Crazy Crap Item #119: The part where I have arrived

A few weeks ago, in my capacity as freelance theater critic for Time Out Chicago, I was sent to a horrible, horrible show. You can hear more about it here.

Today, my dear editor wrote me this: "Did I mention your refugee review has warranted not one but TWO letters from disgruntled readers? We never get letters. It's thrilling for us..."

Dig it. I disgruntled readers. I have arrived.

Crazy Crap Item #119: The part where I have arrived

So a few weeks ago, I was sent--in my capacity of freelance theater critic for Time Out Chicago--to a heinous original musical parody. I did not enjoy myself here. You can find out why here.

Crazy Crap Item #118: The part where I once again demonstrate the strength of my marriage

I've noted before the unusual strength of my marriage, in particular when my husband told me a joined an online dating service. Here it is, not two weeks later, and my husband informs me he's marching in Chicago's Gay Pride Parade.

Again, some wives may feel such a revelation would give them pause. But me, I'm unflappable.

Roller Derby, you see. The ladies are marching. The theme is outer space. He is to be ... a robot.

As many know, Eamon is not one to do things half-way. So, of course, there was the special trip to Home Depot for supplies. Hours of planning. Hours more of construction. Muttered curses. Personal realizations that one tends to bite off more than one can chew.

But when the Derby calls for a robot, a robot it shall have. Check out the fantastic video of the derby robot, in action. Or this photo.

Afterwards, I asked Eamon how it was, and he told me it was hours of being humped by countless men, all unwitting (as his robot body impeded any sensation).

As a side note, after Eamon had completed the helmet, I took some small friends into the house to see the work in progress. I modeled the head, and allowed young Gavin to strut his stuff.

Crazy Crap Item #117: The part where I alerted to a surprising resemblance

My dear friend Mr. Shattner addressed me with this arresting query:

(21:57:24) shattynyc: you know the guy from the daily show?
(21:57:28) shattynyc: and the mac commercials?

I indicated that, yes, I did, that I admired his work, and that his name is John Hodgeman.

He agreed he is very funny, and added:

(21:57:50) shattynyc: but is he not the living incarnation of that one muppet?

I think if you compare the image of John Hodgeman with that of said muppet, you will see the startling resemblance.

Crazy Crap Item #116: The part where I discover that I am a hot little number

Recently, my dear husband approached me with this rather dubious announcement:

"I'm registering with some online dating services, but don't be worried."

I think it's a testament to the strength of our marriage that I paused to hear more.

Work-related, you see. Under-cover research. Very hush hush. To make it all square, he even sent me his profile on one of the sites.

I was pleased to see that he registered himself as "married," and indicated this was just for "hanging out." In fact, it never entered my mind that one could register as married. What a strange option.

Shortly thereafter, he complained that his photo was getting none-too-impressive ratings from either men or women on the site. A "1", he was rated by one jaded viewer. This must be rectified, I decided.

Trouble is, one must be registered to participate in the ratings. But, I thought, Eamon registered as "married," just looking to "hang out." I could as well. I could lurk, undetected, a boring old married housewife, wildly adding "10"s to her husband's photo rating. Fantastic.

So I filled out the profile. I checked "married." I wrote a vague but amusing self-description. I added a cute but not stunning photo. I sent the profile to Eamon. He rated my photo, and added me as a "favorite" of his. I sent him a "rose." He reciprocated. All very amusing.

Then a message arrived in my profile in-box. Not from Eamon.

Subject: u sound interesting
hi im keith how r u?......im married also..........im a carpenter....care to chat?

What an odd fluke.

Then another:

Subject: hi wee
i'm john. i saw your profile and i think we have several things in common...

and another:

Subject: Hello Wee
Hi My name is Frank. I'll keep this simple for now but if you can break away during the day then I'd love to meet for lunch and get to know you. Let me know and I'll send a photo and my reg email addy. Hope to hear from you soon. xoxo

And so forth.

The messages are generally short, vague and introductory. One fellow thinks I'm a nice lady (smiley face). Another noticed I was looking for someone discreet.

I also find I get email notices daily to tell me some new fellow has added me as a "favorite." And just now ... AS I WRITE THIS ... I get a pop-up notice that no fewer than 2 random fellows want to IM me!

Eamon bemoans that he has had no such attention lavished on him. He complains that I'm one of "them" -- the pretty people -- who don't get "1"s on their photo rating.

But I think I have a better theory to explain why I suddenly seem like a nice hunk of ribeye tossed in the dog pound. I'm a woman, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, I want anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes me a hot prospect to men.

While Eamon is a man, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, he wants anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes him more bitter than poison to women.

Mars and Venus, folks. Mars and Venus.

Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring

I've spoken before of Delores, our neighbor whose appearance in her perch on a lawn chair stands in as the first robin of spring in our neighborhood.

Now, here for posterity, I've recorded a glimpse of this fabled harbinger, as seen from my office window.

Crazy Crap Item #114: The part where I update the poop story

Since posting the story of how a man pooped in my yard, I have had many follow-up queries. "Did the 311 guy ever arrive?" "Is the poop still in my yard?" "Did the mad pooper return?" So I figured I should post a follow-up.

Upon returning home from the grocery store, I heaped a healthy helping of litter upon the stinking and fly-covered pile of poop. If the 311 guy comes, I thought, the litter would mark the spot for him, plus all the renegade splatters he might miss. And if he never comes, at least I will have this nice litter to solidify the pile.

Off I went then to enjoy my lunch and put in a load of laundry.

An hour or two passed, and there were still no signs of any sort of government back-up for my poop disaster. It was time, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I realized that this was not the sort of job one wants to get halfway through and discover one has gone about all wrong. I had visions of mad scrambles to maneuver shovels-full of poop into a garbage bag that has folded over upon itself, and mis-aimed scoops that do more damage than good. So I planned it out.

Thinking it through, I realized I really wanted to minimized the amount of contact of the scooping implement with the poop. And since I didn't wish to retain the ground and grass directly beneath the poop, it did not make sense to use a snow shovel or some such flimsy implement. Only a sturdy real-man's shovel would do.

Thankfully, we have many such implements on hand. The previous occupant, Mr. O'Malley, worked for many years for the Streets and Sanitation Department, and left behind a whole passel of ancient contruction tools, all tellingly stamped "City of Chicago." Among these was an old, rusty, sturdy shovel. This would do the trick.

Next, I fetched my floor scrubbing bucket, a large rectangular affair. I lined with a garbage bag.

As I brought these items out front, I caught site of Ruth, who (as you'll recall) learned of my plight from my grocery store announcement. I informed her it was poop scooping time, as I had waited 2 hours and there was still no sign of the mythical 311 crew. She indicated she was impressed with my industry, and offered to help. This, I told her, was a one-person job, and I saw no reason to enlist another in such a nasty task to no good purpose.

Could she watch, then? I assented, and she pulled a lawn chair up to get a good view.

There's not much more to report. My carefully plotted plan worked to perfection. I wedged the shovel in about 2 inches below the surface, and scooped up grass, poop, litter and all in just a few quick swipes. The bucket provided stability; the garbage bag, hygiene. I tied it up quick as a wink, and haulted it to the garbage.

The poop is gone, but not forgotten. As a token, we still have the bald spot in the grass where the poop once was.

Crazy Crap Item #113: The part where I explore exciting new job hunt opportunities

Last week, my dear friend Roxi joined me for an epic journey to the wilds of Arlington Heights to take in some theater. My other dear friend, Kristen, was starring in a door-slamming, bodice-ripping farce, and we were to attend a performance. Kristen kindly offered a ride.

En route, I mentioned that Roxi may be job-shopping soon. Kristen, who works as a sort of website goddess for the City of Chicago Colleges, perked up. Roxi, you see, is a programming and design wiz, with special expertise in education, and Kristen's department has a job to fill. So clearly, a nice match.

As we discussed the position, Kristen alluded to the fact that the C of C Colleges strive for diversity, so Roxi's latina-ness would be a job interview asset. And when Roxi mentioned she spoke Spanish fluently, Kristen nearly wept with joy, and offered Roxi her own job.

Thus we began to think of ways Roxi could emphasize her heritage during the job interview. Wearing a mantilla, we thought, would. And perhaps she should tote castinets, and use them to punctuate her various accomplishments.

But the greatest idea, I think, was my suggestion that she find a way to employ a pinata in her interview. Quoth Roxi: ""Inside, you will find my resume and various flavored Blow Pops ... AY AY AY AY!"

The job is in the bag.

Crazy Crap Item #112: The part where I realize the condition of geekdom is contagious

So I'm writing a review of the seldom produced musical "It's a Bird ... It's a Plane... It's Superman," and as I start pecking out lede ideas on the keyboard, I jot down something about Marvel Comics. Then I think, no, not Marvel Comics. That's Spider-man. Superman was in Action Comics.

Then I realize that I have been married to a graphic-novel geek for too long.

Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living

As I noted at the start of this blog, crazy crap happens to me nearly every day. Today, that claim was literalized.

Arriving home from an appointment, I was greeted by Delores, who had spotted me from her habitual spot on the folding chair in front of her house. I knew something was afoot, as she usually simply waves from her throne, whereas today, she was already crossing the street as I finished parking.

"Somebody pooped in your yard!" she announced.

A dog owner, I assumed. And the dog being the pooper.

"A man in ball cap," she waved at her head, "and a long coat."

It was then that it dawned on met that she hadn't mentioned a dog.

"Wait," I said, "Did the man poop?"

Yes, she told me. He strolled up, swept his coat aside and let loose, "without missing a beat."

I think I'm safe in saying this had never happened to me before. I just laughed. She laughed. We laughed together.

Then we inspected the poop, which was distressingly not firm or easily scoopable, and quite covered in flies.

"I thought maybe some cat litter..." she suggested.

"Or sand..." I added.

I thanked her for calling my attention to this distressing and potentially hazardous situation, and indicated that I indeed would be investing in some cat litter and perhaps a nice snow shovel. She indicated that she felt it was important to warn me, as she could imagine Eamon ... coming out to work ... then she trailed off, implying in some vague way that men are more likely to trod heedlessly into poop than women. I nodded vaguely.

Meanwhile, Ann Casey, having been also informed by Delores of the poop, had sent me an email also suggesting cat litter and letting me know she and hers would be confined to the backyard until further notice.

Looking outside, I caught her just as she returned from the garden store with Jack, age 5, and James, age 2. James sputtered on about seeing wildflowers and something very large as Ann and I discussed the poop. Jack said it was not he who had pooped in the yard. Ann recounted that Delores had suggested calling the police. James insisted the police had pooped in my yard. I departed for the store to buy cat litter, after agreeing with Ann that we must purge the soil beneath the poop spot once it had been scooped.

At the store, I ran into Ruth, another neighbor, with her 6-year-old son Sam. I entertained the cashiers, Sam and other passersby by loudly proclaiming, "Someone pooped on my lawn, and it wasn't dog." Ruth commiserated.

As I pulled up in front of my house, I noticed Delores deep in conversation with another elderly neighbor and gesticulating wildly at my house. How long will the Daly house now be known as the poop house, I wondered.

She made a beeline for me as I stepped out of the car, telling me she had called 311 (Chicago's non-emergency helpline), and told the operator, with stunning candor that someone had "shit" on the lawn across the street, and that they needed to send someone to clean it up, as there were many children in the neighborhood. She did not, apparently, mention the menfolk and their penchant for heedlessly plowing through poop.

So now, here I am, having heaped litter on the offending piles, waiting to see if the mythic 311 helpers come to clean this poop, or whether I should bite the bullet and get to scooping.