This Has Gone Too Far

Look, I love the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York. I've watched it every Thanksgiving morning since I was a little girl. It's a holiday tradition. But in my mind, Macy's should stick with Thanksgiving, and leave the Fourth of July alone.

Alma Mater

I feel I have to let you all in on a dirty little secret.

I went to Northwestern.

I may have touched on this before, but something just happened that reminded me how much I hate to admit where I went to school.

I was in the lunchroom, having a pleasant conversation with a coworker who I know only vaguely but have consistently been civil and friendly with. He's just a sort of middle aged dorky guy with a short haircut and scuffy shoes, the kind you might find in any office, or in fact, any square mile of America. He's your basic nice guy. He was wearing a polo shirt that said "Illinois" on it in such a fashion that made another (female version of the above) colleague of ours comment, "Hey, did you go to U of I?" (That would be the University of Illinois for those of you slow on the uptake.)

So they began a conversation about U of I, where they both studied. She left with her lunch. We were both still microwaving. The chat went on, as lots of my friends went to U of I and I have some experience with Chambana. Which prompted him to ask me: Where did you go to school?

To which I replied: Northwestern.

To which he replied: Oh.

Not in the manner of "Oh, thank you for providing me with that simple fact." In the manner of "Ohhh, I see, Ms. Smarty Pants, semi-Ivy League, think you're better than everybody blue blood."

This is the almost universal response when I say where I went to school, and italways makes me feel like I've got to apologize for it, which I shouldn't really have to, seeing as I was smart enough to get in and smart enough to get the school and the government to pay for most of it. But I feel bad enough about walking around being American and white all the time. So add a little upper-crust-ness on top of that and I feel positively drowning in guilt.

Stupid, right? But I contend this isn't my fault. If people would just say "Oh" like "Oh" and not like they want to start a class war on my private-school ass, I wouldn't have to get all defensive. You should save the prole-angst for people who really deserve it, like those pricks who went to Harvard.

(PS: I've learned not to even mention NYU.)

Even If It Is Only 5 of Them

At least some of the people running this country aren't completely amoral and power-mad.

And Milwaukee

The CTA has re-done their on-board El announcements. Makes sense, of course, now that there's the Pink Line thrown into the mix, that some transfers, etc, would have to change. But they've also added cross-streets to the names of the stops. The first stop after mine on my morning commute? "Division and Milwaukee." Followed by Chicago and Milwaukee, and Grand and Milwaukee. I can't figure out the rationalization for this. I get that there are also Division, Chicago, and Grand stops on the Red Line, but really, do people forget what train they're on that easily? There are signs in the window that are clearly blue in color and have the name of the train. There are route maps in all the cars. Plus, people just know what train they just got on. The only people who wouldn't necessarily know what train they're on are tourists, but tourists won't know the significance of "and Milwaukee" anyway. You may as well say "and Mars." Can anyone think of a reason to add the cross-streets to the announcements? And is this being done on other lines, too?

A Night at the Races

Friday night was my first trip to the races. The horse races, of course. Although I'm pretty convinced that this was not what real horse racing is, because these guys had little carts and sat in what appeared to be a very awkward position behind the horse, instead of on top of them. They call this harness racing. To me it looks like a fake thing that people who couldn't do real horse racing made up, like when Americans invented a new kind of football because we were too fat and slow to play the real kind. But Todd assures me that this is in fact real horse racing.

Anyway, I did the typical novice thing of betting on the horse with the name I liked the best, rather than the ones that would actually win. This resulted in two devasting losses of $2 in a row, followed by a triumphant win of twenty cents. So I ended up down $3.80 for the night, plus the $2 entrance fee, $1 soda, and $1 brat (which, yes, tasted like it cost a dollar).

But the money was not the reason I went, nor the reason I'll go back. I'll go back because there's something tremendously exhilerating about standing at the white fence beside the track, ticket in hand, among dozens of other people with tickets in hand, some with plastic beers, one I swear to god chomping a big cigar underneath a bad combover, jumping and screaming expletives and encouragements at animals that could not care less as they rush into the last turn a blur of hooves and wheels and colors and riders' whips. And then you lose, and you stomp and curse, and you go back and do it all over again.

My Mouth

Because of a lack of insurance, I hadn't been to the dentist for four years. Now that I've got insurance and, naturally, a mouthful of bad-turning-worse teeth and bleeding gums, I called and made an appointment. A friend of mine recommended a high-tech, boutique-y place called Floss in our neighborhood which is, conveniently, entirely covered by my plan. I headed over there after work yesterday.

My first thought, heading down the little garden alley toward the door, was that I was going to the dentist in Paris. Pretty gated walkway, flowers and plants, situated between a home decor shop and a store full of fruit-colored purses. I was greeted pleasantly by name, although it was my first time there, given the usual forms to fill out, and was offered cool water in an actual glass with a coaster while I sat on a leather couch. This place was more swank than the restaurants I typically eat at. There were even flat-screen panels above the chair where you could watch DVDs. (Please note that Sex and the City was my choice.)

The dentist got right down to business, taking x-rays, explaining to me in a friendly but serious manner that I needed to floss because not doing it was causing my teeth to rot. (I have a ridiculous number of cavities that I feel too embarassed to reveal here.) Then she started in on the cleaning. Her husband was the hygenist, helping out with the suction bit that has to be the least cool job on the planet. But he was cheery enough about it.

While they were cleaning away with their hands jammed in my unhappy mouth, they were discussing the various things that a couple might discuss, say, sitting on the couch at home. Beginning with (prompted by SATC) pubic hair shaving. First her (very personal) take. Then his (secondhand via a buddy). Then talk about bleaching a rather sensitive part of the body that you'd think you could just leave alone, but apparently no. After this conversation, the dentist said something that she emphasized with the word "fucking." Suddenly, she stopped, pulled her hands out of my mouth, and apologized profusely. "I'm so sorry," she said, "it's all that Chappelle Show."

Now does that strike you odd? It strikes me. Because clearly, I'm a young hip person. I was watching Sex and the City (unrated). I listened to them discuss intimate subjects. Why would I be fine with that, and offended by her saying "fucking"? It boggles. The entire trip was bizarre. But she was a really good dentist, and like I said, I wasn't offended, so I'm going back. I have to. All these fucking cavities.

A Snippet of My Misspent Youth

This morning, while walking to work, I was accosted by a member of one of my favorite evangelical groups, Jews for Jesus. I've never had the energy to actually converse with one of these individuals, but I gather from their confusing name and their wonderfully illustrated pamphlets that they're a tad on the crazy side. But this morning's brief encounter reminded me of an episode from back in the day. This particular day that we're going back to occurred when I was a perfect squall of imbalanced hormones, drugstore hair dye, and raw nerve endings. I was 16 and living in Manhattan for the summer, attending a writing workshop. That's right, I was a 16-year-old angst-ridden poet unleashed on that most hip of towns. I was a damn mess.

I spent a good portion of my summer not up in Morningside Heights, where I was meant to be studying and working, but down in the Village, exploring what I could find of the seedy underbelly of the city (which I did not realize had long ago migrated, but I was working off books and music of several decades ago). Anyway, my buddy Will and I were on that famous St. Mark's Place headed to the (late, lamented) Coney Island High (which upon arrival in New York I thought was a high school in Brooklyn). We were killing time before a show and just walking around when a friendly seeming guy handed me a little pink pamphlet. Just a photocopied, folded-over paper. I looked at it and the cover had a picture of a man saying "Atheists..." At the time I was completely at sea about my own spirituality and, out of frustration, was an atheist. So I took it and said, "Cool, I'm an atheist!" (Please, I was 16. And from the suburbs.)

I walked down the street, reading the pamphlet, only to realize that it was of course not PRO-atheist but rather trying to explain to atheists why they should, instead, be Jews for Jesus. I believe I tossed the thing in disgust and was truly angry that the guy on the street corner had tricked me into thinking he was on my side.

Just remembering all this made me both wistful that I'd ever been so young and happy that I'm not any more.

My Dirty Mind

Just opened up the Metromix home page and I see that they've got an article on things you can do with cucumbers. Come on, people, it's already Pride Week, don't make it so easy!

The Slate Club

I am a member of the Slate Club as, apparently, millions of other people are. (Although I have to object to their philosophy of not using sources or fact-checking. Those to me seem pretty important, especially if you're going to be as opinionated and subjective as Slate is.) This week, they're doing a retrospective of their best work, which gives me a chance to link you to this story about Paxil, one of my all-time favorites not just from Slate, but of any magazine article I've ever read.

Report Finished... by Someone Else

Well, since I never bothered to finish my report on the weird Scientology exhibit at the Thompson Center, the Tribune decided to do the job for me. Thanks guys!

Checklist: This Weekend

Work happy hour with minor controversy: check.
Sox game with beer, bratwurst, fireworks, and a good guys' win: check.
Intestinal distress caused by above bratwurst: check.
Drive-in movie in the freezing cold: check.
Acquisition of a dining room table: check.
Going out to breakfast: check.
Awkward dinner with the extended family: double check (for double awkwardness).

Done and done.

For Those of Us with Wanderlust

Here's a new diversion: Lonely Planet's Bluelists. I've even got one in there, about my beloved hometown. See if you can find it!

Meta-ness

This made my head hurt. But read it anyway.

An Actual Sentence

This sentence appears in the first grade literacy textbook I'm currently editing:

"Sometimes girls wear me instead of pants."

OK, so it's a riddle where the answer is "skirt," but it just caused me to disturb our quiet cubicle-land by snorting pretty loud.

The Beginnings of a Report

This morning, I began an investigation into the bizarre display at the Thompson Center. Its title is Psychiatry: A Human Rights Abuse, and there are about a dozen large color panels set up in the main lobby with statistics about the torture, zombie-fying, and death of innocent people at the hands of psychiatrists. Not surprisingly, a pamphlet I picked up there was provided by the Citizens Commission on Human Rights, an off-shoot of the Church of Scientology, and included information from "American author, humanitarian and educator L. Ron Hubbard." All of this is very creepy in its own way, but you know, hooray for the First Amendment.

My main question is this. There's a notice posted that this display is sponsored by Kenneth Dunkin, Illinois State Representative, 5th District (that's Northwest Side-ish). Now, I've just started doing a little research on Mr. Dunkin, and one of the things I've found about him is that the National Alliance on Mental Illness praises him on their Web site (OK, they're not screaming from the rooftops, but they definitely call him a friend and thank him) as the sponsor of a bill benefitting people with mental illnesses. What gives here? I will do a little further digging and get back to you.

The Hair

I feel that I should address this, it being the biggest change in my life this month.

Under the conspiratorial persuasion of my boyfriend, my best friend, and my hair stylist, I decided to go blond. I did not want to. I don't really like blond hair on anyone. People whose hair is naturally blond, OK. Their coloring is usually such that they'd look silly with anything else. But I've never been one to think blonds have more fun. That is reserved for redheads.

Anyway, they all convinced me that I'd look gorgeous and they'd ALWAYS wanted me to be blond, and seeing as these are the three people who have the most stake in me looking good (well, not Kat, but she certainly wouldn't purposefully steer me wrong, she's not that kind of friend) I figured I'd go with it. I was fighting all the way. Even Friday night, when I was in the chair, color stripper on my head, I couldn't pick out a color. All of them looked bad to me. So I let Kat and Jude choose.

Five hours and I won't even mention how many dollars later, I have something on my head that might possibly be considered blond. [Important note: I want to make sure you understand that Jude did an excellent dye job. It's not like she fucked up the color, it's just that the color is blond. Which I agreed to. Unfortunately.] It's kinda cool on top, with coppery blond-y highlighty bits. But I can't quite reconcile myself to the picture of me in the mirror.

Maybe (probably) it says something bad about me that so much of my identity and self-image is tied up in my hair. Everyone else has told me that it looks good. It's definitely an in-between color; that is, next time I will either go more-blond or less-blond. And, as numerous people have pointed out, it's good for summer. I look slightly Californian (as Californian as a pudgy pasty Polack can). But I don't feel like me. Usually when I walk out of the salon I've got a spring in my step, a little extra oomph. But when I woke up Saturday morning and looked in the mirror and scared myself because there was a strange blond girl looking back at me, I didn't feel particularly oomph-y. Once in a while, it's nice to shake things up, but sometimes they don't shake out quite right.