i am what you might call entrepeneurially minded, if entrepeneurially were indeed a word. which i'm not convinced it's not. anyhoo, the idea is along the lines of a mystery shopper. you know what mystery shoppers are; they're those folks who walk into a store, pretend to be a customer, and then proceed to make the already unfortunate life of a retail associate even shittier. really, john q. mystery shopper was a brilliant man. in following along the lines of his grandiose vision, i'd like to start "mystery employees." think about it. a company hires a mystery employee to be a beard- to come in, make everyone think that she's a new employee, and then get to know what the other employees really do when the boss isn't around. it would be just like espionage work, only instead of getting a trenchcoat, you get a handful of business cards.

do your employees have the kind of work ethic you think they do? what do they say when your door is closed? are you interested in knowing which of your employees also sell crack on the side? or, are you just curious about who's sleeping with whom? hire a mystery employee!

the mystery employee infiltrates the business and social lives of those seated in the desks around her. she collects data via jotted notes, hidden tape recorders, and tiny spy cameras stuck in the tip of her ballpoint. after the company has been thoroughly satisfied with the mystery employee findings, her services are no longer needed. "linda the new girl" suddenly tells her co-workers that she has to move to brazil due to having to dodge some undeserved traffic tickets, and no one is ever the wiser. until the boss lets on that he knows that rob from accounting is running an illegal casino out of his toolshed.

brilliant.

in other news, my cousin, my dad's sister's 21 year old daughter, just had a baby. the pregnancy was kept secret, and nobody but my aunt, my grandma and my parents knew. so, out of nowhere, i get this phone call that little valerie has had a baby girl. and i'm like, whoa, when did she get pregnant? and they're like, whoa, nine months ago, do the math. and i'm like, whoa. because that's heavy. that's one hell of a secret to keep, although probably also very easy to keep, since i, for one, never ever see her. this is due to long family feud- but that's a story for another time.

she named the baby girl allison, which is what i wanted to name my first born daughter. so nuts to that plan.

(actually, i initially thought i'd want to name my future kid 'alice,' but too many people think 'alice' sounds too old. so, NUTS TO THEM as well. allison's a nice runner-up, though, right? boy am i off track here....)

SO welcome to the world baby allison!!

i love looking at model homes. at the way the designers have laid the breakfast plates, at the magazines they spread out on the coffee table next to the single yellow coffee mug placed ever so carefully on the ceramic coaster. i love the fresh flowers in the kitchen, the empty shoes positioned neatly by the closet doors, the brand new teddy bear in the gleaming white crib. these decorators are creating ghost lives in dream homes- the perfect man, wife, and baby in the perfectly vacuumed, perfect living room detailed with only the perfect accessories.

i wonder how disturbing it would be if the accessories, the little extras like the teddy bears or coffee mugs or uncreased magazines, weren't of a certain ideal. you're walking through the 4 bedroom, 3 bath and a fireplace model palace when you notice the overabundance of communist literature. the anti-depressants in the perfectly windexed mirrored bathroom cabinet. a can of raid by the telephone. kitty litter everywhere. three dresser drawers filled with hardcore porn. moonshine in the bathtub. steak knives peaking out from under the carefully fluffed pillows. bloodstains near the toilet. a bunch of newspaper clippings concerning the mayor's whereabouts on a clipboard next to a map of the city that's dotted with red and blue and yellow thumbtacks, as to give the impression of an obsessive stalking/assisination situation.

would they still sell as many houses? would i love going into the models even more if the extra details weren't so perfectly bland? the details now- even in their perfect vagueness- are intriguing.... but, damn, what i wouldn't give to walk into a model home and just get the creeps. in a really bad way.

Could the song "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" be just a little bit more falsely advertised? I only counted, like five ways at best. Plus, it appears that your name has to rhyme with whatever method of leaving you happen to choose. "Just slip out the back, Jack." "Make a new plan, Stan." If I were to leave my lover, I'd have to "kick him in the nut sackie... Jackie." For Chris? "Open her purse and take a piss.... Chris." Anyhow, Simon's lack of creativity is not the issue here. The chinaman is not the issue. This issue is.... I just realized I'm writing with proper capitalization. Could that be because I've been working on my story all morning, typing it out with actual capital letters as to make it more publish-friendly? It just might, you son of a bitch. It just might.

I got this book from the library with over 200 hundred writing exercises meant to inspire and help kill time between snacks. As a sidenote, I love the library, and it doesn't even bother me that certain surveys reveal that up to 92% of library patrons take the books into the bathroom with them. I'm okay with that! I do it, too. I'm surprised most people don't contract major diseases just from borrowing "The Color Purple."

And now no one's going to want to lend me their books.

Anyhow, I got this book from the library, and some of these exercises are pretty damn good. They're meant to be used with ideas and characters that you already have in mind; they're not just like "Write about a childhood experience involving ducks" or some shit. Or, my all time favorite, "Imagine that you're at a carnival." Whenever I imagine that I'm at the carnival, I inevitably end up fighting with the guy who runs the teacups. Because he's such a goddamn asshole for dumping my cousin. Anyhow, I would recommend this book to anyone who aspires to write. I will not, however, let you know what the title it, because I want to be a better writer than you are.

"Imagine there are fifty ways to leave your lover, and every way has to rhyme with a certain name. Does that indeed mean that Sylvester gets one last chance to molest her? Write a paragraph describing this scene."

last night, last minute, we went downtown to see brent's new band play at a cute little bar owned by a bunch of albanians. brent's band is basically heavy metal, and the band that went on before his was also heavy metal. although my attitude toward this type of music is generally "those kids and their damn music," i enjoyed listening to brent's band. the first band? not so much. the lead singer took his shirt off even before he started to play, as to show off his fantastically sculpted torso and chest. while i didn't exactly mind the view, this act struck me as incredibly cocky. at least give yourself a chance to pretend that you're too sweaty for your shirt, for crying out loud. yeesh.

brent designated me to be the band's photographer, and i think he may be sorely disappointed with this choice. while i'd like to think i have this inherently artistic talent towards all things- be it visual, literary, or pertaining to the arrangement of groceries- i'm actually more like a legless man attempting to model the latest style in khakis. something doesn't quite fit. i think some of the pictures turned out okay, but all the compositions looked better in my mind. stupid camera.

i really want to be "the best" at something. i get frustrated too easily. if the first three paragraphs of a story sound shitty, i don't keep trucking; i turn the computer off and go find a reality tv show to watch. then i say aloud to myself, "if i were that lady, i'd totally win the million dollar grand prize. she's obviously not trying hard enough."

anyhow, what i do want to do is be in charge of public relations/ marketing for somebody's local band. if i commit myself to the act, i think i might have some great ideas. and if the ideas turn out to be not-so-great, i'll just blame the band.

frequently asked questions

q: is it true that you were once attacked by a 600 lb white tiger while performing in las vegas?

a: um, i think you're thinking of roy horn....

q: pardon me. don't you have a great idea for a book?

a: yes. it's the typical boy meets girl, girl somehow becomes a rattlesnake, child gets bitten in wal-mart type story.

q: don't you just love college football?

a: not as much as i love, say, a good swift kick in the kneecaps.

q: tell me about your stance on maps?

a: i like all of my maps to be pre-louisiana purchase. things were so much simpler then. plus, i dislike most of the dakotas.

q: what's the deal with your height to weight ratio?

a: it's all messed up. i'm just a hair under 5'8'', and i'm 104 lbs, fully clothed. i used to think this was a good thing, but i am becoming increasingly aware of the fact that i have very tiny bones, much like a sickly baby bird. my wrists are smaller than most ten year olds, and i'm certain to grow into one of those old ladies who are constanty snapping their hip bones while doing such routine activities as fetching my bran from the cupboard. sad, really.

q: how much, exactly, do you owe to visa?

a: i'm proud to say i don't owe visa a cent. after a few balance transfers, however, american express is now lovingly referring to me as their "bitch."

q: who's this "cheese" guy you keep referring to?

a: the cheese is my fiancee. funny story about how he got that nickname, although he currently is not allowing me to call him "the cheese." acceptable names are "chris," "baby," or "sweetcheeks."

q: have you ever considered teaching?

a: as i have a lot of knowledge to share, yes. i think the world as a whole would benefit from a few of the courses i'm interested in teaching. such pending class titles include, "the impact of airing 'saved by the bell' during prime time" with a two month period devoted solely to how screech managed to go into one locker and pop out another; "a brief history of pants;" "faking literacy for fun and profit" which would, clearly, require not a single textbook; and a survey class in "simple medical procedures gone insanely awry: how one man contracted both syphillis and epilepsy during a routine throat culture." i'd also like to teach a class on cloning hot dogs.

q: so tell me- what is barbara walters really like?

a: oh, she's nice. a little intrusive when it comes to my political connections, but nice nonetheless. strangest thing- she's allergic to delaware.

q: what's the best way to break a long, awkward silence?

a: usually with a loud, wet burp.

q: have you considered going on 'the apprentice?'

a: no, but i've considered starting my own show, 'the personal slave.' six healthy young males compete to become my personal slave for life. such qualifying tasks would include rubdowns with body oils and shampooing the carpet.

q: uh, which carpet do you mean?

a: the one on the floor, you twat.

q: one last question: have you ever considered earning your degree in accounting via mail correspondence?

a: who hasn't?

we've got one of those widescreen tv's at work, and msnbc is on all day long. every time i look up, i am gazing into the eyes of yet another suspected terrorist or a recently slain soldier. since the screen's so wide, the faces are always stretched out as if imprinted onto silly putty and then gently tugged out of shape. soon these distorted faces will pop up in my dreams. right now, they only haunt me at work. it's getting increasingly harder for me to worry about my favorite trivial matters- shoes, what kind of sandwich i want to eat, whether or not i should chop off myhair and dye the remainder orange- when i start thinking about what's going on out there. this is why i've been petitioning for them to change the channel to tlc or the usa network. if i'm totally helpless to all these tragedies, i at least want the right to ignore them.

don't tell me that we're not totally helpless. sure, let's rock the vote. but, if you live in illinois, your vote's going to kerry whether you vote or not (which is better than it going to bush, oh how strongly i want that man to fall victim to a prey of wolves), so why the hell not stay home that morning and organize the old make-up bag? at least until you can move to the australian outback. with no reception or newspapers whatsoever. just a supply of cheesecake and crossword puzzles.

dan came over on sunday, so we fed him, pumped him full of booze, and forced him to play a game of scrabble. this is what we do to guests.

i never see any of my friends anymore. this is both good and bad. bad because, you know, i don't get to see them, and good because there's always a lot to catch up on when we finally do hang out. no more awkward silences! no more, "so... wanna hear about my eczema?"

sunday we went over to my adopted uncle's house. this man, vic, is my local karaoke dj, and i've taken to referring to him as 'uncle' vic because i am constantly trying to fill voids in my life by recruiting semi-strangers as relatives. he's not exactly a semi-stranger- we've known each other a year and a half now, and used to work together- but he's certainly not a relative.

ah, who am i kidding about that void? i call him "uncle," because i'm hoping he'll include me on his christmas shopping list. i want baby poops-a-lot, and i'll go to any means to attain her.

i'm at work wearing a cheap, silver colored bracelet from a 25 cent toy machine. it says "player" on it, and it will probably turn my wrists green and cause my hands to crack off from decay. i give the whole process 20 minutes.

ladies and gentlemen, if i may take some time out of my regularly scheduled broadcast, i'd like to promote an up-and-coming young artist whose very name is synonymous with ... good. this man is one of my best friends, and his first published comic is being released very shortly. here's a description of the comic, and here's where you can go to buy it. don't be such a cheapskate; it's only $2.95, and, if you don't like it, i will personally refund your money.

(note: i will not personally refund anything. because you'll love it. also, i don't like sending money through the mail.)

in high school, every thursday used to be cheeseday. now i find out that wisconsin has a fair entitled "cheesedays." it makes sense. i need to find out how i can become a cheeseday ambassador.

we also had "ass slapping day," "ben folds five t-shirt day," and the short-lived "suit day," which, for females, would have translated to "ball gown day," had i owned any ball gowns. gosh!

new job gives the illusion of a lot more free time. i've never had such a normal schedule before, and i rather like it. i'm also on my way to becoming a notary public- yet another notch in the old "obscure certifications" belt.

in this spare time, i've read steve martin's "the pleasure of my company," peter taylor's "a summons to memphis," and am currently in the middle of mil millington's "things my girlfriend and i have argued about." very nick hornby-ish. i've also watched "confessions of a dangerous mind," along with the less intriguing films "duplex" and "maid in manhattan." ah, that j-lo had found herself in quite a pickle.

i also hung out this week with my good friend shane. sometimes certain people can leave you feeling more creative than you have in months. shane is one of these people. a design major, he should really be out there giving inspirational talks.

i've also been trying to cook, and i don't think the results have been half bad. in fact, i'm damn near impressing myself. the key is not to measure anything, at all. eyeball all the ingredients, and you'll be fine.

finally, i've discovered the pet shop boys' version of my favorite elvis song, "always on my mind." it's not quite as heartwrenchingly beautiful, but it's.... fun.

i'm working on working on my story. once i finish starting it, it will be awesome.

well, the 'j' hurricane is on her way, and what, exactly, is her name? jeanne. i was looking forward to a hurricane jackie, as seeing my name on tv, in any circumstance, tends to tickle my fancy, but i've been passed up again.

actually, according to the national weather service, there will simply not be a hurricane jackie. they rotate the hurricane names every 6 years, and the only way they would retire and rename a 'j' hurricane is if one would cause such horrible destruction and devastation that just hearing that name again would cause a surge in the anti-depressant and firearm industries. let's hope that joyce, in 2006, is a real bitch.

my only question that remains unanswered: what happens if there's more than 26 hurricanes? if we get to zelda or zeke and, oops, here comes another? then what? do we move on to dog names? 'tropical storm fido is fast approaching!"

i'm not really this insensitive. i just want to read my headlines.

so i work at a bank, and my fiancee works at a liquor store. actually, it's not just a liquor store, it's a "beverage depot," and he doesn't just work there, he's a manager. there, that sounds better, right? anyhoo, i got to thinking about criminals, as i am fascinated with heists (usually the kind that involve either museums or embassies), and i realized that we each work in one of the more common places to involve such a burglary. then the thought struck me that maybe one individual, feeling overly zealous on this particular day due to saving 40% on a much sought after barcalounger, would try to hit both the bank and the liquor store in one afternoon, as to perhaps pay off the accompanying end table.

that would leave both me and the mr. involved in separate robberies, on the same day, by the same furniture connoisseur. that would certainly give us some interesting dinner banter that evening. i'm sure the beverage depot is outfitted with a state of the art security system, the kind where the cardboard casings of the "cameras" are wrapped in aluminum foil for the realistic metal look. i know for sure the bank has a fool-proof system; each desk has an emergency button to alert the officials.

now, i haven't set off the emergency button yet, but i'm sure that accident is just days away from occurring. i'll be peacefully flipping through the latest edition of "bankers' illustrated" while daydreaming of the perfect quesadilla, and the cops will come bursting in, guns brandished and mustaches glistening. i'll look up, vaguely surprised, and the one cop in charge will ask, "well? what's the emergency?" then i'll be forced to assign them a task, such as fetching caps for my pens. i can't have them drive all that way for nothing, can i?

anyhow, back to the robber with the chair on its way (7-10 business days, between 10 and 2). let's just hope that he gets distracted by a baby hummingbird while planning this whole thing, and his outlook on life is suddenly changed. he becomes a man of god and embarks on a career of writing out informative and compelling brochures, as to hand out at the bus stop.

surely this thrift store find, dated 1965 and part of the 'christian life series,' is full of invaluable advice for the young, engaged couple. "to assume sexual privileges during the engagement period is a truly tragic mistake, for experience shows that it leads inevitably to mutual mistrust, lack of respect and ugly accusations later in marriage." discuss.

outside the bean:



inside the bean:



we assume this is one of millenium park's janitors:



the poetic juxtapositioning of flowers and a building:

there's a fun game i play called "guess what they must be thinking." there is no scoring to this game, and you never can tell if you're winning or losing. the thing is, there's only first place and last place. i have yet to issue any kind of ribbons, which is a shame since i love ribbons. also crowns, plaques, and trophies.

here's how you play. you stew all by yourself in whichever chair or closet you may be slumped in and you try to guess what they must be thinking, about you. as the opinions and snide comments form in your opponent's head, you attempt to deduce what these thoughts might be. i've been playing quite a bit lately, especially at my new place of employment. here's what a solid round of game play is looking like:

what they must be thinking...

i bet she can't count higher than fifty.

that shy, uncertain smile is surely a sign of inner defeat. she's probably going straight home after work to devour two whole pies while watching 'three's company' reruns on tvland.

just looking at that disgusting zit on her chin makes me feel like i need to bathe.

listen to this asshole asking about home equity loans when she can barely manage giving out directions.

what's her experience in? eyeglasses? oh, god, we've got a live one.

i'd swear she was contemplating adding herself as a beneficiary to that old couple's account if i didn't know better. wait a minute, i *don't* know better. i should probably call h.r. about her, just to make sure.

she keeps nodding when i explain these complicated regulations, but you can totally tell she's thinking about lunch. and it's only nine in the morning.

the thing about this game is that you can't let anyone know you're playing it. you can't start grinning and say, "wait, let me guess. you were just wondering if the fact that i'm wearing orange socks is indicative of my mental state. am i right? am i right?" see, if you do this, then it's a whole other game entirely, and this game is called, "guess how much longer it is until you've alienated yourself so much that they say you can't come within 500 feet of the building." that one's a little more complicated, just because it involves a calendar. and a tape measure.

eventually, i'll get tired of "guess what they must be thinking," but only when "what they must be thinking" ends up being, "i think i'll go out and buy jook a pony, because she's so damn friendly and competent." once i know i'm liked, this game will not be as enjoyable in that whole mentally destructive and debilitating kind of way.

of course, then i'll have to guess what color pony.

i found a bunch of old poems that i had written. some of them aren't half bad. i had a lot of potential, i did. too bad i always hated the word "potential." it's like saying your date "has a nice personality." the whole package isn't there.

rereading old poems, stories, journals makes me wide-eyed with a wondrous disgust. who was that girl? was she really me? they are pathetically desperate; i was lonely and depressed and constantly dissatisfied. i did not have a particularly easy time during the late teens; i was definitely a late bloomer. and when i say "late bloomer," i'm not talking about boobs. i *still* don't have any.

what i mean is, i couldn't attract a guy until i was about 2o, 21. then, there were weeks when i had to beat them away. it was incredible- but these weeks rarely included anyone i wanted. when it did rain, it poured, but what fell out of that sky was more like sand instead of rain. oh, there was rain, too, but those drops turned out to be acid, burning through my skin.... like acid. i've had only a tiny handful of boyfriends, but, in the few years before chris, i did manage to cram in the dates. you'd have thought i was a gigantic socialite to observe me. maybe it was all the martinis.

i digress, as usual. i hated high school. i hated the first, oh, three years of college. the stuff that i wrote was dark and filled with your typical bad teen angst- only not quite as poorly written. not quite. i like to think i've always been a little bit ahead when it comes to the writing- maybe i'm just a fool.

i found this. it's probably circa the year i was nineteen. it's what you would call a sample, a snatch of days of yore.

lessons

there are dance steps diagrammed
around the blocks of the city.
he keeps his distance, i'm forced
to keep mine. this is a game
we play, and i can't remember
who invented it or how
you win. i can

only follow patterns. he's got
it choreographed into a science.
if i am here, he's sure
to stay there- around and
around and
around we go- like
estranged lovers in a private ballroom,
all wooden floors, dimness,
and the echoing of

silence. he's on the
other side, leading, and
i've a feeling of what he thinks.
once upon a time, i
was a klutz; perhaps that's why
we never touch

anymore- that and
he still knows of how i think,
the stumbling steps
of my simple brain. i told him
i couldn't help it- around
and around
and around
he went inside, twirling until
it made him

sick. once upon a time
he said he could only take
so much. the dance is a game
he's got in spades,
but i'll keep waltzing
to see it
out.

we're at the lumes pancake house. the cast of characters includes myself- hi, i'm jackie-my soulmate carole, her parents (that's steve and the "arse"), her sister and brother-in-law, and their two kids (megan, age 4, and jack, age 1, both virgos). it's virtual insanity. we're occupying a table near the back of the restaurant (coincidence? doubtful.) and we've turned the joint into a madhouse.

carole and i arrive after the others, and by the time we get there, we find that the table is lousy with crayons and barbies. there's sections of the sun-times underneath the table, and i also notice that carole's brother-in-law has taken off his shoes. it's like they've all taken up permanent residence at the lumes; the people in the kitchen were probably debating about what to charge for rent. carole's family is loud, and i realize that i'm part of the kind of table that i'd normally shoot dirty looks at. it's great. megan hops from lap to lap, and the tabletop is constantly wobbling due to her wriggling movements. i have a hard time keeping track of my silverware; it was probably, in retrospect, a bad idea to introduce the idea of butterknives as swords for the barbies. i never learn.

we have a ball, and carole and i realize exactly to what extent her family has taken over the back corner of lumes when carole's sister comes out of the bathroom and shouts to their father, "steve! come back here and look at this tile!" she has him walking around the ladies' room so she can show him the style of tile she wants back at her other home. when steve gets back, carole says to him, "show us your profile!" she's been telling me how perfect his nose is, and, without questioning why, he gets out of his chair and poses- first left, then right, then left again. it really is a beautiful nose.

i keep stealing looks at baby jack, who's scooping his breakfast out of his plastic blue bowl with his tiny, baby fists. he crams pancake chunks into his mouth, getting food everywhere, and i am immediately jealous.

the waitress comes to clear the table. i think she's so distraught over all the noise, and toys, and crayons, and the sight of patrick's bare feet, that she almost drops a dish on steve.

it might be one of those things that you need to witness in order to understand. it's the kind of thing that would have disgusted me if i were sitting one booth over. but since i was right in the middle of it? it was so much fun.

omaha is only a seven hour car ride away, and, dammit, i want to go. i can't explain what made me suddenly decide that i *need* to visit omaha, but in the last, oh, 20 minutes, i have developed a severe obsession. i must go to nebraska. i am being summoned.

this may end up being like norfolk, va, all over again- only the car ride will take half as long and not involve the pennsylvania turnpike.

there's something in me that drawn to the little big cities. or are they the big little cities?

at the doctor's office, they have a sign that says, "ask about ear piercing!"

this, while humorous, is also upsetting. what kind of professional doctor takes up ear piercing on the side? how good of a doctor could she be if she has to moonlight at a claire's boutique for extra income?

the whole visit didn't sit right with me. her husband is her receptionist, and when he sat me down in the room- after a forty minute wait, mind you, and i was the only one sitting in the waiting room- he said, "my wife will be right with you." not, "the doctor will be right with you." "my wife." what kind of mom and pop, ear piercing joint had i stumbled into?

i should have been warned when i was filling out the paperwork. on the "medical history" part, they have a check box for "insanity." not "mental health issues" or something equally p.c., but "insanity," as in "you'd have to be insane to wear a pair of pants made out of tuna fish!"

at least i got a prescription. my problem should eventually go away, but only after my right ear is no longer three times the size of my left. this is what i look forward to.

it started with a simple ear ache. annoying, yes, but also somewhat ignorable. then, yesterday, i discovered a lump behind my ear lobe, like a gobstopper stuck beneath my skin. it's my lymph node, freakishly huge and freaking me out. then, as if having this hard, protruding nob in my head wasn't bad enough, the pain increased in my ear about twentyfold. now, to bring us all up to speed, i'm not only dealing with crippling pain and a monstrous lump, but also with this somewhat muffled ringing noise. either i'm going deaf or i have cancer- these are the two conclusions i've come to.

(as a side note, i used to get "lymph nodes" confused with "gonads." innocent mistake, right? you should have seen that doctor back when i was 18 get this funny look on his face when i came in for a visit and told him, while rubbing my throat, "yeah, my gonads are swollen something awful.")

anyhow, due to my hypochrondiacal tendencies, i'm now imagining life without sound. having to make my friends and loved ones write everything on little, portable chalkboard. "pass the gravy," chris' chalkboard says to me, and, "haha, i can hear and you can't!" i'm also imagining myself in the head cancer ward at the hospital. by this time, my lymph node is now the size of a regulation volleyball.

oh, the agony. i'm going to the doctor this afternoon, but i don't technically have health insurance since i'm in between plans. the health care in this country is poor at best. at worst, it's absolutely, positively, rape you up the ass shitty.