmm, I say. Bring it on.
In lieu of chocolate-covered strawberries, the good folks at the Wyndham supplied a plate of dubious treats covered in Saran wrap. A few, small, underripe berries (naked as the day is long) accompanied by the stalest chocolate coating I've ever encountered, wrapped around neon-bright fillings of orange, magenta and green. They were ghastly.
I only ate three.
Crazy Crap Item #12: The part where I make a pithy comment in a dream, and when I awake, it still seems pithy
I have crazy, crazy dreams. Most are impossible to recount. They make perfect sense when I'm dreaming them, then I wake up and -- poof! -- it was a trip to crazy town.
So imagine my surprise when I awoke from a dream at 2am this morning, and found that a dream I had still made a modicum of sense. Better still, I could remember a witticism I made during the dream, and it still seemed mildly amusing when I awoke. Or at least I think it did. You decide:
I'm at a rehearsal for my old a cappella group, singing away. At the end of the rehearsal, I head toward the El to go home. On the way, I'm noticing how funky and fun the neighborhood is. And I start to recognize people I know. I glance down a side street and see a woman I know, sitting on a porch, playing guitar, surrounded by friends. That looks like fun, I think. And just as I'm turning the corner on the next street, and thinking I should head back to say hi to her, I see, there, on the sidewalk, a guy I dated about 15 years ago. Ron was his name.
We see each other and laugh, and I say, "Well, this is just the next in a string of crazy things today!" He introduces me to the woman he's dating, and takes off. There's something he has to do, but he'll be back. His girlfriend invites me into her apartment, and we chat. I look out the window, and see that the neighborhood has a strange, shimmery feel to it. It's very windy. People are out on the street, hippie types some. This is Wicker Park, I think, though in my dream logic, Wicker Park blends with Montmartre and the land of Oz -- a lyrical, bohemian place where free spirits ramble with abandon.
If you know Chicago, you know that's oddly fitting. Wicker Park is one of those used-to-be-rundown, then-the-artists-took-over-and-soon-the-yuppies-will-arrive neighborhoods that every big city seems to have. It's hot hot hot among those who wear goatees and go to poetry readings. That's why they made a movie about it.
Anyhoo, I'm chatting with the girlfriend, and taking in the bohemian splendor, and I say, "I'm willing to bet that at any given moment 400 novels about Wicker Park are being written in Wicker Park."
Okay, maybe it wasn't that pithy.
So imagine my surprise when I awoke from a dream at 2am this morning, and found that a dream I had still made a modicum of sense. Better still, I could remember a witticism I made during the dream, and it still seemed mildly amusing when I awoke. Or at least I think it did. You decide:
I'm at a rehearsal for my old a cappella group, singing away. At the end of the rehearsal, I head toward the El to go home. On the way, I'm noticing how funky and fun the neighborhood is. And I start to recognize people I know. I glance down a side street and see a woman I know, sitting on a porch, playing guitar, surrounded by friends. That looks like fun, I think. And just as I'm turning the corner on the next street, and thinking I should head back to say hi to her, I see, there, on the sidewalk, a guy I dated about 15 years ago. Ron was his name.
We see each other and laugh, and I say, "Well, this is just the next in a string of crazy things today!" He introduces me to the woman he's dating, and takes off. There's something he has to do, but he'll be back. His girlfriend invites me into her apartment, and we chat. I look out the window, and see that the neighborhood has a strange, shimmery feel to it. It's very windy. People are out on the street, hippie types some. This is Wicker Park, I think, though in my dream logic, Wicker Park blends with Montmartre and the land of Oz -- a lyrical, bohemian place where free spirits ramble with abandon.
If you know Chicago, you know that's oddly fitting. Wicker Park is one of those used-to-be-rundown, then-the-artists-took-over-and-soon-the-yuppies-will-arrive neighborhoods that every big city seems to have. It's hot hot hot among those who wear goatees and go to poetry readings. That's why they made a movie about it.
Anyhoo, I'm chatting with the girlfriend, and taking in the bohemian splendor, and I say, "I'm willing to bet that at any given moment 400 novels about Wicker Park are being written in Wicker Park."
Okay, maybe it wasn't that pithy.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #11: The part where I learn the legends are true
This morning, Roxi IM'd me to ask if I'd ridden the Santa Express. Of course, I'm /sure/ this is leading to some form of bawdry, and I wrack my brains for a pithy response. Alas, it's Monday, so none comes. So I go for a more traditional response, included below, except that I removed all my spelling/typing errors:
kaydaly88: um
kaydaly88: i'm a little afraid to ask
kaydaly88: what the santa express is
Then she unfolds unto me a tale of fantastically wonderful, CTA-sponsored holiday cheer. I'd heard rumors before, but had assumed it was an urban legend. Quoth she:
i was waiting for the red line yesterday down on north and clybourne
and then it pulled up COVERED WITH CHRISTMAS LIGHTS
inside there were elves and all the ads on the top were for places in the north pole all the lights were red and green
and the middle of the train was taken out
and there was a sleigh instead!
with santa claus on it
waving at everybody!
and all of chicago was waving back at us and laughing
And just in case I think she's yanking my metaphorical crank, she provides photos and this story from the CTA.
It's a wonderful commute.
kaydaly88: um
kaydaly88: i'm a little afraid to ask
kaydaly88: what the santa express is
Then she unfolds unto me a tale of fantastically wonderful, CTA-sponsored holiday cheer. I'd heard rumors before, but had assumed it was an urban legend. Quoth she:
i was waiting for the red line yesterday down on north and clybourne
and then it pulled up COVERED WITH CHRISTMAS LIGHTS
inside there were elves and all the ads on the top were for places in the north pole all the lights were red and green
and the middle of the train was taken out
and there was a sleigh instead!
with santa claus on it
waving at everybody!
and all of chicago was waving back at us and laughing
And just in case I think she's yanking my metaphorical crank, she provides photos and this story from the CTA.
It's a wonderful commute.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #10: The part where Roxi casts aspersions on our state capital
My dear friend Roxi just attended a conference, and offers these thoughts on Springfield, IL:
I just got back from our state capital. I feel so bad for Lincoln ... He had to live in Springfield AND he got shot. That really sucks.
I just got back from our state capital. I feel so bad for Lincoln ... He had to live in Springfield AND he got shot. That really sucks.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #9: The part where I find THE BEST QUOTE EVER
So I'm working on author bios for a 10th grade reading program, and I happen upon this gem from Theodore Roethke:
"I may look like a beer salesman, but I'm a poet."
Clearly, this is a man I could've loved.
"I may look like a beer salesman, but I'm a poet."
Clearly, this is a man I could've loved.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #8: The part where my husband terrorizes local children
This is old news in crazy crap town, but it would sadden me not to have the world know of the my husband's amazing feats. Since we live in Mayberry, Halloween is a big, big deal. We gave away 22 bags of candy this year. In 3 1/2 hours. Serious trick-or-treating.
Eamon, ever the one for overblown efforts, launched a campaign to scare the crap out of everyone last Halloween. He dressed as a scarecrow, and sat slumping in a chair in our front lawn. Kids would invariably go up to inspect him, and as they turned to leave, he'd get up and follow. Or he'd simple start moving as they looked at him. Much hilarity ensued. My job: Dress as a witch, and through the use of a "safe word," alert him to the presence of very small children who should not be overly frightened. We were the hit of the block.
So, of course, this year, Eamon must top himself, which was no mean feat. Rather than describe his efforts, I'll make use of this space-age tool, the latter-day stereoptican -- digital video -- as shot by one of our neighbors. You can view it here.
Eamon, ever the one for overblown efforts, launched a campaign to scare the crap out of everyone last Halloween. He dressed as a scarecrow, and sat slumping in a chair in our front lawn. Kids would invariably go up to inspect him, and as they turned to leave, he'd get up and follow. Or he'd simple start moving as they looked at him. Much hilarity ensued. My job: Dress as a witch, and through the use of a "safe word," alert him to the presence of very small children who should not be overly frightened. We were the hit of the block.
So, of course, this year, Eamon must top himself, which was no mean feat. Rather than describe his efforts, I'll make use of this space-age tool, the latter-day stereoptican -- digital video -- as shot by one of our neighbors. You can view it here.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #7: The part where I shop for an anniversary gift and instead end up bemoaning the fate of mankind
Eamon and my anniversary is a mere 2 days away, and I have yet to consider the matter of gifts. I tried to wriggle out with, "We're not getting gifts for our anniversary, are we?," but got the reply, "Well, I already bought yours..."
After some research, I've found that the 3rd anniversary is leather, or if you want to be "modern," glass. So far, so good.
Next, I got to the Sharper Image website, assuming they'll at least provide some inspiration. Sadly, my findings were a good deal more dispiriting. I find this fine item.
Sez Nicole: there is no doubt in my mind that this is an inspired idea
Sez Kristen: Watch the video!
Sez Eamon: there's supposed to be a robot monkey head out next year that will have voice recognition and such.
That's what the world needs: a robot monkey head that recognizes one's voice.
I do, however, tip my hat to the copywriter who came up with the title for the page: Alive Chimpanzee So Real, It's Unreal!
After some research, I've found that the 3rd anniversary is leather, or if you want to be "modern," glass. So far, so good.
Next, I got to the Sharper Image website, assuming they'll at least provide some inspiration. Sadly, my findings were a good deal more dispiriting. I find this fine item.
Sez Nicole: there is no doubt in my mind that this is an inspired idea
Sez Kristen: Watch the video!
Sez Eamon: there's supposed to be a robot monkey head out next year that will have voice recognition and such.
That's what the world needs: a robot monkey head that recognizes one's voice.
I do, however, tip my hat to the copywriter who came up with the title for the page: Alive Chimpanzee So Real, It's Unreal!
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #6: The part where my pumpkins go missing
As is well known, I live on a street that approximates Mayberry. Tree-lined, filled with friendly neighbors, overrun by small children. And yet, there is a menacing danger that lurks. To whit:
In preparation for Halloween, I purchased a variety of pumpkins: 1 large, 2 medium, 4 mini. I arranged them casually yet attractively next to our front door, as if to say, "Yes, we are aware it is autumn."
Several days passed, and as I was returning from some errands one afternoon, I noticed that my 4 mini pumpkins were missing. Gone. Nary a trace. So I asked Eamon, Did you take our mini pumpkins inside? No, he replies, and suggests that the most likely scenario is that our neighborhood's many 4-year-olds have made off with them.
No, I assure him, our 4-year-olds are no such brigands. They might inspect the pumpkins, perhaps even remove them from our steps so as to better stack and restack them, or to imagine them as transformer robots or superheroes. But make off with them completely? I think not.
I suggest perhaps the squirrels have spirited them away. Eamon assures me that squirrels are much too small and the mini pumpkins much too large for such a scenario.
I mention the fact of the missing pumpkins to my neighbor Ann, who confirms my belief that the 4-year-olds -- our 4-year-olds -- would never abscond with gourds of any kind.
Later that morning, I am approached by Delores, our grandmotherly neighbor who lives across the street. Apparently she has overheard my pumpkin discussion with Ann from her perch by her livingroom window. She does not admit as much, but instead launches in:
"I watched the squirrels haul off your pumpkins! They dragged them there, under your car, then fought over them like children. Just like children. Then one of them dragged them up into the tree in my front yard."
The squirrels of Norwood -- they are badass.
In preparation for Halloween, I purchased a variety of pumpkins: 1 large, 2 medium, 4 mini. I arranged them casually yet attractively next to our front door, as if to say, "Yes, we are aware it is autumn."
Several days passed, and as I was returning from some errands one afternoon, I noticed that my 4 mini pumpkins were missing. Gone. Nary a trace. So I asked Eamon, Did you take our mini pumpkins inside? No, he replies, and suggests that the most likely scenario is that our neighborhood's many 4-year-olds have made off with them.
No, I assure him, our 4-year-olds are no such brigands. They might inspect the pumpkins, perhaps even remove them from our steps so as to better stack and restack them, or to imagine them as transformer robots or superheroes. But make off with them completely? I think not.
I suggest perhaps the squirrels have spirited them away. Eamon assures me that squirrels are much too small and the mini pumpkins much too large for such a scenario.
I mention the fact of the missing pumpkins to my neighbor Ann, who confirms my belief that the 4-year-olds -- our 4-year-olds -- would never abscond with gourds of any kind.
Later that morning, I am approached by Delores, our grandmotherly neighbor who lives across the street. Apparently she has overheard my pumpkin discussion with Ann from her perch by her livingroom window. She does not admit as much, but instead launches in:
"I watched the squirrels haul off your pumpkins! They dragged them there, under your car, then fought over them like children. Just like children. Then one of them dragged them up into the tree in my front yard."
The squirrels of Norwood -- they are badass.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Crazy Crap Item #5: The part where all the puzzle pieces fall into place, stalker-wise
Ok, I had not intended to pursue the stalker issue any further, but I had a wee brainstorm which has borne fruit, if you can stand the mixed metaphor. The story is complicated, but bear with me.
The month was March, the year 2005. I sit down at the computer for a cheerless day of toils, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a full-on rant, directed at yours truly, in my email inbox. To whit:
No wonder you're a republican with the slimebag Rush Limbaugh as a hero. They took away your pet when you were a kid! That would drive anyone to grow up warped enough to be a lackey for the sociopath, pathological liar, mass murderer and thief George Bush. You really ought to read American Dynasty, honey. You NEED educating. As for Rush Limbaugh, good god, where is your common sense? He's pure actor and couldn't make the grade at that (did you know he failed at that attempt?) so he chose the idiots he could fool best, the right wing, and he acts on the radio all the time.
Dear friends, anyone who knows me knows this email is misguided. I am not a Republican, but the ooziest of the Democrats. I have no truck with Rush Limbaugh. I suspect misdirection, especially as suggested by the subject of the email: "You in The Washington Post"
Canny web-researcher that I am, I google +Kay +Daly +"Washington Post." Lo and behold, I find my alterego. From her tacky bleach job to her odious opinions, she is my polar opposite. I laugh, and suggest to my attacker that he needs to up his research efforts just a smidge before going on the offensive (didn't he notice, when he found my professional website, that I write sympathetically about trans-gendered documentarians, tarot card readers and cross-dressing cover bands? Nimrod.) .
Well, I filed that kernel away, secretly miffed that my newly adopted married name should carry such a stain -- the shadow of Anne Coulter on my very grave!
Flash forward to November, when I am stalked by this current crazy woman. Throughout, I'm bothered by the fact that she refers to an article I've written where I allude to a family member of hers. The name rings no bells. Finally, this afternoon, I turn again to my good friend google: +[the family member's name] +Daly.
EUREKA!! Up pop several matches, all pointing to articles by my righty doppelganger. Clearly, the nutjob doesn't fall far from the tree.
So my next dilemma: Do I sic my stalker on the other Kay Daly? Opinions?
The month was March, the year 2005. I sit down at the computer for a cheerless day of toils, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a full-on rant, directed at yours truly, in my email inbox. To whit:
No wonder you're a republican with the slimebag Rush Limbaugh as a hero. They took away your pet when you were a kid! That would drive anyone to grow up warped enough to be a lackey for the sociopath, pathological liar, mass murderer and thief George Bush. You really ought to read American Dynasty, honey. You NEED educating. As for Rush Limbaugh, good god, where is your common sense? He's pure actor and couldn't make the grade at that (did you know he failed at that attempt?) so he chose the idiots he could fool best, the right wing, and he acts on the radio all the time.
Dear friends, anyone who knows me knows this email is misguided. I am not a Republican, but the ooziest of the Democrats. I have no truck with Rush Limbaugh. I suspect misdirection, especially as suggested by the subject of the email: "You in The Washington Post"
Canny web-researcher that I am, I google +Kay +Daly +"Washington Post." Lo and behold, I find my alterego. From her tacky bleach job to her odious opinions, she is my polar opposite. I laugh, and suggest to my attacker that he needs to up his research efforts just a smidge before going on the offensive (didn't he notice, when he found my professional website, that I write sympathetically about trans-gendered documentarians, tarot card readers and cross-dressing cover bands? Nimrod.) .
Well, I filed that kernel away, secretly miffed that my newly adopted married name should carry such a stain -- the shadow of Anne Coulter on my very grave!
Flash forward to November, when I am stalked by this current crazy woman. Throughout, I'm bothered by the fact that she refers to an article I've written where I allude to a family member of hers. The name rings no bells. Finally, this afternoon, I turn again to my good friend google: +[the family member's name] +Daly.
EUREKA!! Up pop several matches, all pointing to articles by my righty doppelganger. Clearly, the nutjob doesn't fall far from the tree.
So my next dilemma: Do I sic my stalker on the other Kay Daly? Opinions?
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Why crazy crap?
Because crazy crap happens to me all the time -- and this despite the fact that I work at home, and so seldom travel out into the wide world. It's oft and anon been suggested that I start a blog to record this crazy crap, but until now, I have resisted.
So why this change of heart?, you ask. Simple efficiency. I feel compelled to tell all my friends about crazy crap in my life, via email, phone and IM. I'm tired of telling all this crazy crap over and over. So here, I'll just say it once and be done with it.
So, to begin:
Crazy Crap Item #1: The part where I'm being stalked
As I mentioned, I work from home. One day last week, I receive an email message from someone I've never met. It goes thusly:
How are you today..?? I hope all is well....I think you and I spoke on the phone a couple of times..You are actually my former sister in law..Richard Bryan Jones..was my husband..We had a daughter Heather..
She and I had a life..that was usually hell on earth..
The email goes on for some length, railing bitterly against the world, and thanking God for working in mysterious ways -- ie. that she has found me after all these years.
All well and good ... except I have no idea who this person is. But I move on to other emails, and forget the mistaken missive -- until I receive another:
Dear Kay,
I hoped you or Rick would want to get to know your beautiful relative.. Heather [last name deleted] ..Maybe it would be a great blessing for all concerned..I know the Lord moves in mysterious ways.
Please write back,
Thanks,
Heather's Mom
Patty
OK, so now I figure I must set her straight, so I respond briefly:
I believe you have the wrong Kay Daly. I don't know any Rick.
Apparently, this was the wrong thing to do. Now I receive what verges on a tirade, listing all our relatives in common, asking how I could say I don't know them. How sad for all of you to have such an attitude.. she bemoans.
So I clarify:
You have the wrong person. I've never lived in San Diego. I don't know any of the people you are describing. Kay Daly is a very common name. Daly is my married name.
Simple. Clear. To the point. But insufficient:
Dear Kay,
Thanks for your reply..this is very strange..the Kay Daly.. I read about is Kay Ryon Daly..mother Joy..(Heather's grandmother)... and so forth
So I reassure her that I am indeed NOT the person she seeks. Three emails later (to which I do not respond), she teases out the truth, and agrees to leave me alone.
That is, until today -- 5 days after her last email, she re-emerges:
Will you please ask Rick to call us..(phone number deleted)..It's very important.
And so, we are back to square one it seems.
Crazy Crap Item #2: The part where I'm picked up by a priest
Well, actually, he didn't really pick me up. But anyhoo, I was out reviewing a play, and as the intermission started, I got the sense the man sitting a few seats to my right was going to try to get my attention and engage me in conversation. This is not something I want.
So I take out my phone, and pretend to be checking messages and such, hoping against hope that I can keep up this charade for the full 15 minutes of intermission. I can't. And the second I look up, he pounces.
"You're reviewing the show, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"For what publication?"
"TimeOut Chicago"
"I was so glad TimeOut came here. I'm from New York originally. It was like my Bible there for going out. So I'm really glad it's here ... [more talk of the magazine and his time in NY. i nod and smile.]"
"So," he stops, conspiratorially, "What do you think of the show?"
Dear reader, this criticial discussion of a show while it's still underway -- this is not something I like to do. It's rude. The director might be right behind you. The lead actor's mother may be on your left. You never know. But he'll not be put off, so I share some insights. He agrees, and wants to dish the show more. Awkward.
He asks what I do for a living. I tell him I freelance full-time, and he notes that it seems like a hard way to earn a living. I take this as an opportunity to mention my husband, so as discourage any interest -- he works full-time, so a full income is not required of me, etc.
Then my new friend reveals that he used to be a reporter as well. "Oh? Where?" I ask, feigning interest. East Coast. Six years. Ago. "And what do you do now?" A priest.
Hmmm. See, crazy crap.
Crazy Crap Item #3: The part where I write a mean review
Being a theater critic isn't all going to shows and fending off the advances of priests. It also requires the actual writing of the review. Which is what I did this morning.
Eamon (beloved husband) has been schooling me in not pulling my punches in my reviews. I tend to come home saying "That was awful" and end up writing "That was not half-bad." Learning to be honest is a good lesson, so I'm taking it to heart.
So this time, I pull no punches. I review a revue of big band music featuring a rather callow young man who has as much charisma as day-old macaroni. I say as much in my review. Proudly, I inform Eamon of my feat. As we're discussing our plans for the day, he happens to glance at my review, still on screen.
"Whelan?" he asks. "Mike Whelan?"
"Yes," I say. The singer I have savaged.
"I went to high school with him."
Hm. Crazy.
So why this change of heart?, you ask. Simple efficiency. I feel compelled to tell all my friends about crazy crap in my life, via email, phone and IM. I'm tired of telling all this crazy crap over and over. So here, I'll just say it once and be done with it.
So, to begin:
Crazy Crap Item #1: The part where I'm being stalked
As I mentioned, I work from home. One day last week, I receive an email message from someone I've never met. It goes thusly:
How are you today..?? I hope all is well....I think you and I spoke on the phone a couple of times..You are actually my former sister in law..Richard Bryan Jones..was my husband..We had a daughter Heather..
She and I had a life..that was usually hell on earth..
The email goes on for some length, railing bitterly against the world, and thanking God for working in mysterious ways -- ie. that she has found me after all these years.
All well and good ... except I have no idea who this person is. But I move on to other emails, and forget the mistaken missive -- until I receive another:
Dear Kay,
I hoped you or Rick would want to get to know your beautiful relative.. Heather [last name deleted] ..Maybe it would be a great blessing for all concerned..I know the Lord moves in mysterious ways.
Please write back,
Thanks,
Heather's Mom
Patty
OK, so now I figure I must set her straight, so I respond briefly:
I believe you have the wrong Kay Daly. I don't know any Rick.
Apparently, this was the wrong thing to do. Now I receive what verges on a tirade, listing all our relatives in common, asking how I could say I don't know them. How sad for all of you to have such an attitude.. she bemoans.
So I clarify:
You have the wrong person. I've never lived in San Diego. I don't know any of the people you are describing. Kay Daly is a very common name. Daly is my married name.
Simple. Clear. To the point. But insufficient:
Dear Kay,
Thanks for your reply..this is very strange..the Kay Daly.. I read about is Kay Ryon Daly..mother Joy..(Heather's grandmother)... and so forth
So I reassure her that I am indeed NOT the person she seeks. Three emails later (to which I do not respond), she teases out the truth, and agrees to leave me alone.
That is, until today -- 5 days after her last email, she re-emerges:
Will you please ask Rick to call us..(phone number deleted)..It's very important.
And so, we are back to square one it seems.
Crazy Crap Item #2: The part where I'm picked up by a priest
Well, actually, he didn't really pick me up. But anyhoo, I was out reviewing a play, and as the intermission started, I got the sense the man sitting a few seats to my right was going to try to get my attention and engage me in conversation. This is not something I want.
So I take out my phone, and pretend to be checking messages and such, hoping against hope that I can keep up this charade for the full 15 minutes of intermission. I can't. And the second I look up, he pounces.
"You're reviewing the show, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"For what publication?"
"TimeOut Chicago"
"I was so glad TimeOut came here. I'm from New York originally. It was like my Bible there for going out. So I'm really glad it's here ... [more talk of the magazine and his time in NY. i nod and smile.]"
"So," he stops, conspiratorially, "What do you think of the show?"
Dear reader, this criticial discussion of a show while it's still underway -- this is not something I like to do. It's rude. The director might be right behind you. The lead actor's mother may be on your left. You never know. But he'll not be put off, so I share some insights. He agrees, and wants to dish the show more. Awkward.
He asks what I do for a living. I tell him I freelance full-time, and he notes that it seems like a hard way to earn a living. I take this as an opportunity to mention my husband, so as discourage any interest -- he works full-time, so a full income is not required of me, etc.
Then my new friend reveals that he used to be a reporter as well. "Oh? Where?" I ask, feigning interest. East Coast. Six years. Ago. "And what do you do now?" A priest.
Hmmm. See, crazy crap.
Crazy Crap Item #3: The part where I write a mean review
Being a theater critic isn't all going to shows and fending off the advances of priests. It also requires the actual writing of the review. Which is what I did this morning.
Eamon (beloved husband) has been schooling me in not pulling my punches in my reviews. I tend to come home saying "That was awful" and end up writing "That was not half-bad." Learning to be honest is a good lesson, so I'm taking it to heart.
So this time, I pull no punches. I review a revue of big band music featuring a rather callow young man who has as much charisma as day-old macaroni. I say as much in my review. Proudly, I inform Eamon of my feat. As we're discussing our plans for the day, he happens to glance at my review, still on screen.
"Whelan?" he asks. "Mike Whelan?"
"Yes," I say. The singer I have savaged.
"I went to high school with him."
Hm. Crazy.
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