In Case of Emergency, Slice the Salami

What would be the last thing you eat before you die? People who love food ask this question to one another an ourselves a lot, a morbid amount actually. If I'm ever injured and need CPR, please administer it, but then also shove one of these items from my short list* in my mouth just in case I don't make it (in no particular order): 

Uni- (sea urchin, not to be confused with street urchin which I do not want in my mouth). You know the moment you walk onto the beach and that first breeze coming in off the ocean fills your entire body with clean, salt-water air and suddenly anything you were worrying about washes out of your mind with the receding waves? You can eat that, it's uni and its the most transformational food I've ever encountered. 

Mole salami from Salumi in Seattle- Mole is possibly one of the most complex and beautiful sauces that exists in the world. It tastes like all types of love. It usually has close to 30 ingredients, an abuela can spend days working on this black gold. Anyone who knows me probably knows my passion for cured meats. Even if we've only spoken briefly, I'm sure I mentioned something about sopressata or more likely salami. Marilyn and Armandino Batali  (Mario's parents) were brilliant enough to add components of mole to their incredible salami. I am inappropriate when I eat slices of this salami. I get goosebumps, I tear up, I make noises that I was actually embarrassed that my parents heard. The first time I tasted it I put my head down on the counter, asked for silence, and just started hitting the counter top with each chew. I'm not kidding. Luckily I was with my family and they have to still love me. 

Duck rillettes, tartines, cornichons, grainy Dijon- This will be the hardest to carry in a first-aid kit but it's critical that you have every component, ditch the band-aids to make room if you have to. Do you know why the French have a reputation for being culinary masters? Because they are. This dish of four components is simple, it's smart, it all works together...it's the exact opposite of the French government. 

Dill pickles- I prefer fermented versus vinegar, please note that somewhere. If there is an emergency and you have vinegar brined pickles, I will happily eat them. If there is an emergency and all you have is bread and butter pickles, I would sooner pass out and wait for a real rescue. These are near and dear to my heart, my grandmother made pickles and they are probably the first food I was truly obsessed with as a kid. My sisters and I once ate an entire jar of her pickles, drank the juice, barfed, and then tried to hid the evidence. We have an addiction, we are doing nothing to stop it. 

*List is subject to change and will be updated near the organ donation portion on my driver's license.  

What Happens When a Female Woody Allen Meets a Dutch Muppet

When I was in third grade I started taking gymnastics lessons. I actually wanted to take ballet but I couldn't convince any of my friends to switch. Either way I was interested in both for wardrobe reasons and I figured a leotard is a leotard. The first day of class I remember being told I couldn't wear tights with my leotard (I had early Edie Sedgwick aspirations), we had to put chalk on our hands which I found detestable from a sensory standpoint, and during class one someone explained the importance of tuck and roll. It was probably during the first class that someone said, "If you don't tuck your chin you could break your neck." That might be reasonable to say to most kids who don't have an insane memory and premature fear of death, however, I had seen "Harold and Maude" and totally knew where Harold was coming from. Those words, "You could break your neck" became a little cloud that hovered over every flip on the uneven bars, every somersault on the balance beam, with every move I feared paralysis or instant death. Perhaps needless to say I only lasted one session before deciding that no leotard was worth loosing the use of my lower limbs. When I was seventeen I started practicing yoga which I still continue to practice two or three times a week. After eleven years I still fear the hand and headstand..."I could break my neck" is on repeat during every attempt. I have a newish yoga instructor who, last night while I was once again flipping around attempting a handstand, just started very quietly saying "adventure" with each kick. After the third "adventure" I finally managed a handstand, it was glorious, and my fragile neck is intact. 

I think the worst thing that a nervous person could ever hear is, "The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself." I mean I love FDR, but as a rider on the fear train, I don’t need anyone to suggest that I should add fear to my list of worries. Despite what has been at times a general sense of Woody Allen-esque neurosis, I have managed to have a lot of adventures. Seven years ago I was on study abroad in Strasbourg, France (adventure!) and became roommates with Megan (whom I now refer to as my platonic life partner). Megan was probably the first person I had ever met who really encouraged me to take risks, certainly the first person that I believed when she told me I would be fine. Since that first day in France we have had many hilarious, awkward, and strange escapades across many countries, including a drunken promise to move back to France which we actually did, and we are continuing our antics here in Chicago. It’s a game changer of the largest proportion to have someone encouraging you to do things you would otherwise be too afraid to attempt, even better when that person loves your crazy ideas too. I feel lucky to have a posse of ladies here, my dear PLP at the helm, who are fearless and who constantly remind me to forget about the tuck and roll and just enjoy the somersault.

What Do You Doodle?

The best job I've ever had was the summer I worked a gelato stand in Kalamazoo. I had just graduated from high school and was living in my first apartment. I had a very old, very beautiful Schwinn (since stolen in Chicago) that I would ride to work. I would often eat peanut buttery gelato for lunch, because that peanut butter swirl added a lot of extra protein. For dessert I might have the raspberry tiramisu gelato with some hot fudge added. Since then I almost never eat sweets because I'm pretty sure I used up my lifetime supply of insulin. Surprisingly, the ice cream was not the number one reason this job was the greatest, it's that I worked alone and spent most of the day sketching and writing while listening to whatever stack of music I had brought from home that morning. Some of the ideas I came up with that summer fueled my writing in college for the next four years. Also, I probably ate my body weight in free ice cream. 


A few months ago I was approached by a dude at karaoke who started our conversation by asking me my major. It's been about six years since that has happened and while I guess I am old enough now to see that as a compliment, I was also grossed out because that meant I was being hit on by someone that I could have babysat for. I informed him that I was no longer in college but that I had a writing degree which prompted him to say, "So you work as a writer." Adorable. He was pretty sure that his School of the Art Institute degree in photography would get him a photography job right out of college. I miss those disillusioned days of art school when everyone thought their day job would be their creative careers. I was not willing to crush the baby photographer's dream in the smoky haze of the VFW, I believe years 24-28 will take of that sufficiently. 


Last week my Uncle Keith passed away. He was an incredibly talented woodturner who practiced his craft diligently for six decades, was a founding member of the American Association of Woodturners, and taught free classes to anyone interested in learning the art. He did not make his living as a woodturner but he did not let his day job define his life and he never stopped attending to what he loved to do. Throughout my time in southern Illinois last week I found myself continually impressed and inspired by that part of his life. I spent so many post-college years trying to figure out how to come up with a career that would fulfill all of my interests and creative life. I came up with some weird solutions, started applying for grad schools, and then stopped this November. I realized that what I really want to do is a lot of little creative things. I want to have time to work on my podcast, to start a screenplay project with a friend and fellow writer, I want to take odd little freelance projects, I want to start banjo lessons (wildcard!), I want to spend a Sunday afternoon writing this blog and not worrying about Monday morning. None of this is to say that I hate my job, I actually find it very entertaining, but I have given up on the idea that I will have the kind of career that is straightforward, "I do this, so I am this." The other day I was having a conversation with someone who was lamenting how much she hates asking and being asked the question "So, what do you do?" I suggested that we instead start asking, "So, what do you doodle?" I promise you that the answer will be so much more insightful. 

Staggers and the Jags

My grandfather had a saying, "Don't let your alligator mouth overload your hummingbird ass." I consider this to be a really good rule...that I never follow. When I was younger I used to have a terrible temper, I come by this honestly from my mom's side of the family. My three uncles, Gibson, Dennis, and Stephen, are ruddy-faced, quick with a joke, love whiskey first and beer second, but if they get their Irish up the party stops real fast. I somewhat notoriously lost my temper in fifth grade when I got into a fight with a boy who started a fight with my boyfriend. Some would later say I was trying to break up said fight (me), but I went about with all the rage my 11-year-old body could muster. I even took off my jacket as though I worried about blood splatters. 


There are about three bars in my neighborhood that I orbit around. I will confess that I am territorial and protective of each of them. These are the places where if I stop in for a drink I will likely know several people also hanging out or working behind the bar. There is a gnarly phenomenon amongst certain groups of Midwestern men in which they are so completely disrespectful to women it is unbelievable. Therein is the thing that makes me lose my temper these days in big, hot, profanity laden displays of fury. The list of skirmishes is long but here are three of my favorites from the last six months: When a dude told me that "Jolene" is a shitty song while I was singing it at my karaoke spot. When a dude asked if the chair next to me was taken and when I said yes he sat down anyway. When a dude said about me and a friend, "I don't know why these bitches are being so fucking stupid." That last one was a doozy and ended with him trying to sit in down at our table at which point I pulled the chair out from under him and kind of threw it...temper. In each of these cases the sense of entitlement is what kills me and they seem genuinely surprised when they get called out for acting like an utter dick weed. 


These men and the ladies they roll with (who seem to lack some sense of solidarity with their fellow females and no sense of how to dress in a seasonally appropriate way) have steadily taken over the neighborhood on the weekends. It used to be that they had the toehold on Bucktown and we all resolved to not to go north of North Ave. Well having ventured north of Division on a weekend for the first time in a long time, let me confirm that the Lincoln Park army has taken Wicker Park. I don't pretend to think that I'm not a part of gentrification albeit an earlier wave. But you know what I didn't do when I moved to the neighborhood, I didn't start calling the old Ukrainian women bitches and I didn't throw things at them from my moving car. Last night after leaving one of my three bars (the only one north of Division) I was waiting to cross an intersection with my friend Megan when she was hit in the chest with something thrown from a passing car. It's like it happened in slow motion, I saw the blur of the object, heard the thwack of something hitting her down coat, and then it landed at her feet. A chicken bone. Someone hit her with a chicken bone. They may have won the battle but we can win the war if we start throwing entire rotisserie chickens at any asshole wearing Ed Hardy. Follow me and my tiny fists of fury. 

Are You Ready For the Country?

I don't understand the suburbs. I never have and I'm guessing they aren't going to start making sense to me any time in the future. I think the suburbs are like purgatory, if purgatory means the worst part of heaven (I've been told there is no eating) and the worst part of hell (fire, brimstone, ect). They have some of the downsides of the city: houses close together, small yards, traffic. Then they also have downsides of the country: you have to drive everywhere, there isn't really neighborhoods, the surrounding areas are nothingness and highways. I'm not sure where the strip malls and bad chain restaurants fit in, but those are in the mix too. I say this speaking as someone who went to a suburb for the first time ever at the age of twenty. I'm a foreigner and I have no nostalgia for malls and P.F. Chang's. My friends who grew up on the suburbs have a real soft spot for that lifestyle. They would probably also hate where I grew up and wonder why someone would chose to live in a place where you have to worry about coyotes eating your pet ducks (and by "worry" I mean it happened...twice).  They would probably also be confused by having pet ducks. 


My parents moved to the country when my oldest sister was a toddler. To say that they were back to the land hippies is half true, my mom lived in town and was just along for the ride but my dad never really left the land. He grew up on a self-sufficient farm and lumber mill in Southern Illinois. They didn't have electricity until he was in junior high, indoor plumbing came along after he graduated high school. My aunts and uncles remember riding in a horse and wagon with my grandparents. Grocery shopping consisted of about five items that they didn't grow or raise themselves (sugar, salt, coffee, spices, flour). I remember being a kid and my dad saying to me, "Doesn't it bother you that you don't know where your milk comes from?" I think I was six and I had no idea what he was talking about. My parents tried to preserve a way of life that was and is continually vanishing, the connection between the land you live on and the food you eat. My sisters and I all hated it . 


Growing up I completely resented that my friends didn't have to do hard labor on the weekends an all summer long. Not once was I allowed to watch Saturday morning cartoons, though I did hear that they ruled. I was up early to can tomatoes, pick green beans, stack fire wood, or tap trees for maple syrup (this was in late winter early spring). Trying to describe the way I grew up starts to sound like an episode of "Little House on the Prairie" no one else I knew had to build a fire after school in a cast iron stove. I did get to cut the tall grass with a scythe and no one else I knew was allowed to use incredibly dangerous, sharp farm tools. Prize! My sisters and I constantly vowed that we would never, under any circumstances, have a garden or live in the country. It sucked. 


Distance makes the heart grow fonder and now that we can all choose the lives we want to lead, we all have a garden and all love Bluegrass (another thing we thought sucked). I am the age my dad was when he had my oldest sister and I get it dude, loud and clear. Last night I went to a square dance, I'm learning wood turning, I want to take fiddle lessons this spring, and I can't live without growing my own tomatoes in the summer. I love the city, I am in love with Chicago, but give it a few years and you will probably find me on a front porch in Louisville eating homemade pickles. This is my wildest dream. 

Ye olde back yard.

Heart-Shaped Everything

When I was fifteen I was dumped by some schmuck two days before Valentine's Day. Bad form dude, that could have waited until two days after, but then again he knocked up his next girlfriend so my guess is that his decision making skills weren't top shelf. I came home from school the day before Valentine's Day to the unpleasant discovery that our miniature dachshund (fancy talk for weiner dog) had made his own discovery of one pound of chocolate truffles that my mom was going to give me for the holiday. If this was ever thought to be legend, let me verify that chocolate does make dogs sick, righteously ill to be more specific. So I spent that afternoon cleaning up 19 little mounds of my very own Valentine's chocolate out of beige carpet while lamenting the loss of both a boy and a treat. It was a real bummer. 

Some people find it odd to celebrate Valentine's Day with your family. The Adams family calls bullshit, we would also like to invite you to dinner because we love guests. When I was growing up we always made each other cards. My mom would let us pick out special paper, stickers, heart-shaped doilies, I reliably wanted a metric ton of glitter, then my sisters and I would craft. On the actual holiday we would exchange cards, my mom would give us a little present, then we would eat holiday dinner. Starting around the time I was twelve that dinner became cream of morel soup (dried from the previous Spring's woodland hunting), bread and cheese, and my mom would make a Black Forest cake for dessert. This cake takes two days to make and is four layers, it's a goddamn serious endeavor. Overall we came up with the most rich, decadent meal that we could think of, it's like we were aiming for gout. 

This Valentine's Day wasn't shaping up to be that awesome. I spent most of the last week dreading it actually. Then yesterday I walked into my favorite bar, to listen to one of my favorite musicians, and saw three of my favorite people get so excited to see me. Then we spent the next two hours laughing so hard it bordered on crying/screaming. So today I went back to the roots so to speak, I spent the day telling the people that I love just how amazing I think they are. You're in the mix too, dear readers whoever you might be, you are my ultimate Valentine this year and I'm so grateful to have ever made you laugh, or think, or remember your own weird stories. Happy Valentine's Day, you're the heart of gold. 

"If he's crazy, what does that make you?"

If a man is walking toward a woman and he wants to make a provocative comment to her as they pass one another, he's got just enough time to get out two words. I have noticed this lately in my own strolls up and down Chicago Avenue. One recent example took place as I walked past a man asking other people for money but to me he made some kissy noises and said, "Baby, please!" I turned half expecting him to complete the line with "don't go" but instead noticed that he was standing a couple of feet away from what was pretty clearly his own poop. I have seen this dude before...peeing on the corner of Damen and Chicago while wearing giant, yellow waders. Chicago Ave is his oyster and apparently the metaphorical shell reminds him of a toilet seat. As I kept walking I remembered a similar scene as I walked past "El Moderno Mexico" on Ashland and a man who was peeing against the building turned and said, "How you doin' mamacita?" While more than two words I give him points for a) continuing to pee and b) saying that to me while I had to step over his stream of urine as is pooled on the sidewalk. Every once in a while I forget that I have a beacon for truly crazy strangers but rest assured the beacon never waivers. 


This started when I had my first few jobs in downtown Kalamazoo. In the center of the downtown area is the Rickman House which is a half-way house for mentally disabled adults. At any given time there was an amazing cast of characters roaming the city. One wore a huge feather headdress, and referred to himeself as The Chief (no, he was not aware he was making a reference to "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest"). One man was dressed as Uncle Sam complete with wig and flag and would propose marriage to every woman he saw. There was a very large woman who would often, I saw it more than three times, get naked and dance to her reflection in front window of one particular store (hilariously named The Mole Hole). Since I worked in coffee shops in Kalamazoo for years, if there is one thing crazy people like to do it is drink coffee for a million hours, I got to know my regulars very well. More than my fellow employees I started to notice that I was the one that they sought out and cornered with their poetry for hours. To be honest, they were just more interesting and much funnier than the majority of college kids that were also hanging out. Therein is the source of the beacon. People who are continually met with dismissal when they try to start a conversation are keenly aware of when there is a window in a listener. Let me state for the record that I have no poker face for anything, ever, at all, so whenever someone says something bonkers the window blows open. Like when a man said to me, "I would drink your bathwater!" I said, "That's disgusting!" Then we both laughed and walked away.


At this point in my life the people who know me the best, who have known me the longest say things like, "You have more weird interactions with strangers than anyone I've ever met." That is actually a quote directly following this example: while walking down Division I was mid-sentence with my companion when the homeless Rastafarian passing us held up his hand, we high-fived, and I continued my story without missing a beat. 

I'm Going to Call it Winsome Overall

The past few days have been win a little, lose a little, in constant rotation:

I went to a new friend's going away party, she's leaving at the end of the month. Lose. 

At said party I mostly talked to people I already know and like. During our conversations we came up with many brilliant ideas, including but not limited to, a strip club that only serves pizza called Pizza Ass. Also many great outfit ideas for raisins were mentioned. Win. 

At the end of the night I came home, ate a quesadilla, and fell asleep on the sofa until 7AM. Lose. 

Saturday I was editing Episode Two of Hot Air, which is funny. Win. 

I was un-showered, in slippers, reluctant to be upright, and not in my house. Lose. 

Sarah made me a Bloody Mary. Win. 

Later that night I met up with my Platonic Life Partner. Win. 

We had to wait in line to get into a neighborhood bar. Lose. 

Once inside it was pleasantly at capacity. Win. 

We both ordered the same $8 cocktail that tasted like Robitussin with egg whites. Lose.

We walked next door to a friend's birthday party. Win. 

I had to leave before the good DJ because of an early morning bris in the suburbs. Lose. 

I heard someone say, "Moheled again." Win. 

I woke up after four hours of sleep. Lose. 

Saw a text message that the bris was postponed so I went back to bed. Win.

Later found out it is because the little dude is sick. Lose. 

Watched the play-off game at the bar that is my equivalent of "Cheers" where there was a potluck starring chili. Win. 

I live in Chicago so the bar was full of Bears fans. Lose. 

Packer Win...win. 

I was hanging out with two dudes who give me shit constantly. Lose. 

I actually really like them and it reminded me that I miss hanging out with dude friends. Win. 

We drank really good bourbon. Win. 

When you start drinking at 2:00, 10:00 seems like a perfectly normal time to call it quits. Win. 

Baby I Know, The First Cut is the Deepest

I'll be the first to admit that some of my past ideas have had some flaws. For example an empire built on the phrase I coined, "Blerg is the new Aack" which caters to funny, single, women by referencing our leaders Liz Lemon and Cathy (note, ironic funny only). Also a list of the most awkward Ikea furniture names is pretty short lived, but the idea of buying a bookshelf called the qüeef still makes me laugh. I will never concede that the quiz show "My Golden
Moment" in which you have to pick the activity taken from the day or week, depending on how elderly you keep it, is the most Golden Girls-esque. Feel free to answer: What is my Golden Moment? 
A) Finding the "perfect" cardigan B) Attending a 78-year-old's karaoke birthday party on a Saturday night C) Successfully repairing your favorite pair of Hush Puppy loafers. 

A few months ago two of my friends and I decided to start a podcast because we realized that our interactions with each other already sounded like a show. We crack ourselves up and often when we spend time with other people they seem to think we are amusing. A lot of really brilliant, funny, talented people I know have great ideas but never do anything about them because they can't get past the voices of self-doubt to get to a point of self-promotion. I certainly have struggled with the hang-up of believing that no one else will be interested and aborting my ideas before they see the light of day. This is referenced in the first episode of the podcast, but after a theorizing about the origins of SNL which I imagine started with Lorne Michaels saying to a friend, "Hey, I've got a great idea for a comedy show." That is not to say that we think that we just created something on par with SNL (when it's a good season), but that everything starts with a crazy little idea and my new motto is that I don't mess around with good ideas anymore.  

After much hilarious work, we finally uploaded our first episode of Hot Air. We will have shows every other week so check back for Episode Two very soon. 

 Hot Air babes, photo by Martha Williams

That's What She Said

This afternoon my friend Sarah said (actually wrote on Facebook) this about me, "See Mer is bringing what I like to call a real 'battery' to the table. Both positive and negative vibes. Her life is a joke, but she is prepared to make us laugh about it. Like a little AAA." I recently and frequently describe myself as being unflappable, because for the most part I am. I don't let most shit bother me. 90% of the time I think that people are well-intentioned but very weird. Conversely, it is very, very hard to ever get me to the point of being described as "giddy." I don't like to stray too far from even-keeled, it's like camping for me, I've done it but it's a pretty uncomfortable experience. I am rarely in a bad mood, but today I was. My emotional septic tank was backed up and work, life, and pretty much everything else I encountered in the world was blowing up like a shit fountain. Stupid world. Stupid everyone. 


I work for a Jewish Community Center that is full of children. My role can be succinctly described as the aunt of the building. I live in the office but I get to visit kids, make jokes, hold babies, and then wave goodbye when they start crying. During the height of my shitty mood I walked down the hallway and saw my co-worker's son. He starting running from one end of the hall down toward me. I knelt down and he gave me a huge hug, I picked him up and he laid his head on my shoulder. Then he popped back up and said "Cameltoe." Bad mood blown to pieces. 


For as long as I can remember I have used humor to deal with just about everything in my life. If I'm nervous, uncomfortable, flirting, or feel really at ease I am making jokes most of the time, and if it's not out loud just believe me that it is like a sitcom in my brain 24/7. I'm not saying that every situation and every moment needs to be funny or fun, because that's completely irrational. What I am saying is that it helps to be able to find the funny in anything when you need it. In case of emergency, tell a poop story. 

We'll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet

Trying to come up with the last thing I will write this year feels incredibly daunting. My instinct is that it should be epic, encapsulate the last 12 months perfectly, and set forth some sort of hope or premonition for the coming year. If I have learned one thing in 2010, and luckily I have learned more than one thing, it's to stop putting undue pressure on myself. If there's one person in the world who should take it easy on me, it's myself. Duh. 


I do know that this last week of this month, last of the year, has been been a whirlwind of somehow talking to or seeing many of my favorite people and doing many of my favorite things. Either 2010 is really trying to turn it around, or 2011 is going to be so incredible that it is leaking into the past year. I like the latter. It is a courteous question leading up the December 31st, to ask people what their plans for New Year's Eve will entail. In doing so I am reminded that I might be the only person I know who considers this their favorite holiday. I love it for three reasons: the countdown fills me with such anticipation that when everyone yells, "Happy New Year!" I tear up with joy. This has been my reaction since childhood and I'm so grateful I haven't lost it yet. Also, the song, "Auld Lang Syne," to hear everyone sing, or at least listen to, a Robert Burns poem set to music is almost too much for my nerdy self to bear. Third, but probably most importantly, is that it feels momentous if you let it, and I always let it. Try it, you'll like it. 


Happy New Year! 

Year On Fire

I used to think that my number one choice for a time travel make-out session would be Al Pacino from Godfather I or II (never III, don't even mention that it exists that's how terrible it was). But I've changed my mind and this video proves it. I realize that I have been mentioning Springsteen with what is now absurd frequency. But what's a girl to do, he has been slaying me lately, just absolutely killing it. 


On Tuesday I went to a party at my friend Sarah's house for the winter solstice. It was less hippie then it sounds, just a house full of ladies, sensible snacks, and bonfire at midnight to rid ourselves of the burdens that 2010 laid at our feet...actually that sounds incredibly hippie. Calling the party Burning Plan probably doesn't help de-hippie it either. Most people I know (definitely the women who showed up) have felt that 2010 was nothing to sneeze at. Burning Plan was a chance for us to purge all the shit we don't want to follow us into 2011, a chance to say our best intentions for the new year out loud to friends who will hold us accountable to a better self, a chance to drink a lot of tequila and laugh really, really hard. I grew up in a household of strong, funny, smart, amazing women and I am so thankful to keep discovering new communities of ladies who are impressive as hell. 

Putting the Ass in Class

My lesson about writing daily was not learned, clearly. New Year's resolution? I blame December! It's really snowing! I have a paper cut on a my space bar thumb!

A couple of weeks ago two of my friends were supposed to DJ at a bar near my house. I showed up like a trooper but due to some technical glitches they weren't going to go on for a while. The real cruncher was that I had just purchased a can of Tecate...but I did not open it. You get were I was going with this? I returned a can of Tecate to the bartender for a refund of $4. As I was walking home I sent a text to another friend who was going to meet me and that message ended with me speaking in the third person (something Meredith never does) "She keeps it classy." It of course cracked me up since I am retelling it, but since then it's been cropping up in my mind again and again because it really points out how unclassy I can keep it. 

Let me first disclaimer that I can keep it genuinely classy with some effort. I am excellent at getting dressed up for fancy things, I am super polite, parents love me, I have this French woman hang up about never letting anyone see me brush my hair or apply lipstick. Which brings me to another old French lady rule, I don't leave the house without lipstick, earrings, and Chanel perfume. I'm goddamn Edith Piaf when I want to be. But I also made fisting jokes at two separate, work-related, Hanukkah parties. I also called a fifty-something, widow from the suburbs, who might be my new interim boss "Dude." Then I told Dude a funny story about neck tattoos. I had a conversation about how choking on a piece of good salami wouldn't be the worst way to die, in fact it might be ideal. I instituted a rule at my ladies only Bloody Mary event that we can only listen to classic rock (predominately Bruce Springsteen). I was trying on new glasses and I said to the salesperson, "These make me look like Bruce Valanch." These are just the things I can remember, these are just from the last week. 

I don't know if there is a lesson to learn from all of this. Maybe the title of my blog really relates more to the fine line between being quirky and charming, and being a weird ladydude. 

How Do You Spell That?

It is a very slippery slope to take one day off from writing, suddenly four have gone by. Lesson learned maybe.

In my workplace right now approximately everyone except me is pregnant. The upside is the snacking, oh the ceaseless snacking. The downside is everything else. When someone rushes into your office and says, “I have amazing news!” I wouldn’t ask what that news is if I ever considered the answer would pertain to a mucus plug. The only appropriate response to that good tiding was to gag and promptly walk away. The other downside (again there are countless) is listening to horrifying details about pregnancy and birth while trying to eat lunch. I had to work hard to enjoy my Polish dill pickle soup from Kasia’s while hearing about clogged milk ducts. I will say that the lunch time discussion I have enjoyed has been about what to name all of these babies, even though no one ever likes my suggestions. I like old Jewish people names. I still maintain that Ida is lovely and I secretly wish that my nephew Isaac was Ira instead, I pushed really hard for that one, no pun intended.

It’s such a tricky thing to think of a name for a little human, and so important. Before I was born my parents were convinced that I was a boy. They had one boy name picked out, Evan, and strangely no back-up plan given the odds. It took them three days to think of a name which they did about two hours before they brought me home. I have heard some of these names and feel incredibly lucky to have left Bronson Hospital with Meredith Jane. Contenders were: Marijane (yes, really and spelled just like that), Daisy, Lucy, Dulcinea (from Don Quixote fame), and the real wild card was Kristen. I can only imagine how my life could potentially be different if I was Daisy or for god’s sake Dulcinea. People have a hard enough time understanding or spelling Meredith, it runs the gamut from Marydeth, to Beredith, to Matilda, to my personal favorite, Mames.

Another dilemma my co-workers are having when trying to think of names is that working at the JCC we become acquainted with 184 names a year and 184 little associations both good and bad. You might have loved the name Leo* for years and then he turns out to be the grossest kid in the school, game changer. It adds another twist to an already complicated decision. It is the name you will likely say the most out of any others, the name that will be associated with the most important person in your life. Make it good, and rethink your decision to name a child Wolfgang.

*I have actually had three Leos in classes and they have each been such a mensch. The truth is I have an Uncle Leo so that's why the name is off the table.

Roll Call

Winter in Chicago became a much more tolerable beast once I gave up good looking outerwear. I said it, my life improved markedly once I got a puffy coat, hunting hat, and sensible boots. Sure I miss my wearing my beautiful coats from France that don't look like a sleeping bag. Would I prefer to wear my Rachel Comey boots for four months instead of my faux fur lined Tretorns that make my feet look like they were transplanted from a Disney character? Indeed I would. For most of my life I have made fun of my practical, Midwestern mother for always choosing comfort over fashion and I still will, except when it's cold because I'm a real nanny goat about the cold. 


I don't like winter at all but what I do like is wintertime projects. So far for this winter I have this blog and soon I will have a podcast with two of the sassiest ladies I have met. There will banter and talk of music so I don't know how much better that could get. Last week I invited one of my oldest friends and his wife to dinner. His email response was one of the funniest, strangest, things I have ever read in a while. He clearly needs to be writing and so I proposed starting some new projects with him. I would like to extend that invitation to anyone I know, or don't know, looking for collaboration. Let's do something other than be outside for a while, the outfits and hot toddies are so much better indoors anyway. 

Good Thing He's Got That Face

Recently, as in a few hours ago, I thought that I really liked James Franco. This began with his role (mustache) in Milk. Then there was a great piece in the The New Yorker profiling his project with the MOCA and oddly "General Hospital."  He's a writer, good actor, his face is pretty, and he's a total weirdo. The theme of the day, nay, theme of my life is don't be surprised when a weirdo turns out to be weird. So I expected Franco to really bring some entertainment tonight when I watched his episode of "Inside the Actors' Studio." I was surprised to find that when he wasn't boring he was annoying. Even his answers to the ten Bernard Pivot questions asked by James Lipton were lame.* With every uninteresting answer he gave I thought about what would have been a better answer, and by that I mean mine. 

1. What is your favorite word? Squishy
2. What is your least favorite word? Pantyhose 
3. What turns you on?  A sense of humor
4. What turns you off? Insecurity and pessimism  
5. What sound or noise do you love? Accordion music (yes, really)
6. What sound or noise do you hate? Fingernails on denim
7. What is your favorite curse word? Ass ___(I fill in the blank liberally i.e. clown, hat, face)
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Scandinavian fisherman, this may be due mostly to a love of the sea and bulky sweaters. 
9. What profession would you not like to do? Taxidermist 
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?  Nicely played Adams! Then we would high five and go bowling with my grandmother. Apparently, in my mind God is The Dude. 

*He did give one, mildly funny answer to his favorite swear which was "shit burger." 

Animal Style

I found out this weekend that the creator of The Museum of Jurassic Technology (and MacArthur fellow) is an alumni at Kalamazoo College, my alma mater. This is interesting to me because a) K College is very small, around 1,200 students, and b) the Museum quickly became one of my favorite places in L.A. the last time I was there. I once heard it described as David Lynch in a box and that is the most accurate review I have heard. It is strange, beautiful, confusing, and easily a vacuum for hours and hours of your day. Also, it is next door to an In-N-Out Burger, a required stop every time I am in L.A. which is with some frequency since my oldest sister has lived there for more than a decade with her husband who is a native to the city. 

I have a very Sam and Diane relationship with the fair city of Los Angeles. I reluctantly love it but I also love to hate it. There's the architecture (it's generous to call it that) of strip malls and stucco. But then there is also the amazing weather. But ugh, the traffic and nothing can be done without hours in a car.  Oh, but the produce, seafood, the avocados alone could convert a Midwestern girl.  Let's not forget though that it is a sea of casual wear for a lady who doesn't own a sweatshirt: tank tops, Juicy sweat suits, and Jesus the amount of flip-flops. I increasingly love Chicago and each day it feels more and more like my city. That doesn't stop me from entertaining the idea of escaping my icy, 12 degree metropolis, to suck it up in L.A. for the number one reasons as seen below. 

Plus It Keeps Me Off the Bread Nachos

I had such good intentions about writing a post last night about how I've rekindled a romance with classic rock, instead I went to town on some bourbon at Big Star. There are some places that I visit religiously (see VFW) and Big Star over the last year has been a nearly weekly stop. Under special circumstances I was there five times in a week, it wasn't my fault but it also didn't trouble me. They have pork belly tacos that you can't get tired of, it's impossible. 


Here's the thing, I love avec, it can do no wrong. An English pea crostini once made my sister and me well up and that was just peas so you can imagine all the ways they can work meat. When The Publican opened with the general focus on the holy trinity (pork, oysters, and beer) I knew I would be spending some quality time in a wooden pen with Kumamoto oysters. As an added bonus they make the best Bloody Mary in city for Sunday brunch. But when I heard rumblings that Paul Kahan was going to add to his entourage with a taco and whiskey joint in my neighborhood all I could say was, "That's all I want in life." I might have even whispered it. If you know me at all then you know that isn't an exaggeration. If we are ranking top three best food categories, tacos, sandwiches, and pizza, they line up in that order for my affection. I would also like to clarify that I don't count hot dogs as a sandwich, if I did they would be in a dead heat with tacos.  Speaking of which you should have seen my reaction when Big Star added a hot dog to their menu, actually you should have seen me mashing my face into it, just boldly mashing.


A year has gone by since I first fell for Big Star. Sure we've had some rough nights together, nights were you wake up the next morning and you have cat food in your tights and beer in one cowboy boot, but we are still going strong fueled by a steady supply of bourbon and pork like an good love affair.

For the Record, Cathy Had a Dog

I have a cat named Birdie. If you don't know her then you will just have to trust me when I say that she is such a love, a real peach, and kind of magical. I will toot her horn and say that several times I have had people say that they don't like cats but they love Birdie. She's a heart breaker. She crawls under the covers to spoon with me before I get up in the morning. I could go on and on but there are certain lady stereotypes that I am trying to avoid, though clearly not trying very hard. 


Knock on wood twice but Birdie hasn't had any major illnesses, just some minor weird ones. There was a time when one eye would swell, then the next week the other eye would swell. This happened only on the weekend when her regular vet was closed of course. To this day my best guess is that she was napping with some spiders. Then she had to get some teeth taken out. The day after her surgery she was in the window, when I pulled back the curtain it was like she turned to face me in slow motion, revealing a weirdly swollen cheek and eye. I swear I heard organ music at that moment, it was very Phantom of the Opera. Most recently she had a bladder infection which while uncomfortable for her, it also cost an uncomfortable amount to treat. Two things about Birdie getting sick: I fear it constantly. I am a keen observer of her quirks and become very worried at any inconsistency. Thing two is that when it does happen or I think it's happening, I cry constantly. I cry when I realize she doesn't feel well, in the car on the way to the vet, in the exam room, and on the way home even after she's fine. It's super unhelpful. 


This morning I thought she was getting another bladder infection. Without going into detail just trust that I had my reasons to believe that was the case. I called the vet from work and then cried in my cubicle. I also cried a little while in my pilates class while doing some leg lifts. Hopefully no one noticed. When I got home from work I was still suspicious that she was ill. Finally, hours after I got home she peed normally and I cheered, I actually cheered. Which really illustrated how truly strange pet ownership can be. People (me) are wacky about their animals. Also, how would I ever manage having a child? I would probably have a minor stroke every time it barfed. 

Karaoke: Like Life, But Better

In about an hour I am going to dust off my favorite cowboy boots and sweater vest for an evening of Fleetwood Mac at Danny's (my fashion sense is a little more Buckingham than Nicks). I have been experiencing a renaissance of Fleetwood Mac lately. This culminated with the discovery that I love to sing their songs at karaoke. 


I'm headed into my third year of frequenting a magical little place I like to call VFW Post 7975 for karaoke and other attractions. This post is not about the Post, mostly because I'm saving it for a short story collection, but more about the few lessons I have learned from karaoke, which like life you have to accept your shortcomings and embrace your strengths. For example, most people love Bruce Springsteen (this is an assumption based on good faith in humankind) but most people can't sing "Born to Run." Yes, it is a great goddamn song, one of the best, but attempting and failing to sing it well will not make your new friends. (Side note: If you do sing it well we should be friends, or better friends. If you sing "Streets of Fire" well we should get matching tattoos). I love Aretha Franklin but I have learned to leave "Do Right Woman" well enough alone. I can sing Dolly Parton's "Jolene" and most of Patsy Cline's hits. Granted, first ladies of country is not my first choice, but I can pull them off and have found satisfaction in doing so. You can imagine my delight in discovering with a friend that we can sing the hell out of "The Chain" and haven't failed with any song off of Rumours to date. These are our first choices and we can kill it on the mic when she sings the Lindsey Buckingham parts and I sing the Stevie Nicks parts (I can't have Buckinham fashions and vocals, that would be too much). 


We started with "The Chain" and again while I have to reiterate that we are really good at all of them, I think that is our finest work.  You have to know some heartbreak, some loss, some disillusionment to get that song right and it's a real cruncher that we can both belt it out so well. But maybe that's exactly the way to the other side of tough times, through a song, with good friends, and lots of whiskey. Increasingly I think my sentiment is bending toward old cowboy wisdom and I am more than fine with that.