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

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

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

Dig it. I disgruntled readers. I have arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He agreed he is very funny, and added:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What an odd fluke.

Then another:

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

and another:

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

And so forth.

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

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

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

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

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

Mars and Venus, folks. Mars and Venus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The job is in the bag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Somebody pooped in your yard!" she announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Or sand..." I added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy Crap Item #110: The part where I become an athletic supporter

As is well known to one and all, Eamon is a strong supporter of women's roller derby. In his role as head of Rules and Regulations (under the derby name Scorey Feldman) for the Windy City Rollers, he adds, subtracts, confers, fetches, carries, hectors, emails, and accepts phone calls at all hours of the day and night.

And me, my role is that of Derby Widow. I have few compatriots in this role, as the vast majority of people involved in women's roller derby are, well, women, and they tend to not have wives, for some reason. Added to that, I'm not much in way of a sports booster, so my support has been mainly of the moral variety.

But one recent weekend, that changed. During said weekend, I came became a full-fledged athletic supporter.

Eamon, you see, we invited to assist with an invitational derby tournament sponsored by the Philly Roller Girls. In a moment of giddy euphoria, for some reason, I agreed to attend along with him. And then, for some unfathomable reason, I suggested that I volunteer to assist as well.

Friends, this is a strange move for me. I'm not sports friendly, and generally do not enjoy mixing it up with the hu-mans. I prefer quite, homebound weekends, that include only occasional interactions with those very well known to me.

Eamon, however, took me up on my offer, and I soon we were wending our way to the City of Brotherly Love for a weekend of eight-wheeled action.

Here's a sum-up of some of the fun:

-- A sojourn in downtown Philly, where we viewed the Liberty Bell, toured the National Mint, and took many photos of Eamon on various staircases as Rocky

-- Visited a vegetarian-friendly pizzaria that boasted THE BEST VEGAN CAKE EVER CONSUMED. To clarify, I'm not a vegan. I don't like vegan baked goods. Yet this particular item -- a cupcake -- was the best I'd ever tasted. So we (Eamon and his derby compatriots) had the good pizza folk box up 1/2 of a chocolate cake and 1/2 of a vanilla cake, which we took back to the hotel for later snacking. It was the best idea ever.

-- Took a swim in hotel pool, and competed to demonstrate our various underwater ballet skills.

-- Retired to hotel room to watch "Snakes on a Plane" and eat aforesaid cakes. A perfect evening.

That was day 1. The next two days, we spent from sun-up till after hours serving as slaves at the derby fest. Eamon handled scoring. I was typically given the duty of tracking penalties-per-player on a big white board, then running over to team captains to show them how they were faring.

In the last round, this required racing /across/ the track as the skaters whizzed around, all for the greater glory of derby. Heaven help us. Eamon was impressed with my hustle.

Incidentally, I earned a lovely new derby nickname during the tourney. As is well known, Eamon is "Scorey Feldman." I was going by "Mrs. Feldman," just because I couldn't think of anything better, when someone said, "Why don't you be K-Feld?" Why indeed.

So just call me K-Feld from now on.

Crazy Crap Item #109: The part where Jack participates in the circle of life

Recently, I am told, Jack partook for the first time of chicken on the bone. This came by way of chicken wings which he lunched upon at the local Dominicks.

According to his mother Ann, the bone-in nature of this tidbit was confusing to young Jack.

"Is it alive?" he asked.

No, Ann assured him, the chicken that made up his meal was most assuredly dead. It just had bones in it just like when it was alive.

Jack gnawed a bit longer, then asked his mother, "When the farmer comes to kill the chicken, do you know where the graveyard is?"

Ann responded that she did not know.

Jack responded by dropping his jaw and pointing into his mouth.

And the circle of life keeps turning.

Crazy Crap Item #108: The part where I am chided by cousin Tom

Yes, I've been negligent. I've not blogged for a long time. And of those many of you who have complained, no one has been more bitter than my cousin Tom (commemorated previously here).

But unlike most the layabouts who complain about my lack of bloggery, Tom actually supplied something to fill in the gap left by my sloth. To wit, a tale of Montana madness:

I have one for you.

Last Saturday I had a bonfire party, burning up a small portion of the plethora of dead wood decorating my property. As my neighbor Chris ( as in Christine) lugged a 4 foot log toward the fire to add to its warmth, she slipped on an icy bit and went down hard, landing with a thump. Her comment, "SHIT! I landed on a knot and I think I broke a rib". She waved her arms around and you could here sort of a clicking noise. We had another beer and discussed if she should go to the emergency room or not, her point being that with a broken rib all they can do is to take it easy for a while. Eventually that clicking noise (which she insisted on exhibiting between glugs) convinced her husband to take her to the hospital. So, off they went to the local Marcus Daly Hospital (known locally as Carcass Daily) (no offence). When they got there the doors to the emergency entrance were locked. They beat on the glass for a while until a couple people showed up, apparently torn away from some really good TV show, but they didn't know how to open the doors. After much pantomime through the glass, my friends indicated they were sorry for the disturbance and that they would make the hour drive to hospital in Missoula. The doors were open in Missoula, X-rays and such, yes, the #10 rib is broken, can't really do much but tell you to take it easy, let pain be your guide, take some pain killers, here is a prescription. Too bad Chris's husband left his wallet at home and and she had no cash. After a combined pocket scrape and car search, with the surprise discovery of forgotten money, they came up with $41. The subscription (at the only all-night drugstore in Missoula) was $40 and change. The allergic reaction began about the time they got home, which is to say much vomiting - a lovely thing with a broken rib. Chris is a hardy Montana woman and she gutted it out until Monday after work, when she and her husband dropped by the local medical clinic to see if they could get her a pain killer that didn't make her barf. While there, she happened to mention that she was having some trouble breathing and she was sort of "puffy" from her waist to her neck. The doctor pulled her husband aside and said he had two choices - either call an ambulance, or take her directly ("and don't stop anywhere along the way") back to the hospital. Yes, indeed, all that vomiting in reaction to the pain killers had caused her broken rib to puncture her lung. As this is written, almost a week later, she has a suction tube in her sucking out liquid. Ah, the wonders of modern medicine. We should have had another beer and passed on the hospital. After all, all they can do is tell you to take it easy.

That is crazy crap Montana style.

Mountain Man Tom

Crazy Crap Item #107: The part where I realize I've been working in isolation for too long

So I'm writing some faculty profiles for a college website, and I'm struggling with the need to make these things interesting to high school seniors. I just scrapped a first draft of an opener, and hit upon something I liked better.

Pleased with myself, I said:

"That's got way more zazz."

Aloud.

I've been working from home for too long.

Crazy Crap Item #106: The part where Eamon looms large in the minds of the small.

Life is flying by, and here months have passed with no post from me. As a way to ease my way back into the world of bloggery, I'm going to shamelessly crib from some amusing emails from my neighbor Ann, mother of cowboy Jack and his younger sib James.

I like to think I'm a favorite of both boys, as I've stated in the past, due largely to my diggable yard, large cache of toys, and ability to hoist James on my shoulder and make him divebomb Jack.

Eamon, however, is a different story. He is a figure of mystery, appearing only seldom, when least expected. In the past, Jack has asked fishing questions about Eamon ("Does Eamon say when you can come out an play?," "Will Eamon get mad that you broke that flower pot?") attempting to divine his nature and function.

James has demonstrated a similar fascination, cataloguing in rote form the many states of Eamon's existince ("Eamon asleep. Eamon home. Eamon at work. Eamon coming home. Eamon in shower. Eamon here.")

Ann recently contributed two entries to the log of Casey-boy fascination with Eamon. They are as follows:

ENTRY 1 (This as a follow up to Eamon's appearance as Pumpkin Head at Halloween)
We have not yet put thrown away our little, decorative pumpkins. This morning James was walking around with one and I said to him “Are you my little pumpkin?” and so he went off into this pumpkin-themed stream of consciousness:
“I not a pumpkin
Eamon was pumpkin
Eamon was a pumpkin head
I don’t like Eamon pumpkin head
My daddy makes pumpkin pies -
a big mess
I don’t like pumpkin pies
I like TWO pumpkin pies!”

ENTRY 2
Last night James was playing his guitar and broke a string. He came into the kitchen where Jack and I were sitting. He came to me first and asked “Can you fix it mama?” and I said “I don’t think I can”

So he moved on “Can you fix it Jack?” And Jack said “No James, I can’t fix it.” James started to get upset and then Jack said “But I know who CAN fix it…..Eamon’s Dad! He can fix anything. He’s a fix-it guy!”

James calmed down instantly --- problem solved.

Crazy Crap Item #105: The part where I get a clear demonstration of the fact that you get more flies with honey ...

My friendship with young Jack, the cowboy, continues unabated. But a new rapport has developed with his little brother, James, age 2. James is teeny, and thus very easy to hoist up on to my shoulder for a flight around the yard. He's also quite fond of our change jar, and finds any way he can to weasel in and make off with wee fistfuls of quarters, proclaiming, "My money!" all the way.

This past Friday, Megan invited me over for an after-school gathering -- "Children running around and drinking" is what I was promised. I was primed for just such an event, as we had recently had our fall block party, for which I procured four boxes of mini corndogs -- all of which I'd forgotten to serve. So I offered to bring them as a child-sized repast.

Turns out, mini corndogs are excellent child-food, particularly to young James. He toddled up to me, his cheeks stuffed with cornmeal and encased meats, and when I asked if he liked corndogs, if they were tasty and delicious, he could only nod vigorously and sputter, "Yeah."

Now, part of my rapport with James entails asking him totally absurd questions so he can roll his eyes saucily at me, and drawl, "Nooooo." In that spirit, I demanded, "Give me your corndogs!"

He finished swallowing, rolled his eyes, and drawled, "Nooooo."

"Come on. Gimme your corndogs!!"

"Nooo!"

"Come on!" I put my hand out. "Hand 'em over. Gimme your corndogs."

Another denial.

So I changed my tack, expecting similar hilarious denials. I put on my saddest eyes. I leaned in very tenderly, and cooed pitiously.

"Please.... please give me your corndogs...?"

He froze. He stared at me.

"Please give me your corndogs."

He reached a tiny hand into his mouth and started to scrape the remaining sludge of chewed corndog off his tongue and handed it out to me.

Well, I did ask for it.

Crazy Crap Item #104: The part where Eamon gives himself a nickname

As is well known to anyone who knows me, I am a busty lass. I have always been so, since the day I donned my first bra in the 5th grade.

Today, Eamon commented on my bustiness.

"Proud," he called my endownment. "Bold."

"They are just doing what they do," I replied.

"That's all I ask of them," he said.

It was then that I began to expatiate upon the remarkable consistency of my bustiness, and how I was the envy of all women since it stays the same size regardless of fluctuations (frequent and dramatic) in my weight.

"I'm a C cup. Whether I weigh 120 or 150, I'm still a C cup."

"C cup!" Eamon exclaimed in horror. "I thought you were a D cup. I've been telling all my friends you were a D cup! You were measured!"

He refers to my recent foray into expensive bra buying, in which I endured an official, professional, tape-measured ordeal with a boldly lipsticked Jewish woman in Skokie.

I clarified: "I walked in wearing a 36 C. She told me I was actually 36 D. Then upgraded me to 38 D. Then after we tried on several bras, I walked out with a brand new 36 C."

He was dismayed. I continued: "It varies, I think, depending on the bra. The design and construction of each bra."

"Well," he replied, "I get to keep my nickname."

"What's that," I asked.

Long pause.

"Lucky."

Crazy Crap Item #103: The part where I finally document the Summer Block Party of '06

Yes, the block party was in July.

Yes, it's now September.

But it was an epic day, and it took me awhile to capture all the splendor. And you can read about it here.

Crazy Crap Item #102: The part where I'm nearly undone by macho posturings, overheard

A set-to outside my livingroom window. Sam, age 5, apparently in the midst of a run-in with Christophe, possibly age 8.

Quoth Christophe: "You want a piece of me, Sam? Bring it on."

This nearly kills me dead.

It's followed by a good deal of posturing in which various neighborhood citizens attempt to assert dominance by proxy.

Quoth Casey, age 5: "Oh, yeah? Well, I have a friend and his brother is TWELVE!"

Touche.

Crazy Crap Item #101: The part where Kristen weighs in on a summer block buster

"everything that you want to see a snake do on a plane, a snake does on a plane."