Crazy Crap Item #26: The part where Eamon updates an old family tradition

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 A bathroom reader himself, he has quickly grasped the value of outdated history and science delivered in 9th-grade-level bitelets.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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.