Crazy Crap Item #91: The part where Jack finds a kindred spirit

I wrote before about how July 4th weekend was kicked off at 1500 Norwood. But I neglected to include an episode that occurred earlier in the afternoon.

As is well known, my neighbor, Jack, is a cowboy. I've previously reported supporting evidence here and here.

During yesterday's extravaganza, he was decked out in full cowboy regalia and entertained himself by reclining against the roots of a tree while twanging "Home on the Range" on an imaginary guitar. Like cowboys do, you know.

It suddenly dawned on my that he might enjoy seeing a photo of my father decked out in similar regalia. You see, my dad -- also coincidentally nicknamed Jack -- aspired to greatness on the range at about the same stage in life as neighbor Jack. And I have a photo to prove it. It's a wondrous, Depression-era photo of my dad, age 5 or so, clad in a plaid shirt, chaps, a holster, and a 10-gallon hat. He holds a six-gun aloft. I showed it to neighbor Jack's mom, Ann, and she noted that he seems all too aware of how cool he looks.

So I showed to Jack, and explained it was my dad when he was little. Jack's eyes grew big as saucers. He grasped the frame and, staring at it, muttered, "Does he have a real gun?" I suggested that it was probably just a toy. But look!, I said, he's got chaps and a holster! Jack added, awestruck, "And a lasso."

He held it in his hands for many moments, studying it, until James, his little brother reached for it. I turned it to him. James gazed at it puzzled, the jabbed my dad's photo with his finger. "Jack," he asserted. "Jack."

And he was right, in more ways than one.

Crazy Crap Item #90: The part where we all thought this sort of thing only happened in the movies

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I live on the best block in the world.

Prior to moving in, I used to scope out our neighborhood, strolling by to see what life was really like on 1500 Norwood. And seriously, I thought they were putting me on.

More often then not, there were small children gathered on the sidewalk, cavorting. Mothers sitting and chatting. Butterflies alighting on fingertips, and bells softly tolling the hour from Lutheran church one block south.

Seriously, all except the butterflies.

After moving in, Eamon and I quickly learned this was not a bill of goods. Our neighbors are ridiculously nice. The kids on the block are ridiculously funny. We have a block fund, used to fund two annual block parties and purchase welcome gifts for new neighbors. And of course, we have our legendary badass squirrels.

Which brings me to the antics of last friday night. This weekend, as I'm sure you're aware, is a fantastic, four-day holiday weekend. Which means the week prior is all just a vamp leading into four days of glorious nothing-doing. Not surprisingly, we on Norwood started to get the holiday itch a little early.

"I'm thirsty," my neighbor Megan announced on Thursday afternoon. To the uninitiated, this seems to mean Megan needs a glass of water. For denizens of the 1500 block, this means, "We're getting together to drink tomorrow afternoon, right?"

Which we did.

You see, in addition to our several planned gatherings, here on 1500 Norwood, we play host to a variety of spontaneous shindigs. Typically, they grow out of the afternoon play period, which occurs sometime between nap time and dinner time. Small children explode onto the sidewalk, propelled by scooters, small firetrucks, and bikes with training wheels. Mothers gather wherever there's space to sit. If her work schedule allows, a feckless freelancer joins in, just for fun.

Playtime is so well established that one of our neighbors, Ruth, has even created a permanent location, consisting of two park benches, two pottted plants and a small glass table, all chained to the tree on her parkway.

You never know when playtime will erupt into something more, like a pizza party on the Daly's lawn. But this week, I had Megan's advanced warning, so I alerted Eamon, and got myself in a party frame of mind.

At about 2pm, I wandered out to playtime. We chatted of this and that, then decided to take up residence on Ruth's benches -- this despite the fact that Ruth and her family are out of town, and are hosting guests for the duration of the weekend. If the guests were puzzled that the neighborhood descended on the benches even when Ruth is not at home, they kept it to themselves, initially sequestering themselves on Ruth's enclosed front porch, where one of the children serenaded us with violin practice.

By 4 pm or so, Megan cracked a beer, and I brought out some Mike's Hard Lemonade. Sheila, from the block over, brought wine. We snacked on Megan's guacamole and cheese and crackers.

Soon, daddies came home and joined us. We ordered pizza. Then Jim (Jack's dad) brought out his fiddle and serenaded us Civil War-era folk tunes. The violin-playing houseguest joined in, as did his sibling. John O'Connor -- whose wife Ann and triplets were out of town -- brought out his drum kit, and Chris Cancilla took out his guitar. Eamon took tambourine.

And ...

Cue fireflies.

Cue small children with sparklers.

Seriously. Best neighborhood in the world. The 1400 block can bite us.

Crazy Crap Item #89: The part where Jack shows off his new duds

Today, on my way to taking out the garbage, I noticed my berries had ripened.

No, that's not a euphemism for some sort of lady business. One of the greatest assets of our house is a teeming garden, complete with rambling raspberry vines lining our fence. Each June or so, they burst forth with berry-ful goodness. And this morning, I found I had quite a foison. My fists soon filled, so I ran to the kitchen for a bowl, and continued picking.

As I picked, I thought, "I shall share these berries with the Caseys." Jim Casey and I have often discussed the wonder of our berry bushes, and I've have oft and anon urged him and Ann to plunder them whenever they wished.

Just as I finished and before I could make my way to the Casey's back door, Jack stumbled out onto their back porch. Seeing me, he spun on his heels and dodged back indoors. He re-emerged with a new cowboy hat on his head and a coy but smug look on his face.

Me, I'd seen the hat the day before, and gotten its history from Ann. During a recent trip to Michigan for a wedding, they'd stopped at a western store, and this had been Jack's takeaway: a real, live cowboy hat, just like real, live cowboys wear. Jack apparently did not realize I'd seen it or him (he'd been deep in hijinx with the other kids on the block and had paid me no mind).

Sensitive lass that I am, I knew what he wanted, and I congratulated him on the splendor of his new hat unbidden.

We then talked of cowboy gear. He informed me he likes all the things cowboys wear. I asked of his trip to the cowboy gear store, and he made mention of lassos which he coveted but was not supplied with. I suggested that he was lucky to have parents who would furnish him with such a striking hat, and the sort that real cowboys wear to boot. I pointed out that now he had a hat, cowboy boots, and holsters, and that he was pretty much set.

He replied that he also had a barn (his garage) and a horse. When questioned, he could not recall the name of his horse. I was concerned, and asked what he would do if, in peril, he needed to call his horse to him. He had no response.

Crazy Crap Item #88: The part where Aunt Sheila pulls a boner

During my visit to Long Beach for my brother's wedding, I had the pleasure of dining at Chili's with my parents, Eamon and my Aunt Sheila and Uncle Frank.

Aunt Sheila ordered the "fajita pita." Just like it sounds, the "fajita pita" consists of fajita-style meat served in, well, a pita. To keep the pita from unattractively flopping over and spilling its meaty goodness, it is served in a metal rack of sorts.

During the meal, Aunt Sheila commented on the cunning rack, which of course led to a rack jokes of all sorts from my rather bawdy family.

And yet, despite that prep, when the waitress arrived to clear our dishes, Aunt Sheila looked her right in the eye, and, without a trace of irony, announced "I just love your nice little rack."

The server, who was, in fact, not terribly well endowed, froze, wide eyed. Then everyone at the table, except my aunt, fell off their chairs laughing.

Sheila will never be the same.

Crazy Crap Item #87: The part where Sailor Jack lives large and likes it

Last weekend, Eamon and I have the pleasure of attending my brother Mike's wedding. It was a splendiferous time, what with bliss-filled ceremony, the opportunity to see friends I haven't seen in years, the rocking reception with a gorgeous view of Long Beach Bay and the Queen Mary ...

... And yet, today, I'm writing not about the wedding, but how we got there. My brother, you see, arranged for a stretch limo to transport my parents and my Aunt Sheila and Uncle Frank from beautiful Banning (just outside Palm Springs) to the Long Beach Hilton. Eamon and I had arranged to fly into Banning's nearest airport, so we hitched a ride with them.

Of the limo, my father was suspicious. But as we traveled on, he began to see its plusses. To whit, a bar stocked with liquor and mixers. Adjustable air conditioning. And a limo driver who will pull off the highway and find you a clean public restroom at the mere waving of a hand. And, for course, the no driving part.

"I always thought limos were snooty," quoth he. "But I think this could work for me."

Crazy Crap Item #86: The part where I explain why I haven't written about roller derby

It's seems natural, right? I go to a bout of Chicago's Windy City Rollers all-female roller derby league; I post about all the zany goings-on.

And yet, nary a peep from me.

To back up: As I've mentioned before that Eamon participates in the roller derby as head of Stats and Rules & Regs. (He goes by the moniker "Scorey Feldman." Check out his staff photo!) I've attended a bout before, and this past Sunday, I returned for the first bout of the new season. My good friend Mr. Christopher Piatt, theater editor at TimeOut Chicago, joined me. We met at the Liar's Club, the derby's unofficial bar of choice, and boarded the "party bus," which took us to Cicero Stadium, the new derby venue. We ate funyons and sipped diet coke. We reveled in the Windy City tagline, "Talk derby to me." We cheered for Piatt's two coworkers who skate in the derby, and were amazed at how easy it was to follow the action. We re-boarded the party bus for a return trip to Liar's Club, bidding a fond farewell to Cicero and its majestic watertower.

So why am I so circumspect on the matter of derby madness? Am I under duress from the Cicero mob to keep my doings under wraps? Is it true, as they say, that what happens in Cicero stays in Cicero?

Or am I being circumspect out of a caution about gilding the lily? Why out-Caesar Caesar with shrill declarations of kitch when the original so far outpaces any pithy witticism I could spin?

But that's not really it. After giving it some thought, I think I've lit upon the reason. The derby, you see, is oddly earnest. Yes, the ladies wear fanciful uniforms. Yes, they adopt punny names ("Tequila Mockingbird," "Val Capone"). There's a spirit of carnival.

But there's also a straight-faced seriousness to it. Family members bring signs to cheer on their skaters. During warm-ups, the women don't showboat; they skate. The colormen provide witty banter, but the audience is more concerned to know the score. We watched older women in the stands (apparently mothers of the derby rollers) wearing t-shirts emblazoned with slogans such as "Mama Bier" (Anita Bier's mother) and "Crusher's Mama."

So that's why. In case you were wondering.

Crazy Crap Item #85: The part where I get proof, once again, that I married the right man

Last saturday, Eamon and I ventured out to Midsommerfest, Andersonville's annual summer street fair allegedly commemorating the Scandinavian holiday. Aside from a prominently displayed maypole, it's pretty much like every other neighborhood fair in Chicago.

Anyhoo, I'm not in the market for Swedish authenticity, so the generic quality of the fest bothers me not one iota. So we stroll, him with a beer, me with a plastic cup of wine, down the length of Clark Street, marveling that so many crappy artisans live and breathe in the Chicago metro area.

Eamon stops me suddenly. "What are you doing?" Puzzled, I explain I wanted to inspect samples of a new power drink.

He shoots me a "do I have to do everything" look, and turns me, physically, toward a booth I'd just passed. Tarot card readings. Then he points me toward the booth, tells me he's going to get a beer and he'll meet me back here.

There's a 45 minute wait for readings, so I text him, and he arrives, almost as I hit send. I explain the wait, and he takes my arm and says "Come here."

Tap dance troupe. On stage. Dancing to David Bowie.

Clearly, I married the best man ever.

Crazy Crap Item #84: The part where Jack proves some things are just hard-wired

As is well known, lately I am given to garden beautification.

Well, imagine my glee when I spotted a wee "kiddy park bench" on sale for $20 at Jewel! I was in bliss, and I snatched one up as quickly as my little hand could snatch. Once home, I assembled it and placed it in the far corner of our garden, thinking maybe to use it as a picturesque shelf for potted plants (it being much too small for even a wee adult such as myself to fit on it).

Well, later, Jack had spied said bench, and coyly asked who I had made it for. I'm no slouch at coy, so I indicated that it would be for any small children that wanted to sit in my yard. More direct this time, he asked if he could come over and sit on my bench.

I assented.

As he sat on the bench, he examined it more carefully, noting a foursome of animals in wrought iron that serves as the back of the bench. He pointed to what I think is a squirrel, on the far right.

"Look, he's holding a gun."

Mind you, while Jack does love his cowboys, no one could claim he's been assaulted by an onslaught of media images of guns. His parents are very responsible on that count. But, like most boys, he seems to know about -- and be fascinated by -- guns instinctively. While he owns no toy guns, he frequently makes recourse to large sticks or other detritus from my yard to stand in as makeshift guns.

Well, besides the fact that I don't want to further encourage this fascination with guns, the fact was THE SQUIRREL WAS NOT HOLDING A GUN. It was, in fact, holding a fiddle. I told Jack as much.

No, Jack disagreed, it's too big for a fiddle. His dad plays the fiddle, so young Jack knows from fiddles.

I agreed, it was an oddly large fiddle, but if he looked closely, he'd see that all the squirrel's friends were holding musical instruments. Look, I said, the cat has a tambourine! And the dog has a bass fiddle!

In reponse, he pointed again to the squirrel and said, "And he's holding a gun."

I gave up.

Crazy Crap Item #83: The part where Eamon and I live the dream

I'm quite the flibbertigibbet these days. No sooner do I return from NYC but Eamon and I plan yet another trip, this time to Madison, Wisconsin, and areas thereunto abutting.

Why Madison, you ask? While I could answer with a simple and snide "Why not?", I feel in this instance the need to elaborate. Eamon's work schedule has been quite overwhelming, and he needed to get away. And we didn't want to fly. And we wanted to be far enough for it to feel like "away," but not so far as to exhaust ourselves with the rigors of the road. We'd heard good things about Madison, and in light traffic, it's a mere 3 hours away. Perfecto.

Also, it's a state capitol and a college town! Which means it has a sense of grandeur alongside a lot of coffee houses and hemp stores. An unbeatable combination.

And how was the weekend? The weekend, dear friends, was an exercise in doing whatever the hell we wanted. And it was lovely.

First off, our hotel -- the Madison Hyatt. Rumor has it, it has a heated pool. We never found it, but we weren't looking. It did have a fantastic view of Lake Mononoke (that wasn't the actual name; that's the title of an anime film; but it was something like that) and the beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright terrace overlooking it. While strolling along the banks of aforesaid anime-named lake, I got an extra added bonus: a glimpse of the world's biggest rat swimming parallel to the shore! I felt like Jacques Cousteau!

The eating in Madison was mighty fine. Day one, we ended up at The Tornado Club, an odd, old-school-ish sort of supper club suffering from the sort of identy crisis that results from thinking cosmopolitans on the menu and Old West rifles on the wall go together. But the food was great, and the service fantastic, so all was well. Dinner on day two was not nearly as funny, but just as tasty. Eamon glutted himself on surf and turf, and I grazed on salad and French onion soup at an upscale eatery called Johnny Delmonico's. In between, we partook of ice cream and chocolates, chocolates and ice cream.

A high point of our stay in Madison? We bought no fewer than three hats. A bucket hat and a hemp hat for me, and a bucket hat for Eamon. It was hot, you see, quite hot, and we needed relief. We started looking for a hat for Eamon, then for both of us, and nearly gave up, until a Gap gave me relief with a charming, casual bucket hat. Then, wouldn't you know it, we stepped outside and saw -- yes! -- a hat store, right next door. It was there we discovered my hemp masterpiece.

All this took place while strolling down State Street, a promenade, in some places blocked for through traffic, which links UMadison with the capitol building. Along the way, we browsed an art museum, stopped for refreshment at UMadison's lakefront student union, and window-shopped for frocks. In the process, I managed to try on a dress that looked cute on the mannikin but on the body transformed into one of the cheapest hoochie dresses I've ever seen. Yes, hoochie, there in the shadow of the capitol. I was shocked.

Some observations:

* Madison is quiet. Eerily quiet. To whit: on the afternoon we arrived, I took a stroll over to State Street while Eamon napped, and noted it was quite quiet and empty -- due, I assumed, to the fact it was Memorial Day weekend. But then I noticed that it wasn't empty. There were numbers of people around me. And as I turned on to State Street, I noticed it was actually pretty darn packed. But quiet. Eerily quiet. I don' t know why.

* Madison is lesbian central. They all stroll around, clad in clamdiggers, with hemp hats plopped atop their short haircuts, two-by-two, clasping hands on one side and clutching small shopping bags from the local candle shoppe on the other. I felt quite left out.

* According the logic of syllogism, I may postulate that lesbians are quiet. Eerily quiet.

* Madison is home to a feminist bookstore and cafe called "A Room of One's Own." See point above about Madison lesbians.

In addition to the joys of Madison proper, our hotel offered considerable charms, including a very friendly and helpful staff. But I regret to report that the "dueling piano" act that plays the hotel bar failed to make good on their claim that they could play anything. In response to our request (accompanied by a crisp $20 bill) for "Our Love is Here to Stay" (Gershwin) and "Back in Black" (ACDC), they played only the opening verse and half a chorus of "Someone to Watch Over Me" -- badly -- then gave up. Then followed an interminable series of Elton John and Billy Joel songs. When Eamon called them to account, and slipped them another $10, they managed to crank out a jazzy "Summertime." Points for effort, none for execution.

On the last day of our sojourn, we left Madison and headed west -- not east!!! -- for what would prove to be the ultimate high point of (and the actual reason for) our journey. We were on a mission. A mission to visit... The House on the Rock.

In case you are not aware, The House on the Rock is the mother of all roadside attractions. Not being from the Midwest, I'd never heard of it until I recently read Neil Gaiman's American Gods. (A fantastic read; do pick it up.) In it, the protagonist is taken to HOTR by a modern-day apotheosis of Thor and a wide array of other gods for their council meeting, which take place on the attraction's carousel.

Yes. I said carousel.

When I finished reading this section of Gaiman's novel, I carefully laid the book down and narrowly questioned my husband as to the whereabouts of this house on this rock and the reasons we had never been there. He assured me we would someday remedy this situation.

Someday is now, and I must say, my life now has meaning. All that passed for my life prior to visiting this temple to all that is fantastically tacky and overblown shrinks in comparison. I am a Kay reborn.

I can in no way capture in words the delight of this landmark, so I will offer but a few, brief comments.

The carousel room was MAGNIFICENT and lurid, two things I love. It is covered in red lights, and the ceiling of the room is hung with life-size manniquins DRESSED AS ANGELS. And there are enormous, self-playing kettle drums that accompany the neverending loop of calliope music. Fantastic. The carousel itself holds something like 3 million creatures -- none of which are horses. Madness.

Then there's the organ room, which is filled, top to bottom, with various mechanical devices, some relating to organs, others NOT AT ALL. To whit: there is part of an engine from a whaling ship. And the room is cross-cut by catwalks and paths, some of which you can stroll, and some of which are purely decorative, and loaded with strange medieval figures. I have no idea what it all meant, but I was in bliss.

The circus room, armory display, replicas of crown jewels, dollhouse rooms, and doll carousel I will pass over without comment. But I must gloss one last bit of the display. The last part of the circus display (which fills several rooms) is lined, most unaccountably and without explanation, wall cases filled with charming sculptures depicting a variety of tableaux, often emblazoned with poems. About diamonds.

Upon further investigation, Eamon surmised that these were old fashioned advertising displays for the jewelry industry. Subsequent investigations have proven him correct. We browsed them, row on row, bemoaning the fact that, although mechanized, none of them seemed to be in working condition. Until we got to a series of cases -- with on-off buttons! And we pushed them! And whole rows of these devices lit up and lurched into movement!!! It was remarkable.

One last note on the Madison odyssey, then all will lapse into silence.

The area surrounding House on the Rock is just as fantastically splendid as the House itself, teeming with more tourist traps than you can shake a stick at. I happened to pick up a free tourist guide at the local A&W (we needed rootbeer floats), and was tickled with what I found. Apparently, within the region, you can visit:

* The House on the Rock
* Taliesin (a famous F.L. Wright structure)
* Norway Town (which, for some reason, features a lot of trolls. The guidebook I found had pages and pages about trolls.)
* Cave of the Mounds (for all your spelunking needs)
* the Mt. Horeb Mustard Museum

Clearly, we'll be going back there soon.

Crazy Crap Item #82: The part where I am remiss in recording my travels

Here it is, almost June, and I've yet to recount any of my adventures in New York.

New York, you gasp. Heavens to betsy, whenever were you in New York, Kay?

See, it was so long ago, you don't even remember I went. But let me fill you in.

I have a number of friends in the Big Apple, mainly through my connection with what we like to call the Northwestern Mafia East (NME) -- friends from my grad school days who went to make their fortune in Gotham after graduation.

The main purpose of meeting was a visit to my good friends Monsieurs Czajka (Chris) and Boudreaux (Jonathan, but commonly referred to as Jdog). For those who do not know him, Mr. Czajka is a tarot-card reading, PBS-website-creating, "Little House on the Prairie" fanatic from upstate New York. We met at NU during a production of Sunday in the Park with George. Jdog is a DVD-reviewing, paint-by-number-painting, classic sitcom fanatic from Cajun country. Together, they're one of my favorite couples.

Jdog has been in ill health for some time, and I was honored to be their first "recreational" guest since before the troubles. Jdog, still in recovery mode, is limited in terms of his ability to cavort, so the goal was to produce mayhem and hilarity without taking the subway during rushhour, venturing out into rainy weather, or habituating nightclubs, opium dens or other generally overcrowded environs.

I'm proud to say that we succeeded in both the fun-having and the crowd-avoidance.

Here's the blow by blow:

Thursday

-- Trip to the airport, courtesy of Eamon (who couldn't join me due to work conflicts).

-- Arrived at Queens, about 6pm, just in time to receive a gracious greeting from Jonathan and welcome Czajka upon his return from work.

-- Dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant, the site of my hosts' first date some 10 years ago. Inexplicably, this was their first return visit. Bad memories? All I know is, my ricotta cheesecake was quite good.

-- After dinner, Czajka queried as to the state of their pantry, since Jdog and I would be staying in the next day and would need lunch. Jdog responded, in a morose tone, that they had only "Lean Pockets." This led to a weekend-long running gag, in which any inquiries about what one would eat were responded to with a mournful intonation of "Lean Pockets," sometimes followed by a sigh.

-- Once it was determined that Lean Pockets did not constitute a fitting luncheon for a guest, we sidetracked to the grocery store to pick up some tasty odds and ends, including an Entenmann's "Louisiana Crunch Cake." Jonathan took exception to the pastry (and lobbied strongly against its purchase), pointing out that lacked both any authentic connection with Louisiana and anything that crunched. Czajka tersely pointed out that they couldn't very well just call it "Cake."

-- At the grocery store, we made perhaps the best purchase of the weekend, a packet of adhesive jewels of all shapes and colors! Big city glamour, for the low, low price of $2.69!

Friday

-- Off to work for Czajka (his last day of work before a luxurious two weeks off).

-- Left to our own devices, Jdog and I amused ourselves with their vast collection of DVDs. Jdog announced it was guest's choice, and I selected the 1938 film Nancy Drew - Reporter, starring the irrepressible Bonita Granville. The amusing elements of this film are too numerous to recount, but I think my favorite moment was when Nancy and her sidekick smuggled an old-tyme camera -- complete with flash powder wand -- into a jail, then tried to surreptitiously snap a photo of an inmate. Hilarity.

-- Next, we watched The Libeled Lady (1936), a pleasing but somewhat draggy madcap comedy starring William Powell, Jean Harlow, Spencer Tracy and Myrna Loy. It was no Thin Man, but it amused.

-- After naps, we greeted Mr. Czajka upon his return from the salt mines, who brought in tow Michael Shattner (aka Mr. Shittner, aka La Shattner). Mr. Shattner is also a member of NME. He is a cello-playing, cat-owning, half-Canuck actor.

-- The plan for the evening: order in Thai food and screen the original film version of The Posiedon Adventure. Czajka and Jdog were shocked -- shocked! -- to learn Michael and I had never seen it. They, of course, own the DVD. If you are among the ranks of those of us who have never seen the film, by all means, partake liberally. While watching, we decorated ourselves with the aforementioned adhesive gems. I slayed Mr. Czajka by placing a line of blue gems running down my cleavage, and noting, "They draw the eye down." We were also vastly amused to note that the Maureen McGovern song made famous by the film -- the one with the lyrics "there has to be a morning after" -- is actually not entitled "Morning After," but instead goes by the title "The Song from The Poseidon Adventure." I am not kidding.

Saturday

-- Early arisal! We're due for an 11am brunch in Midtown with other members of the NME, including Mr. Shattner, Mr. Curtis Moore (he directed me in a production of Nunsense), Mr. Tom Mizer (formerly Steve of the roadshow version of Blue's Clues and my former classmate in Literary Theory), and Ms. Nicole Roberts (daughter of actor Tony Roberts and successful voiceover actress in her own right), along with various romantic partners.

-- Then we repaired to Nicole's glamorous 20th floor Manhattan condo, and played a variety of board games, including Uno, during which it was underscored again and again how sexual the spewing forth of playing cards is. During our visit, Nicole received delivery of her brand new Urban Rebounder, which she immediately demonstrated for us.

-- Once the fun broke up, Jdog headed home, and Czajka, La Shattner and I strolled to a lovely sylvan park to soak up the unseasonably summery weather. On the way, we indulged in Eamon's new game of creating new -- and hilarious! -- movie titles by replacing one word with "anus." I'm still proud of Raiders of the Lost Anus.

-- Next, we retired to a small wine bar for drinks and cheese so as to prepare us for...

-- "Confessions of a Prairie Bitch," the stand-up-cum-tell-all-memoir by Alison Arngrim, better known as Nellie Oleson on Little House on the Prairie. And just when we thought evening couldn't get any stranger, we had drinks with Alison herself after. We suspect she hepped up on goofballs. She jawed our ears off, but in a way I found nearly impossible to follow. But her act was hysterically funny. I also managed to get a wonderful signed photo, with a personal note to my sister that referenced a running gag from our childhood that involved Nellie Oleson's mother. Priceless.

Sunday

-- After the unending mayhem of Saturday, we opted for a quieter itinerary for the Lord's Day. We spent a leisurely, lolling morning, then headed out to the various open houses in the neighborhood. The boys are looking to buy an apartment, so we needed to take a tour of the Queens real estate market -- in all its stinky, cramped glory.

-- Afterwards, we ambled over to Forest Hills Gardens, Czajka's fave neighborhood, which was once home to vaudeville stars, now a sylvan retreat lined with pseudo-Tudor mansions.

-- That evening, Mr. Shattner joined us again for yet another evening of DVDs, starting with "Hello, Hollywood, Hello," a fabulously horrible documentary about the world's largest cabaret show, which ran for almost 20 years in Reno's MGM Hotel.

-- Next came "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane," that masterpiece of overblown gothic decrepitude. This led led to the perhaps the best quip ever: as Joan Crawford complained of hunger while knitting furiously, Jdog ventriloquized: "I'm going to knit myself a porkchop!"

-- After the film festival, Jdog went to bed, and Czajka, La Shattner and I stayed up till 3am playing "Name that Tune" with the Show Tunes channel of Czajka's on-demand cable radio (and I pretty much mopped the floor with it).

Monday

-- As I was leaving later that afternoon, we kept our schedule light, planning but one Mario Party game to fill our day. Much to everyone's surprise, I won, which allowed me to indulge in a favored tradition, the triumphant shout, in faux Japanese accent, of "Daisy the weenah!"(My character is named 'Daisy,' and she had a Japanese accent in an earlier edition of the game ... it's long, inscrutable story).

-- Then it was home again, home again, jiggedy jig!

Crazy Crap Item #81: The part where the turnip truck rolls back into town

As you may recall, I recently posted about some clearly fishy maternity discount dealie and the rather slimy interaction I had with one of its reps.

Well, nearly a month passes, and some random individual decides to comment on my posting. To save you the trouble of clicking over to it, I'll repost it here:

That is completley fake. I have used Maternity Card and it saved me over 9 grand on my bill. Maybe you are one of the competetors hmm? Look at how many complaints Dell has against their company a DAY (around 17,000) and 76 in 36 weeks is that what you said? Big woop. I called them and NONE of them were members of the Maternity Card and they were all resolved. The BBB is a NOT a state or government organization. They are a PRIVATE organization and did you know Dell pays over 30 grand a year to keep themselves on there? The BBB is a scam and so are you.

Oh, dear! I've been caught!!! My clever ruse of blogging about the daily doings of a lazy freelancer in order to launch an attack on my competitor, the fine and unimpeachable folks at Maternity Card, has been exposed!! How will I ever continue with my scammy activities of writing about my 4-year-old neighbor and recording the witticisms of my bearded husband? The shame! The scandal!!!

Crazy Crap Item #80: The part where Roxi and I ponder the nature of sidewalk compliments

Young Roxi, my good friend from my FastWeb days, shares a passion with me: crazy long walks. During these walks, we survey the city landscape and speak of many things.

Just yesterday, she joined me to walk to the Cornservatory to review a show. As we strolled, I boasted that a drunken drifter had called me "beautiful" during my stroll to meet her at the Thorndale El stop, and that this had pleased me. She noted that a wino on the El platform had commented, as she sashayed past, "There goes a pretty lady," and that she was equally gratified.

We mused over the fact that we found compliments from winos, drifters, and homeless men as uniforming charming, whereas similar advances from a be-suited businessman would make us uneasy.

I guess it's because it's clear the wino will have neither the means nor the clarity to solicit one's digits, dig for info so they can demonstrate how much you have in common, or pursue you in any way. And typically, these wino-based compliments are not accompanied by a solicitation of funds. That's what so charming -- they just want to admire your feminine beauty. There's something so pure and honest in that.

Crazy Crap Item #79: The part where we share a Hollywood moment

With all the recent talk of insurance woes and baby-having, I'm put in mind of an amusing incident from a month or so back. Since I'm no longer a spring chicken, I've some concerns about the actual possibility of the baby-having. To see what our limiting factors might be, Eamon and I went to a fertility specialist for a sort of preliminary consulation. We spoke of many things -- invitro, declining fertility with age, our health histories, adoption, egg freezing -- but through it all, one nagging issue weighed on my mind.

As we left the clinic, I turned to Eamon.

"The doctor. Bob Balaban."

"Oh, yeah. Dead-ringer."

Trust me, you don't want to discuss your ovaries with Bob Balaban.

Crazy Crap Item #78: The part where I peek inside the world of derby

As I mentioned previously, last night Eamon attended a meeting of the local roller derby, where he serves as head of stats. Today, he has this insight to share:

eamon: in derby, whenever someone says something that you agree with, instead of saying "i agree" and adding to the noise, you raise your clenched right hand up in a sign of solidarity.

I'd like to see the UN adopt that procedure.

Crazy Crap Item #77: The part where Eamon plays coy

Last night, in my duties as freelance theater critic, I had opportunity to attend a storefront theater called the "Cornservatory." See, they do comedies. Corny comedies. So instead of "conservatory," it's called "cornservatory." Get it?

Anyhoo, my beloved husband did me a solid by picking me up after the show, as he was in the neighborhood attending a roller derby scrimmage. Apparently, the jauntily wacky sign announcing the presence of the Cornservatory amused him. As I got into the car, he said in a tone of dignificed reverance, "You were at THE CORNSERVATORY," as if to say "you were at the Met." Then, as I recounted how awful the show was, he kept interjecting, "Really? At THE CORNSERVATORY??" in a tone of shocked dismay. It was funnier than the entire show.

Crazy Crap Item #76: The part where I learn a new word

Poop-singing (püp-seeng-eeng)

Def.: The labored style of singing in which the performer likes s/he is producing a nice, solid bowel movement each time s/he opens her/his mouth

Example: The strained tenor engages in fully realized performances of poop-singing, particularly as he reaches for the high notes.

Source: Nicole Hudson, by way of Chris Czajka.

Crazy Crap Item #75: The part where I bemoan the crushing difficulty of my life

I'm working on a project for a new client, The Teaching Company. I'm writing long-form brochure copy for their video-taped enrichment courses on subjects from history, philosophy, science, the arts, etc. My task today: view lessons on art history about the collection at the Louvre. And get paid to do it.

Nice work, if you can get it.

Crazy Crap Item #74: The part where I witness a prodigy in action

As I have mentioned before, James, my young neighbor, is one-and-one-half years old, yet he has long dazzled me with his feats of wonder. Just yesterday, I learned of yet another trick he has added to his arsenal. When he feels his mother is talking too much and not paying attention to him, he says "Blah, blah, blah," accompanied by little "talky talky gestures." Hilarity.

Crazy Crap Item #73: The part where I come to terms with being a big musical theater dork

How do you know you are a musical theater dork? When one of your closest friends has this dream about you:

shatty: you were in my dream last night
kay: so what did i do in your dream?
shatty: well!
shatty: we were both VERY excited to listen to the newly released, remastered version of the original cast of MACK & MABEL
shatty:(i don't believe such a thing really exists)
kay: well, why wouldn't we be excited?
kay: MACK & MABEL
kay: i mean, come on
shatty:we shared headphones (the old school kind that go over your head, not the newfangled little ones on wires)
shatty: and listened to "Look What Happened to Mabel"
shatty: and we were disappointed
shatty: we shared a look (no words)

If you don't understand why this conversation makes me a musical theater dork, then you are clearly not one.

Crazy Crap Item #72: The part where it becomes clear that the lawn needs mowing

Due to the recent rash of lovely weather, I've been forced out of doors. I wander into the backyard, rubbing my sun-dazzled eyes and shielding my pasty skin from the sun.

In the past, I've general avoided the out-of-doors. As a still somewhat new homeowner, though, I've discovered the charm of being out where the people are with gardening. It helps that I have highly amusing neighbors, and puttering in the garden gives me the chance to learn all about cowboys and such.

And thankfully, the previous owner was quite an avid gardener, and left us a substantial stock of perennials, some of which I suspect are older than my husband. These include crazy-spotted tiger lilies, pre-historic ferns, and some wonderful vintage roses. Over the last 2 years, I've learned to augment this wilderness with carefully placed annuals and such, very few of which have immediately died, I'm surprised to report.

So this weekend, I took advantage of the sunny but temperate weather and did some major dirt-diggery. This entailed:

* a visit to the local garden store (cannily named "Gethsemane Garden Center") to purchase tons of potting soil, wee annuals and herbs

* planting a lovely new five-tiered cedar planter given to us by Roxi, which resembles a rather florid Aztec ziggurat and is now the envy of the neighborhood

* clearing new beds that were covered by flat concrete fragments and plugging in my excess abundance of annuals

* using aforesaid concrete fragments to create an attractive border for our walkway

* foraging under the porch and in a heap of dirt in the alley for many attractive chunks of rock and concrete to create a makeshift walkway in from our back gate into the alley and a rock garden in a patch of dirt by the fence.

Such duties of garden beautification are solely mine. So what, you may ask, does Eamon do? Well, naturally, he is the lawn mower. But what with the fact that spring has only just sprung, he's yet to jump in to the world lawn-mowery just yet. Which was fine, until a generous cluster of rainstorms caused our back lawn to grown in an unprecendented burst of fecundity. And then he was sick with a fever all week.

So now, as you may guess, the corn is as high as an elephant's eye in the Daly backyard.

And thus it was when, just as I was winding down my gardening duties yesterday that young James, little brother to Jack, came toddling into my backyard. He's 1 1/2 years, and freakishly advanced for his age. I think he diapers himself.

Anyhoo, this was his first solo stroll out his parents gate and through ours, and he made a beeline for me as I stood, hose in hand. Jack, amused, looked on.

A few steps into the lawn, and he froze with a look of sudden fear. He turned back to Jack, and held his hand out to him for help.

That's right. Our lawn frightened a toddler.

It's time to mow.

Crazy Crap Item #71: The part where I make a new friend

Eamon just shaved off all his facial hair.

Kay, meet Eamon's upper lip. Eamon's upper lip, this is Kay.

Crazy Crap Item #70: The part where Jack takes a day off

We've all heard about Jack, my four-and-a-half-year-old neighbor. I wrote about him here. And here. And here.

Jack is fond of costumes. Typically, he roams the neighborhood dressed up as a builder, or Superman, or a fireman. Lately, though, the craze is for cowboys. Wearing his cowskin vest from last Halloween's Woody costume (from Toy Story fame), he rustles imaginary cattle all up and down Norwood Street. In fact, his preschool teacher just informed his family that he can no longer wear his cowboy boots to class, as their slippery soles are a hazard for fast-moving four-year-olds.

Well, yesterday afternoon, when I threw off the surly bonds of gainful employment and ventured out into the yard to bask in the youthful hijinx of my wee neighbors, I was surprised to discover that I barely recognized young Jack. He was wearing a sort of junior-version cabana shirt, khaki slacks and some very nice velcro sandals.

I commented on his sandals, and he replied, "I'm taking a day off from being a cowboy."

Crazy Crap Item #69: The part where I play Florence Nightingale

Eamon is ailing. This doesn't happen too often, but when it does, it's a whopper. He came home early from work the other day, popped a thermometer in his mouth, and discovered he had a fever of 103. (And yes, he made lots of jokes about being "hot blooded, check it and see.")

When Eamon gets sick, he behaves a bit like the family cat, hiding under the couch until he feels better. It's very frustrating for those of us who tend to feel all nurtur-y. He won't eat, won't be coddled, won't be tempted with delightful palliatives.

But today, he finally humored me by letting me prepare him some lunch. A peanut butter samitch. And milk. In bed.

I prepared said meal, and delivered it to him, setting it gently on his chest as he lay prone. He tried to reach for it with his tongue, and wailed for me to put it in his mouth. Which I did. "I wanted it rare," he grumbled.

I think he's feeling better.

Crazy Crap Item #68: The part where I didn't just fall off the turnip truck

Dear friends, Eamon and I are subject to insurance woes. As a self-employed freelancer married to a web programmer at an ultra-tiny company, we don't qualify for group insurance. So we've made recourse to buying our own, which, besides being expensive, is subject to all sorts of crazy exclusions. Like the cost of baby-having, which is a subject that's been on the table for some time. After just learning that we've just reached the point where we may be covered by our policy's maternity rider(which requires a 1-year waiting period prior to actual baby-having), our policy has been CANCELLED, a distressing situation which I am currently appealing. (Say some affirmations on my behalf, please.)

Anyhoo, I am not one to be blocked by petty obstacles, so in the face of adversity, I've decided to research my options. And lo and behold, I come across a company called "Maternity Card," which promises all sorts of fantabulous discounts on baby-having such as I only dare dream of. Well, I am skeptical, but put in my info to learn more anyway.

When I receive two email follow-ups by the very next morning, I am suspicious. In my experience, only scamsters are eager to provide such stellar service to inquiring prospective customers.

Before I even get a chance to review said emails (and their voluminous attachments attesting to the remarkable FABULOUSNESS of this service), I receive a phone call from their rep. As I am hard at work writing a fact sheet for a client (and I have not yet reviewed aforementioned emails), I do not pick up.

Within seconds, I receive an email with the subject heading "I tried to call you." This seems fishy to me. Why such diligence, unless you are trying to sell me a bill of goods? I skim the email, and I notice this postscript: "PS Because of the volume of inquiries we receive on a daily basis, we are able to keep files open for only a limited time."

I believe this is what is termed as the "hard sell." And friends, I'm not buying.

So canny web-researcher that I am, I head to Google and enter +"Maternity Card" +Scam.

And, oh, the riches I found.

Dearies, it's a scam. On message boards all over the Internet, burned mothers-to-be and their partners tell a tale of woe and broken promises. And the Better Business Bureau has logged 76 consumer complaints against the company in 36 months. Yikes.

Well, that's enough for me, so I opt out of future emails, and for good measure, reply to the rep the following message:

I've done some research on your company and have decided not to pursue this option. Please do not call me again.

Within minutes, I receive this rather lengthy -- and incorrectly addressed -- missive:

I certainly understand that reading a posting or negative info on the web is something to weigh before you make a decision to buy a product or service. But, before you make your final determination as to what is in your best interest, I would like to share with you some information that I believe you would want to know.

First, in virtually all of the cases that we see on the internet where a person posts negative information about our company that individual is either anonymous OR one of our competitors or both. We know for a fact that our competitors are actively creating negative postings under anonymous or false names or sometimes just using initials. And, we are not the only on-line victim. In the last year it has become a common business strategy. Unfortunately, there is NOTHING we can do to stop this practice.

If you are genuinely interested in getting all the facts, what we CAN do is give you 3rd party sources that can be independently checked and verified. We stand publicly behind our product and unlike our anonymous detractors we want you to be fully informed. For your review, see the following:

· An ABC News video news story that profiles a recent Mom's experience about MaternityCard.com
· A CBS Market Watch article that gives examples of how we help Moms save thousands of dollars.
· Our Certificate of Guarantee that offers a better than money back promise.
· A Wall Street Journal article about our company
· And, a research article by Ken La Pensee, MPH, PhD explaining the challenges of "Mom's in the Middle” and MaternityCard.com
· Grace Report “Helping Uninsured Woman Pay OB’s for Pregnancy Care” by Robert L. Michel
· 4 testimonials from happy clients

Duncan, we have literally THOUSANDS of enrolled clients. And, yes, like all companies we are going to screw up or not perform as we wish sometimes. So that is why we have put in place a BETTER than money back performance guarantee to protect ALL of our clients. Our motto is “if you have to deliver so should we.” And, we ALWAYS honor our guarantee.

And, finally if I’m sounding defensive well, I DO take this personally. If you've ever been lied about it's very frustrating. We have NO way to refute these rumors except to give you all of the facts so you can have the opportunity to make the most informed decision that is in your best interest.

If after looking at the above you still feel that the postings or web info you read is more credible, we certainly understand. Just let me know your decision.

Thanks...

Once I'm done wiping the laugh-tears from my eyes, I respond thusly:

Wow. You've clearly written this letter before. And my name's not Duncan.

Believe it or not, this guy's so hungry for a sale, he responds again:

Sorry, copied and pasted. Yes, it is a pre written letter. When your competitors go online and start trash talking you, all you can do is have a response with accurate resources that will let you make a wise and accurately informed decision. If you still don’t want us to help you RISK FREE, even before speaking with me, I will be glad to close your file. I just hate to see someone pay more for their pregnancy than they have to.

Good luck and call me if you change your mind.

At this point, part of me wants to clarify that it wasn't his "competitors" that "trash talked" him, but rather, former clients in forums. But frankly, I've got an insurance company to fight with, so I need to let this rather amusing tete a tete wither on the vine.

Crazy Crap Item #67: The part where I know how Gypsy Rose Lee felt ... again

As you may recall, my husband has a penchant for regarding me as a stripper. This came to the fore yet again at a recent trip to Kohl's.

Many do not know this, but I actually do my best clothes shopping when Eamon is along. He makes me try on things I would never try on, and encourages me to express my inner 16-year-old, with often surprisingly successful results.

The down side is that occasionally, for Eamon, libido overrides both taste and common sense as he attempts to squeeze me into some truly unfortunate and inappropriate outfits. Thus it was as he handed me a striped halter top, asking, "How brave are you feeling?"

Well, I was feeling fairly brave, so I assented, returned to the fitting room, and strapped myself in. Friends, it was a sight to behold. I am not small-busted; colorful horizontal stripes across my rather ample endowment did nothing to minimize the effect. And then there was the deep front plunge, held up by only the tightest of knots secured around my neck.

In a word, I looked like a hoochie.

Bravely, I left the fitting room, caught Eamon's eye, and announced to all the world that I was a hoochy mama. He gave the top an appraising glance through squinted eyes. For a moment, there was a glimmer of hope on his face -- as if to say, maybe, just maybe I could be convinced to wear this outfit into society. But then he faced reality.

"No," he admitted, "that really is too hoochie."

A clerk, strolling by, opined, "Well, maybe ... " Then her face fell. "No, I guess not."

I know hoochie when I see it.

Crazy Crap Item #66: The part where Eamon alarms me over IM

Sometimes, instant messenger is not such a good thing:

kay: oh dear god:
kay: 'LESTAT' Opens Tuesday. Elton John and Bernie Taupin have a good track record for making pop hits, but can they find success in the cursed genre of the vampire musical?
eamondaly: oh sweet hominy.
kay: what???
eamon: oh, i say that now.
eamon: i'm trying to vary my ejaculations.

Crazy Crap Item #65: The part where I learn something new about Broadway

From the New York Times:

'LESTAT' Opens Tuesday. Elton John and Bernie Taupin have a good track record for making pop hits, but can they find success in the cursed genre of the vampire musical?

So, the 'vampire musical' is an established genre. Who knew?

Crazy Crap Item #64: The part where I reckon with the awesome power of a 14-year-old girl's obsession with doomed love

This Easter, Eamon and I spent a lovely long weekend in the sylvan setting of the Daly estate -- this being the fabulous house Eamon's folks built in Fox Lake. It's on a lake, surrounded by foliage, wildlife, and so forth. Quite stunning.

Eamon was tending to the computer duties (upgrading his folks' computer's operating system), so I had a bit of time to myself. And Eamon's mother has a beautiful baby grand piano, set just in front of an expansive window overlooking the lake. So clearly, I had to try to play.

Dear friends, I am no piano whiz bang. I played a little piano from age 11 to age 15. The journey started at the local parks rec with a program involving lots of chords, and ended when I discovered my piano teacher also taught voice. I've barely sat down to the keyboard since, except to run vocal scales, prepare for musical theater auditions, and butcher the opening of "Under the Bamboo Tree" in a student production of Meet Me In St. Louis at Northwestern University.

Still, I like to try to plink out a tune or two every now and again, and it's always fun to see what riffs stick in my head, and what chords are utterly outside of my realm of recollection. Luckily, Eamon's mother, Helena, has a whole library of music books -- including lots of showtunes -- and more than a few are familiar to me. There are even some that were -- gasp! -- once part of my repertoire.

So as you can imagine, it was quite a little trip down memory lane to tinkle the ivories this past weekend. And it was nice to see that when my pathetic sightreading skills totally failed me -- which was frequently -- I still remembered my chords well enough to lean heavily on the accompanying notation to improvise the left hand. Using this dubious method, I plowed through "Edelweiss," "Try to remember," "Someone to Watch Over Me," and other such goodies.

And then a wondrous thing happened. I picked up "Maria" from West Side Story. And played through it, surprisingly well. And then "Somewhere." And then "One Hand, One Heart." I can't claim they were perfect, but they were oddly polished.

The reason?

Dear friends, I was once a 14-year-old girl. And like any 14-year-old girl, I knew that only I could understand the unbearable, unimaginable pain of perfect love thwarted. Playing these songs wasn't practice. It was like a holy act of worship. A deep expression of all that was profoundly meaningful.

And friends, when you've touched the very meaning of the human soul, you don't need chord charts. Not even 25 years later.

Crazy Crap Item #63: The part where I play the pedant

I've decided I'm the only person in the world who knows the difference between "review" and "revue."

I'm just sayin', is all.

Crazy Crap Item #62: The part where I am once again mistaken for a bleach-blond rightie

So today, after long delay, I have opened my mail. Mind you, I generally attend to bills, paychecks, and anything that looks interesting immediately. It’s all the rest of the crap that goes into the ‘I’ll see to that later’ pile.

Included in this pile was an envelope with the return address of “Vision America.” Naturally, I assumed it was some sort of two-for-one eyeglass deal, and since I am as blind as the day is long, I filed it away to squint at later.

Later is today, and what do I discover but that “Vision America” is no such LensCrafter knock-off, but instead an organization bearing the tagline “Restoring the Original American Vision”!

First off, speaking as the writer of many a tagline, I must say, this is simply shoddy copywriting. The first rule of tagline writing is that you don’t have many words, so you make every one count. And, I think it can safely be said that REPEATING EVERY WORD OF THE NAME OF THE ORGANIZATION WITHIN THE TAGLINE is not good use of copywriting real-estate.

But honestly, upon opening the letter, that was not the first thing I noticed. It was the following phrases within in the letter which really caught my eye:

“Christianity is under assault in America”
“War on Christians and Values Conference”

Hmm, thought I. This may not be an eyeglass brochure after all.

A glance at the organization’s board of directors confirmed this notion. Last time I checked, Jerry Falwell is not an optometrist.

And here, dear friends, is the letter in toto:
Dear Kay,

Thank you for investing your time and gifts in advancing our message that Christianity is under assault in America, at our recent “War on Christians and Values Voters Conference.” I know that among your most precious possessions are your time and reputation, and last week you contributed both to the work of Vision America. I am grateful beyond measure and offer mine to any causes you advance in return.

My wife and I were in a hotel room late Friday night in Houston, where I spoke over the weekend. We were channel surfing and we saw Bill Maher in front of a picture of Omni Shoreham. That caused us to pause for a moment, and sure enough, he was ridiculing our conference. In the course of his remarks, he ended with a passionate plea for some true persecution of folks like you and me. We turned it off and praised God that we were worthy of being hated by the likes of Bill Maher. Maher, while denying and ridiculing the assertion that Christianity is under attack, was attacking Christianity.

We who love this country and understand the real nature of the culture war have much to do. I am thankful for the privilege of standing in your shadow and find joy in praying for your continuing success. When the CD’s are completed we will send you a copy of your presentation. If you would like a whole set, let us know.

For many of you, there is no mystery in this missive. I’ve long since established the existence of my alter ego. Once again I have been mistaken for a bleach-blond Coulter in training. Sad, but apparently unavoidable.

There's nothing so totally remarkable about the missive -- except that "Vision America" seems to invite guests to speak without collecting accurate contact information, which strikes me as sloppy, at the very least.

Mayhap I should add a tagline of my own to my professional website:

"Not that Kay Daly, I'm the sane one"

Crazy Crap Item #61: The part where I see the first robin of spring, Norwood Street style

Norwood Street is a nice place to live. We have traditions. Block parties. Neighborhood get-togethers. An honest-to-goodness Easter Egg hunt. Seriously.

But to my mind, no neighborhood tradition is as treasured as the yearly appearance of that harbinger of spring, Delores McDermott.

Delores lives across the street from us. She's 80-something, and has lived here for something like 125 years. Of her activities, I'm aware mainly of two: (1.) Delores sitting in her front window, watching the world go by; (2.) Delores sitting in her folding chair in her driveway, watching the world go by.

Eamon and I delight in Delores' neighborhood vigil, as we like to call it. She sits there, awash in a sense of serene benignity, making sure everything is alright on Norwood Street. As a result of her vigilence, we're kept abreast of all the important doings of our bustling street. For example, it was Delores who solved the mystery of the missing pumpkins.

Rumor has it, in years gone by, her folding chair vigil was shared with the former occupant of our home, Mrs. O'Malley, familiarly known as "Babe." In fine weather, she and Babe would meet for a vigil-a-deux; one day in Delores' driveway; the next on Babe's front lawn. Between them: a bucket of beers.

Those days are gone, but Delores keeps up her vigil solo. Which is why I was so pleased today to look out my office window and see Delores standing in her driveway, inspecting an army of nursery school students as the tottered up our cross street from the park to St. Gert's, our local Catholic church. Hands on hips, unsmilingly attentive. It's still too cold to set out the lawnchair, but I see this initial foray to the driveway as a harbinger of warmer days when Delores will sit in state once again.

Crazy Crap Item #60: The part where I actually hear good vision

If you haven't already, be sure to go to this site to hear the fantastic Glaucoma hymn. Just go there, and make sure your sound is on. That is all.

Crazy Crap Item #59: The part where I break the bank, Kay-style

Dear friends, I am not a fashion plate. I have gone through phases in my life where nearly every article of clothing I owned was either purchased from a thrift store or given to me aS hand-me-downs. I've worn '80s tunics in the mid-'90s, and still own Tshirts that advertise musicals I appeared in when I was a newly minted college graduate. I've treasured outfits that would only remain on my body if they were safety-pinned into place.

But every now and again, I feel like stylin'. Old-school stylin'. And thanks to "What Not To Wear," I've developed a new mantra: If the outfit looks bad, it's the outfit's fault. Which has done wonders to change my habitual hatred of cramped dressingrooms and 3-way mirrors.

So that's what happened this weekend. Most unaccountably, I wanted to try on clothes. I wanted to hear the static crackle in my hair as I pull yet one more knit top over my head. I wanted to give a pair of open-toed sandals a tryout as I perused the purses.

And I did.

Which leads to today's riddle:

How much shit can you get for $300 at TJ Maxx and Kohl's?

Answer: A whole lotta shit. And I did.

Crazy Crap Item #58: The part where Carol Burnett disses me

Ok, so I had a very strange dream last night. I dreamt that I had been in a performance of the musical, Once Upon a Mattress, a fairly dreary little show based on the fairy tale "The Princess and the Pea." I played the lead role, Winifred, a role originated by Carol Burnett on Broadway. Winifred, also known as 'Fred' is a rather ballsy, slapstick comedien with a big belt voice. I really don't fit the role, and have never wanted to play her.

Anyhoo, in my dream, my dear friend Michael Shattner informed me that he heard that Carol Burnett had seen my production, and had declared that my scene work was the worst she'd ever seen come out of Yale Theater School.

This distressed me throughout the dream and into my waking hours, until I finally realized that NONE OF IT MADE ANY SENSE.

Oh, how I loved waking up.

Crazy Crap Item #57: The part where I ponder the implications of toothlessness

Dear friends: All is not well in Daly mouthdom. Despite years of frenetic brushing, regular dental visits, and dungeon-of-horrors orthodonture, I approach mid-life with a mouth that is about to be declared a federal disaster area.

Why? Who's to say? In part, it's my pre-disposition for cavities, which left all my molars scarred with big silver fillings by the time I turned 12. And the recession of my gums, variously explained as a biproduct of braces, the result of too-vigorous brushing, and the sad outcome of chronic teethgrinding. My jaw-gnashing ways have also, apparently, cause cracking in nearly all my molars. And then, add to that the quack dentist who insisted on replacing all my old but perfectly servicable metal fillings with new resin ones -- at my expense, of course -- which resulted in the death of one tooth, a root canal and crown.

Anyhoo, the upshot is, my mouth and I are not friends. I mainline Sensodyne, and live in fear of yet one more bout of aching jaw and shooting pains.

But all this mayhem has led me to an interesting realization. That is, as unpleasant as dental work can be, the absolute worst part is not the drill or shots. Lately, I've had ample opportunity to ponder this fact. During my most recent check up, I was informed that one of my fillings --yes, one of my relatively brand-new resin fillings -- had failed. I needed ... another crown.

I'm a big girl. I can handle it. And by and large, it was unpleasant, but not excruciating. The dentist shot me with big needles. She poked and prodded. She drilled. She thrust applicators filled with nasty, ill-tasting goo onto my molars, and pressed down, forcing slimy-cold tendrils of molding plaster in and around my gumline.

But the only truly awful moment in the entire hour-and-a-half ordeal occured when the doctor stepped away from the chair. It was then I was left at my leisure to probe the mangled remains of my mouth.

I sat there, obsessively tonguing the sad little nub that was once my tooth, and it was then that I was struck with a frightening reality: I am going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not soon. But eventually, and irrevocably, dead. Each day I live, I'm wearing away just a bit more of my mortal coil. My skin will lose its luster. My chin will droop. And eventually, I will be just a pile of dust.

Would I like a free tooth brush? Samples of enamel whiteners? Sure, why not. It's all going the same place.

Crazy Crap Item #56: The part where I receive sage advice from my sister-in-law

Eamon's little sister Nora is living the dream. Fed up with her paper-pushing real-estate management job, she ditched it all to travel Europe with her boyfriend, Stephen. A laudable decision.

And, an entertaining one, as she has been sending regular missives home recounting her adventures -- along with occasional pithy pieces of advice. To whit:

i have to say that when i ran down my list of things to be worried about crossing the black sea via ferry to istanbul "stephen being headbutted by short insane drunken ukrainian in the disco bar" was decidedly NOT one of them. just goes to show that worrying or even trying to prepare yourself is useless while traveling 'cause really god knows what the heck will happen to you along the way and things will always turn out more surprising and bizarre than you could ever imagine!

Sage words, indeed.

Crazy Crap Item #55: The part where I discover that spellcheck is my friend

I just discovered I have no idea how to spell "kaleidoscope." All that education for nuttin'.

Crazy Crap Item #54: The part where I hear echoes of Fitzgerald

Speaking of corned beef, I was the grateful recipient of said meatstuff from my neighbors, the Caseys. Apparently, they had obtained a rather large specimen of the aforementioned cured meat, and were planning to cook it on Friday, March 17. But a dilemma arose: Young Jack and James Casey, ages 4 1/2 and 1 1/2 respectively, needed haircuts! And the beast was already in the oven! Where to turn for meat-sitting services??

Thankfully, the Caseys dwell beside a shiftless, excuse-for-doing-nothing-seeker who poses as a freelance writer. A cup of tea and a good book were all I needed to fill the role of meat-sitter while Ann (Mama Casey) took the wee heads in for shearing. As a reward, I was bestowed with a delicious helping of corned beef, all for myself.

Fastforward to today. As I am a a shiftless, excuse-for-doing-nothing-seeker, and because I spent the morning getting a tooth crowned (ugh), I decided that I needed to make some crepes. Reasons: (a.) They are delicious. (b.) I happen to be very good at making crepes. (c.) They are soothing, and after 1 1/2 hours in the dentist's chair, I decided I deserved some soothing. As my little mountain of crepes grew, I thought, "Aha! I can use these crepes as a 'thank you' for the corned beef, and as a way to return the Caseys' tupperware." The tupperware being the vessel which had previously contained said c.b.

So one pile of crepes later, I'm at the Caseys' door, tupperware in hand. Ann answers, joined by Jack, resplendent in his Superman shirt. And bouncing. Not manic, jittery boucing. True, deep bounds, summoned up from the energy of the earth below, executed with a deliberation and concentration usually seen in world-class chess masters.

I commented on the bouncing, but he was in no mood for talking.

Given Jack's generally acknowledged affection for me, my diggable backyard and my penchant for playing along with his identity du jour (superhero, builderman, fireman, pirate, etc.), it was hard not to interpret his bouncing as an attempt at wooing my favor. And it's then I heard F. Scott Fitzgerald whispering in my ear:

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry, 'Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!'

Crazy Crap Item #53: The part where I am again reminded how much I love Chicago

Young Roxi has brought this to my attention:

The Cardinal made an official dispensation that we could eat cornedbeef on St. Patrick's day, even though it falls on a Friday this year.

Man, I love Chicago.

Crazy Crap Item #52: The part where I give a shout out to the Potts

Looking at my extended family, it's clear I have the least-likely relatives. Seriously. None of my cousins look or seem like they should be in any way connected to me. They don't look like me. They don't act like me. Nada.

But of all my cousins, the least likely of all were the Potts boys. I use the term 'boys' loosely; all three are well over 6 feet tall. And gangly. And oddly alternative, though not in the tired, flannel-wearing, trendier-than-though Seattle way.

No, I'm talking 6 foot 5, eye-glass-wearing, punk-music-playing, art-school-attending, plumbing store-owning oddness. Fabulous, fabulous oddness.

But perhaps I should back up a bit.

The Potts, consisting of:

Norm Potts: the uncle, my dad's brother-in-law, now sadly deceased. Enormously tall, with a visage like a character out of a Dickens novel. He owned a plumbing supply store, the aptly named Potts Plumbing. It was legendary all over San Gabriel Valley for its remarkable inventory, helpful staff, and sexy stock girls. I should know. I worked there during the summers.

Anyway, Norm was splendid, a quiet, wry giant, with a stealthy sense of humor that sneaked in around the edges. He was slow and meditative, and he'd regularly steal nips from a mysterious bottle he kept stashed in the plumbing store breakroom. He referred to it as his "cough syrup"; when ever he went in for a nip, he'd pound his chest, hack, and declare that he felt a spell coming on. At some point, my sister added a label to the bottle. "Hazardous Material."

Aunt Doris: my father's sister. Sharp-witted, often sharp-tongued, she once commented that her favorite character was Lady Macbeth. She was resolutely non-girly, except when it came to baking. Then, she was all-girl.

The Potts house was a thing of glory and wonder to a small child. They had an abundance of, yes, crazy crap. Such as the dried blowfish on the mantle. And Uncle Norm's stand-up bass fiddle in the living room (I never heard him play). And a rinky tink piano in the dining room. And an authentic pachinko game in one of the bedrooms. And an honest-to-god geodesic dome in the backyard.

And of course, the house was strewed with a variety of art projects created by the Potts boys. My favorite: a terrarium containing a tiny model village, being destroyed by a rampaging monster consisting of parts from a mailman, a dog, and Godzilla.

And since I've introduced their art projects, I might as well get to the boys themselves.

Tom: The eldest, tall and lanky with a big, mountain-man beard. Tom worked the 6am to 2pm shift at the plumbing store. Highly educated, but changed his major so frequently, rumor was they kicked him out before he earned his degree. He also helped numerous friends ace the GREs. A bit of a loner, he joins me in being the only member of our extended family to (gasp!) leave Southern California. A few years after I moved to Chicago, he bought a unibomber style cabin in Montana. Mountain man Tom we call him. From thence, he runs an online business connecting people with faucet stems, in tandem with his brother Joe (see below). Joe just launched their website. Don't miss Joe's cartoon rendition of his brother in the "Ask Tom" section.

Joe: The next brother down, but just as tall and lanky. I recall a sort of outgrown mop-top haircut. In fact, what with the artsyness and longish hair, I remember thinking as a small child that there was some unspoken connection between my cousins and The Beatles. It didn't help that he later married a woman of Japanese-American descent. Sure, she looked nothing like Yoko Ono, but what did I know?

Anyhoo, Joe was artsy with a capital A. He created funky pieces, and may have attended CalArts or some such long-haired institution. He was also part of LA's avantgarde punkish music scene, and made quite a name for himself. I like this write-up, which refers to his "strange sound pieces." Joe, like Tom, also plied his wares at the plumbing store by day. He was a crazy punk artists only in his off-hours.

Unlike Rick, who broke with tradition and forsook plumbing altogether, kind of like when Tevye's daughter leaves the faith in Fiddler on the Roof. Kind of. Like Joe, Rick dabbled in "strange sound recordings" -- both were part of the The Los Angeles Free Music Society, a movement I've never heard of until I started randomly googling all my relatives. Rick once entertained us with an improvised piano piece, in which the left and right hand parts are in different keys. Very freaky. When Rick got married, the theme was dinosaurs. The invitation had a photo of him and his betrothed in front of the Cabazon dinosaurs (near where my parents now live; alarming). The ceremony and reception were held in his parents' backyard; toy dinosaurs dressed as brides and grooms were hidden throughout the shrubbery. The cake had an erupting volcano. Awesome.

So this is a shout out to the Potts. Long may you wave.

Crazy Crap Item #51: The part where I contemplate my latent violent streak

Back when I was in college, I did a lot of original musicals written by friends from a course I took through the music department, Musical Theatre Workshop. One of these friends always contrived to put me in vamp numbers where I was gyrating and singing about vaguely off-color topics, such as the state of my virginity. Once, when it was pointed out to him that he kept doing this, he responded that it was funny to put me in sexy roles, because it was so against type.

Um, thanks.

I'm put in mind of this little exchange as I contemplate the feature I'm trying to write -- about boxing and theater. I've been stumped as to how to open it, so I decided to refer to not one but two other articles I've written about stage combat for inspiration. Yes, two.

What conclusion am I to draw from this? Am I assigned these pieces because it's so funny to think of wee kay engaging in fisticuffs?

Crazy Crap Item #50: The part where I dwell in the land of macho

Yesterday, dear friends, I stepped out of my comfort zone and into ... the south side. Let me be more specific. A south side boxing gym. Seriously.

I'm on assignment with Time Out to do a piece about play about boxing and such, and needed to attended rehearsal -- at a boxing gym -- in order to research the piece. I'll say no more, as I do not wish to steal my publication's thunder. But I can recount my little foray, which involved many narratable events.

First off, I initially drove right past the place. It's on the second floor of a crumbling warehouse, and I suspected I was the right address, but there was no drive-by friendly signage. Only a cop car out front.

Still, an assignment is an assignment, so I pulled a U-ie and parked. No signage, still, but I'm intrepid, so I wander toward the door. On the way, I figure I'll check out the parked cars for clues as to whether I'm on the right track, or instead wandering into a den of crack addicts. I spot one sporty vehicle, emblazoned with the message "www.boxerchick.com". I assume I'm in the right place.

Lo and behold, there is a sign on the door -- a battered, faded one -- that tells me that the gym is on the second floor. I push through the battered doors, and into a dingy, ill-lit stairwell. "Gym" and an arrow pointing up are stenciled on the wall in white. Similar signs all along the walls assure me I'm going in the right direction. Finally, I arrive at the landing, and there's a burly cop (or possibly a security guard, it's hard to tell) standing off the side, who ignores my greeting, and a daunting message on the door that says visitors are not permitted and all boxers must sign in. But there's no sign-in sheet. I look vaguely questioningly at again at the cop/security guard, but he ignores me, so I push open the door...

And I'm greeted by a cheerful, slightly harried looking yuppie woman, fluffy hair, pleasant grin, who sticks out her hand and asks if I'm Kay Daly. She's the publicist. She points out the obvious -- that the only boxers in the gym are part of the rehearsal.

The actors are drilling moves, and a photographer is shooting them, so I have a fun time observing and trying to stay out of the shots, all the time scribbling furious notes so I look duly like the girl reporter that I am.

I mention to the publicist that I wasn't sure if I was in the right place when I first drove up, meaning because there was so little signage, but I apparently trigger some other thought in her mind.

"I know!" she answers, "There were two cop cars and an ambulence when I showed up! I was thinking, what am I doing in this neighborhood!"

Anyhoo, whatever excitement the boys in blue attended to earlier, it's all over now, and it's pretty tranquil, except for the three women pummelling phantom boxers in front of the mirror.

The cop comes in and chatters amiably with the publicist. "I've never been in here before," he says. "This is really cool. It's like a movie set from the 1950s." I tend to agree, and am amused by his starstruck-edness.

Later I learn he had more than one reason to be starstuck. After his final departure, the publicist comes over to me laughing. "The cop gave me this," and she hands me a xeroxed, spiral bound document, with a black and white image of 5 white guys on the cover. Our cop is in a band. He thought the publicist might want to "keep him in mind" for any events she's got planned, so he went to his squad car to get her their promotional materials. They include a song list. Which, for some reason, includes "Mary Had a Little Lamb." I guess there's a lot of call for it at cop-band-playing fetes.

Crazy Crap Item #49: The part where I hang my head in shame.

I just discovered I have no idea how to spell ‘aficionado.’ And that’s after 2 ½ years of college Spanish! Me disgusto!

Crazy Crap Item #48: The part where I interact with Broadway history -- kind of

As I mentioned before, I'm putting together nominee profiles for the newly launched website for the Kevin Kline Awards. My friend Nicole, through her soon-to-be-launched venture, 3rdRowCenter, is providing content for the Kevin Kline site, and I'm playing girl reporter.

Anyhoo, so far I've completed five of my 10 profiles, but there's one name I've been putting off calling. Granted, that first step in cold-calling strangers is always hard, but when your stranger is an icon and a Drama Desk Award winner, multiply that by, oh, 100.

So who am I putting off? His name is Ken Page. Unless you're a Broadway geek, you've probably not heard of him. He made a huge hit in the original Broadway production of Ain't Misbehavin', and originated the role of Old Deuteronomy on Broadway in Cats. Let me say that again. I'm going to interview Old Deuteronomy. That's just too ... well ... crazy.

For the Broadway-impaired, he was also the voice of Ooogie Boogie in Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Okay, so I interview everyone I possibly can before I get to him, just to ensure that I have my confidence up. And I dial. And thankfully, I get an answering machine. I hate the cold call, and much prefer starting with an email inquiry to schedule a time. When no email is available, as in this case, leaving a message is the next best thing.

So, anyhoo, I start in on my message, and a few seconds ... HE PICKS UP. And I'm talking to a rather cheerful and chatty Oogie Boogie man, who tells me that he just woke up! At 11:45! That he was so happy that he'd actually awakened earlier at 8am, and thought he'd just lay in bed a bit, and he fell back to sleep! So could I call back in 30 minutes? I told him I'd be happy to call either then, or any other time that would be convenient to him. A half-hour is all he needs, he assures me, with an ingratiating Deuteronomy purr, all he needed was to get a cup of coffee.

I promise to call him back in a half hour, and sit back and giggle myself silly about waking up Old Deuteronomy.

Crazy Crap Item #47: The part where I gain a new perspective on things

This weekend, I was struck with spring fever. Which means spring cleaning. I'm not sure what possessed me, but I decided to clean all our upstairs windows inside and out.

What I found was amazing.

First off, after toddling onto my porch roof to get the outside of my office window, I discovered/realized that nearly all our windows are designed to tilt when detached, so you can clean the outside from the inside. Ah, the wonders of modern science.

Secondly, as vile and disgusting as the mix of dried mud and raindrops on the outside panes was, the yellow film that came off on my rag when I washed the inside panes was far more deplorable. The previous owner was, I understand, a heavy smoker.

Finally, now that my windows are clean, I'm stunned to discover what a lovely neighborhood I have. Who knew?

Crazy Crap Item #46: The part where I poll the readership about their dream life

OK, I've asked friends and family informally, but I feel like I want to get this on record. I have a kind of recurring dream. It's actually not really a recurring dream, per se, as much as a recurring dream motif. In it, I will be in some residence -- sometimes it's been an apartment I'm currently living in; other times, my childhood home; still other times, it's a completely imagined space that in my dream is my "home." My dream will be chugging along, when suddenly, someone will ask why I'm not using that other room. Or why we (my roommates and I) are only living in the small space we're living in, when the rest of the apartment is so nice.

At that point, I will notice a door I don't remember seeing before, and I'll open it, and -- voila! -- there it is: The rest of my living space. And it's usually pretty palatial. And well-appointed. And I'll smite my dream brow, and say/think, well, my goodness! I had no idea this was here! I could've been using this space all this time.

And then I wake up, with a lovely sense of excitement and optimism. I've come to refer to this motif as my "unfulfilled potential" dream, and after having it, I always wonder, "What potential am I not exploiting in my life?"

Anyone else had this dream?

Crazy Crap Item #45: The part where the world just keeps getting teenier

My good friend Nicole has enlisted me for an interesting project. She is launching a new website in St. Louis, and as part of her promotion, is providing content to the website for the all-new Kevin Kline Theater Awards in the same city. And she has kindly procured my services to create profiles of various nominees for said awards for the launch.

This is a fun and exciting project. However, I live in mortal terror of interviewing people until I have at least /some/ idea of their background, accomplishments, etc. So before I contact any of them, I do a little online research.

As I am doing so for the thrice-nominated Michael Hamilton of Stages St. Louis, what should I find but a page in which he is quoted touting a pair of casting directors. Which is perfectly fine, except that I know one of said directors -- and in fact, sold one of my first published articles based on a long interview with her.

And thus, the world grows just a bit teenier.

Crazy Crap Item #44: The part where the Dalys brush off their best silver

Dear friends, Eamon and I hosted ... a dinner party. I feel so very grown-up just saying it. We've hosted dinner parties in the past, but it always transports me back to the early '60s, when highballs ruled the wood-panelled den and rumaki danced trippingly on the tongue.

Dinner parties at the Dalys are quite the event, since my husband, as is well known, has a flair for the dramatic. I suggested we serve lasagne. I was scorned. Quail it would be. Quail cooked on small cans of pineapple juice, akin to miniature beer can chickens. Accompanied with a homemade pineapple-infused sauce and tri-color couscous. And of course, as a flourish, a towering and impressive pineapple-infused centerpiece. At least I set the table.

And where, you might ask, are the pictures of the dessert I so lovingly crafted from a kit purchased at William Sonoma -- the molten chocolate peppermint cake, artfully garnished with vanilla ice cream, crushed peppermint candy, chocolate wafers and fresh mint leaves??? Oddly, that didn't make into the camera phone. Funny that.

Crazy Crap Item #43: The part where I am provided with an invaluable resource for Shakespearean directors

Ms. Freilich, my dear friend, provided me with a link to this incredibly helpful compendium of tips for directors staging Shakespeare. Would that all such directors would make recourse to it.

Crazy Crap Item #42: The part where Eamon is threatened by a rival for the fair lady's hand

So after an afternoon of drafting copy for a brochure for a travel tour of the Old West, I decide to join my young friend, Jack, for some afternoon frolicks. Now 4 1/2 years old, Jack is fond of digging, and my yard is in such a state of disarray, it offers many a spot of bald dirt for his excavation pleasure.

As our brief respite draws to a close (it was quite chilly, and his mom and I agreed it was time to call it quits), Jack asks why I had come outside. I explain that I saw them out playing, so I came out to join him because I like him. He asks could I come out to play every day. I explain that I would come out any day that I could.

So then he asks: Does Eamon tell me when I could come out to play?

An interesting question. I explained that no, I come out all on my own. His mother adds that Eamon doesn't make decisions for me, and I don't make decisions for Eamon.

I suspect young Jack has identified a bearded stumbling block in the way of his romancing of his fair neighbor.

Crazy Crap Item #41: The part where I stumble into Asian hell

OK, so I'm doing research on the 1967 Julie Andrews movie Thoroughly Modern Millie in preparation to write a review of the stage version of same. For those of you who don't know, both the movie and stage version include a bizarre, uneasy, racist subplot about a white slavery kidnapping ring run by immigrants from Hong Kong. I am not kidding.

Anyhoo, I go to my favorite website of all time, IMDB, to refresh my memory of the cast, and what do I find?

Jack Soo .... Oriental #1
Pat Morita .... Oriental #2

Wow. All I can say is Wow.

Crazy Crap Item #40: The part where Eamon is caught in the act

Tonight, the last part of Olympic ice dancing is being broadcast, and of course, I'm so there. Eamon drifts in and out, going upstairs to watch 24, coming back to read on the couch beside me.

During the skate of American couple, Belben and Agosto, I happen to notice that Eamon's only pretending to read his comic book. That's right, he's watching skating.

His assessment? "He needs more 'zazz,'" he says of the male skater.

Crazy Crap Item #39: The part where I mourn in advance the untimely death of my husband

I've been on a health kick lately. Thanks to Weight Watchers, I've lost 9 lbs. since the start of the year. (15 to go. Ugh.) I went to a wellness workshop to help my tummy feel better, and picked up a diet/lifestyle plan to improve my gut help. And I've been working out 5 times per week. So my health is on the way to stellar.

Eamon? Not so much.

Just as there is a conservation of sleep in the Daly household (we've found that only one of us can get a good night's rest at a time), there seems to be conservation of health. As I power back more and more fresh veggies, Eamon has pioneered a way to mainline Kraft mac 'n' cheese directly into his veins.

His lunch yesterday? Behold.

I'm troubled, but I think I've figured it out. I'm 8 years older than him, and as is well-known, women tend to live longer than men. Clearly, he's just trying to time it out so we die at the same time.

Now that's love.

Crazy Crap Item #38: The part where I wax pithy

In my capacity as theater critic, I'm subjected to some good productions, and many, many very bad productions. Last night, sadly, I was witness to the latter. In case it ever comes up in daily conversations, please know: It is not a good idea to stage an obscure 16th-century play in a fieldhouse of a public park. It's doubly a not-good idea to people the cast with thespians who, apparently, have never undertaken a classical role before. Or maybe never acted before. It's hard to tell.

Anyhoo, during this ordeal, I noted something that caused some friends to say I should enshrine my wisdom on this point for all time. Here goes:

The number of times cast members ooze about "this amazingly talented group of people" in their program bios is inversely proportionate to the actual amount of talent on stage.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Crazy Crap Item #37: The part where the other guy outdoes himself

OK, so pairs long program. The last pair is from China, and they're planning a throw quad salcow. Yeah, QUAD. That's huge. And, alas, they munch it. The woman takes an awful, knee-crunching fall. But she gets up, they start over and they finish -- which is pretty spectactular. And they win silver.

But really, did the announcer need to say, of the female skater, "Who could believe someone so slight could have a heart as big as a skating rink"?

No, he really didn't need to say that.

Crazy Crap Item #36: The part where Dick outdoes himself

Still watching Olympic pairs skating. Dick Button is still waxing insane. So far:

-- He mentions that a Polish husband-and-wife skating team train at an ice complex in the wife's hometown. Auschwitz. But, Dick assures us, even though we have certain associations with it, now it's just a plain old town. Quoth Eamon: Hmmm. The holocaust mentioned at the Olympics. That's a first.

-- Also about the Polish couple: "They're sort of like the people you want to move next door. They won't put pitbulls in the back yard. And they're the kind of people you want to invite for dinner, and they won't spill wine on the table."

Way to babble, Dick.

Crazy Crap Item #35: The part where I begin to track the insanity at Turino

First off, can I say that I only recently that "Torino" and that place with the shroud were the same. So I'm not so bright.

But I am an avid figure skating fan, so of course, I'm on board for any Olympic figure skating mayhem they can bring my way. And naturally, the best part of Olympic figure skating is the utterly absurd commentary. I mean, even during the quasi-sanity of a non-Olympic year, figure skating commentary is fairly absurd. But you light that torch, and suddenly everyone behind a microphone goes entirely INSANE.

To whit, I sit here watching the short program for pairs skating, and Inoue and Baldwin make Olympic history with the first ever throw triple axel. Good for them, I say. But apparently, 'good for them' is not nearly colorful enough for color commentary.

"That was delicious," utters the aptly named Dick Button.

"That throw was like butter," quips Sandra Bezic.

Lordy.

Crazy Crap Item #34: The part where I weep for the next generation

Recently, Eamon and I attended a birthday party for a one-year-old. She is the second daughter of Eamon's cousin. Since we had missed her big sister's birthday party in November (she turned 4), we figured we ought to bring a gift for her as well.

So off we go to Toys R Us, for a bit of shopping. As we browse, I come across some dress-up costumes for kids. I recall that the last time I saw the four-year-old, she was obsessed with dressing up her Barbies, and dressing me in her doll clothes. I wore many a baby bonnet that day. So I'm thinking, hey, costume, good idea. And I take a closer look.

Well, my young ones, here's how it breaks down, according to the toy manufacturer. Score one for enforced gender roles!

Crazy Crap Item #33: The part where I feel like Gypsy Rose Lee

As part of my quest to lose 20 pounds and sustain a healthier lifestyle, I've been working out. Yes, I know. It's certainly not like me. I don't run unless someone's chasing me.

My weapon of choice is livingroom aerobics. See, I don't like to leave the house. And I hate running on treadmills and the like. Livingroom aerobics, aided by perky blond women in spandex on my TV, seems to do the trick. Plus, there's much to mock.

This morning, I came downstairs to prepare my livingroom gym, and lo and behold, there was Eamon sleeping the couch. He was out late at a fundraiser for Windy City Rollers, and didn't want to wake me when he came in. Thus, the couch-sleeping.

I ask if he minds if I work out, and he says he prefers I did. So I change into my workout clothes, get a glass of water, return to my makeshift gym only to find he's still there, on the couch.

"Oh, I thought you'd be moving."
"Do you want me to?"
"No, I don't care."

It seems that watching me workout in the morning, in front of a tv screen, with my back to him, is his own personal version of smut and eggs.

As I shake my thing, I glance back, and see that he's fiddling with his cell phone, which is not unusual. I turn back to the TV, only to hear an ominous click and whirr.

Yes, that was the camera in his cell phone. My gyrating buttocks are now captured for all posterity.

Fantastic.