DIANA REPUBLIC

I have a confession to make: if you bring your children into the store where I work, I may judge you as a parent. I know that I don’t have actual children of my own, which makes my position here a little shaky, but I can’t help it. I may judge.

I work part time in what I lovingly refer to as “The Mommy Mall” and most of the time that is great. We have mostly delightful customers who have equally delightful children. I especially like the ones in strollers. (And may I take this moment to comment on the evolution of the stroller? Some of these things look like they were engineered by NASA.) I really enjoy the opportunity to chat with the adorable little cherubs, only some of whom look at me as if I were an alien.

Our particular store, however, is filled with sharp objects and more glassware than you can throw a toddler at. Please be forewarned: if you allow your children to treat the cook’s tool area as a toy box, I will have to hover to make sure Violet doesn’t lose a digit. If you permit your child to bang away on a $50 All Clad splatter screen while you chat on your iPhone, I will glare. Please don’t make me wrestle this object away from little Seraphina, because she may wail and interrupt your conversation.

If your child adopts an item that you are unwilling to purchase, may I suggest that you ask for it once and then retrieve said item from your child. Yes, I realize Brooks may cry and, while I am not a big proponent of making children cry, I may become homicidal if I have to listen to you negotiate unsuccessfully for twenty minutes. A retail environment is really not an appropriate place to let your children come to their own conclusions or whatever new age parenting method you are pursuing. On that note, I know that it is beyond thrilling that Asher is beginning to walk, but please steer him away from the Reidel crystal (and out the door) if you don’t mind.

While it may seem harmless to allow your children to play with kitchen tools in your home, it is not appropriate in a store. We are attempting to sell these items. When they have been in your child’s mouth they become decidedly less appealing, especially if your child is teething. I don’t know about you, but the only tooth marks I want on my spatulas are my own. The flour sifter you have at home may have been built to withstand sifting a plastic display lemon, but I can assure you, our floor model was not. Also some of the electronics are actually plugged in, so please, please, please do not let Charlotte press the buttons. We all love to press buttons, but let’s keep it to the ones in elevators, shall we? Unless of course, you want to mop up the double espresso that is shooting all over the floor.

Let me be clear, I love children. I really do. And being childless, I appreciate the opportunity to coo and gurgle at babies and have silly conversations with toddlers. I am simply allergic to unsupervised and overindulged children. And I judge their parents. I just do.

Sights like this

and this

make me feel like this

Happy = Spring

I thought I knew what our financial situation was. I mean, I am the accounting department, you’d think I would have a firm grasp of this stuff. Yeah, well, more like my hand was in the general vicinity and maybe touching this concept.

We recently had a slight reduction to the incoming cash flow and it required that I take a closer look at our budget. And much to my dismay I discovered that if we stay right on track with my current bill paying strategy we will pay off our debt…..ummmm……never. To add insult to injury, any vacations or surprise home maintenance bills will just increase the debt that we are not paying off. And savings? Well, that is just a silly pipe dream. Behold, my friends, delusional accounting. Awesome!

So the belt tightening begins today. Marshalls and I have broken up; Banana Republic, I don’t know you anymore and Ann Taylor, lose my credit card number. That part is relatively easy. Our gym membership is going to be suspended; much more of a sacrifice for Bob since I haven’t even seen the parking lot of that place for a year. And we have reduced our dog walker to two visits a week.

Now to the real sacrifice: Starbucks. I bring my lunch to work and have justified my cappucino habit with the huge savings that not purchasing lunch implied. But now, even my dear Starbucks is on the block. Today I attempted to bring a thermos of coffee to work (still a Starbuck’s product -VIA) but apparently this thermos was last used to transport liquid rubber. Nothing like giving up sweet nectar to be  mocked by a foul tasting coffee colored liquid in its stead.

Don’t get me wrong, I realize that I have it way better than most. I am not in danger of losing my home and both Bob and I are gainfully employed. I am not really even complaining. I am mostly just mad at myself for not having really looked at the “money in” and “money out” columns more closely before. I knew that I was doing a lot of juggling, but I didn’t realize that it was because of a lack of actual money. In my mind it was because the furnace broke or because we went on an impulsive shopping jag at Dick’s Sporting Goods.

There is some relief in knowing the real deal, financially speaking. Our revised budget will take a little getting used to and maybe a new thermos. It doesn’t come as a huge surprise, however, that we were living above our means. That is the American way after all and we are nothing if not patriotic.

We live in the city so I am always surprised at the wildlife issues we are confronted with. To be fair we don’t live downtown, we live in area that is predominantly single family homes with yards, but it is the city none the less.

Last year a family of squirrels took up occupancy in our attic. Our attic is essentially a crawl space and because their residence was above the guest room, it took some time before we realized that we had squatters. I actually didn’t believe Bob until he showed me a squirrel head sticking out of the house. It seems they just moved in and began to remodel. They needed to add some additional entrances to their new place to bring it up to squirrel code so they began with a sliding glass door here and some French doors there (without the actual doors of course). The upside was that we hired some hunky young men to humanely evict our deadbeat tenants and relocate them to some subsidized squirrel housing otherwise known as a forest preserve. The downside was that the perimeter of our attic had to be sealed and the whole process cost a hunky arm and a leg.

Squirrels in the city aren’t unusual, you say. No, they aren’t, but how about rabbits? Yes, we have a small community of bunnies living in and around our yard. They don’t live exclusively in our yard, but they spend an inordinate amount of time in our yards given that we have dogs. Dogs, I might add, who are decidedly anti-bunny. If I were a city rabbit, I might chose to spend my time in a dog free zone, but not these rabbits. They not only hop around our yard, they have discovered where in the yard they are safe from, but not out of sight of, the canines. The result is a bark-fest that would make one think the canine world as we know it is coming to an end. Mike begins with a deep menacing repetitive bark and Goose chimes in with a squeak/bark that sounds a bit like he is being stabbed. The only solution is to run outside with my wet hair in a towel turban and chase the bunny off. The rabbits are apparently (and rightfully so) frightened of a crazy, yelling lady in her bathrobe flailing after them, but not barking dogs.

Lastly, there is our field mouse issue. Every year, although there isn’t a field around for miles, we have field mice that come to visit. They must take the train. After the first mouse came years ago we hired an extermination company to come and put out little crawl-thru restaurants that serve canine safe poison. We have also purchased traps that “humanely” execute mice by electrocution when they stop by for some peanut butter. Both methods have worked in the past to rid us of our unwanted house guests. Our dogs are both uninterested and ineffective in this endeavor, by the way. Apparently our current version of Stuart Little is too refined to dine at the crawl-thru restaurants because the tell tale trail he leaves behind is not green which would indicate a shorter life expectancy. And he may have a peanut allergy or at least an aversion because he hasn’t touched our “humane” traps, though he has left a trail around them as well. This mouse (and I need to believe there is just one – so shut up) is starting to get on my last humane nerve, but I have no idea what to do about it.

Squirrels, rabbits and field mice may seem like cute helpless little creatures, but you’ll change your tune when they have moved in, damaged your property and/or disrupted your life. Then you will believe, as I do, that they belong exclusively in the suburbs and Disney movies.

After much procrastination, Bob and I finally saw Avatar this weekend. We unintentionally waited long enough to avoid the crowds and in doing so limited the selection of theaters that were still showing it. There were only three theaters in the city that still had it in 3D and we had been told that we had too see it in 3D. We eventually saw it at an ICON Theater, which I want to highly recommend as a lovely customer experience from assigned seating, excellent popcorn and jet engines for hand dryers in the restrooms.

As you may have heard, it is a visually amazing film. The technology used in this film boggles the mind and the 3D effects are astounding. The creativity and imagination that conceived of a universe like Pandora is at once admirable and a little frightening.

While I totally enjoyed the story, it wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. It was kind of Dances with Wolves meets Lion King with a touch of Top Gun – in space. Fantastic futuristic land aside, it was all a little predictable. The bad guys were really bad, with no redeeming qualities at all and the good guys were pretty obviously good from the get go.

That being said, I really enjoyed the film, but I did run into a couple of unforeseen issues. The first of these issues is my fear of heights. The main characters spend almost all their time making their way from one moss covered tree limb to another moss covered tree limb waaay above the ground, in 3D. When they aren’t doing this balance beam act, they are flying on horse/bird animals waaay above the ground, in 3D. Did I mention that I can’t look out an airplane window? Yeah, there was excessive squirming and clammy palms.

I am not a big fan of violence nor do I react well when animals get hurt in movies. To add to my predisposition was the fact that the Navi tribe (the fictional space people in the film) based their spiritual beliefs on their connection to the earth and its creatures. So when the story line progressed to some war related violence, I realized that even in cartoon form it upsets me. The level of my reaction, however, to the animals that were casualties of the violence really surprised me. These were not only animated animals, but completely fictitious (although I did see canine resemblances in some) and I was inconsolable. It had me in tears for a full five minutes after the film ended. It is a testament to the film that I was that drawn in enough to feel for these animals, though that may or may not have been James Cameron’s intent.

Bob made me watch the credits for the disclaimer that said “No computer generated animals were injured in the making of this film”. I must have missed it, but he assured me it was there.

The Internet can be a dangerous place for the innocent of all ages; even adults can be lured by shiny promises. The following is a cautionary tale, a public service announcement, if you will.

Bob (he’s just so cute) saw what he thought was an “article” on what he thought was WebMD’s website. The story claimed that a housewife had discovered a new and uniquely successful tooth-whitening product. The “article” claimed that, just for the low, low cost of shipping and handling, a sample of the two tooth-whitening products would be shipped to you. That seemed benign enough. What could go wrong? Gladys had discovered the dental fountain of youth and she was willing to share.

Now, I don’t fault a guy for wanting white teeth. I am a big fan of white teeth. I do, however, fault a guy for missing the fine print. And I kind of want to fault him for not noticing that this was an advertisement and not an “article” because, really, how often does an “article” in the Wall Street Journal, for example, try to sell you something?

You see where this is going, right? Bob unintentionally joined not one, but two tooth-whitening clubs. While the original charge was minimal, the ongoing charges were about $100 a month each. With the click of a mouse we were potentially down $200 a month. But our teeth would be super white, you say. In theory that would be true, except that the product was actually the same tooth-whitening product that our dentist gives us only in a strength that would require one to have granite teeth to withstand.

After a few phone calls the damage was mostly undone. We ended up down about fifty bucks and one shipment of tooth-whitening acid. Then this morning I found another charge, this one for a company that protects your identification. How is that for irony? A company that protects your identity whose business practices include signing you up without your explicit knowledge. Yeah, I totally trust them with my identity. I said as much to the representative who tried to talk me out of canceling our membership.

I fully expect more charges to appear, but I have always been crazy diligent about checking our bank activity. Now I am kind of curious to see which other clubs Bob has made us members of. Oh, and Bob may or may not have lost his debit card privileges, at least where the Internet is concerned.

It has been a while since I’ve unloaded on the Internet and well, I have some questions.

• Do some drivers really believe that if they pretend to have no peripheral vision they are excused from letting other cars into their lane?

A message to said drivers: Just because you act as though you can’ t see me does not mean that I actually cease to exist. It does, however, make me want to ram my car into yours repeatedly. It is your good fortune that I think better of it because you are usually driving a late model Dodge and I am not. That, and I actually have limited impulse control.

• Why would someone return a call from a random number on their caller id? Part 2: Why would you place said call without listening to the message the caller left?

I freely admit that if I don’t recognize a phone number, I will not answer the call. This applies to both my land line and my cell. I just figure that if the call is important, the caller will leave a message.

In the course of my job I have occasion to call many people for whom I have to leave a message. A fair number of these people call back and say “Yeah, I just missed a call from this number?” To begin with “yeah” is not a greeting, but that is a rant in and of itself. While I see how this might appear to be a time saving procedure for the caller, it is really a waste of time. If they had listened to the message that I just left they would know not only where the call had originated, but what the call was about. And more importantly, they would be prepared to respond accordingly. I just can’t imagine the circumstances that would prompt me call back a random number to see who had called me. If no message is left, I assume that the call was either a wrong number or from a solicitor, neither of which interest me at all.

• While this is more statement than question, it is every bit as important as the previous questions (not at all, that is). I am so very relieved to have survived another season of The Bachelor and to not have to hear the following references/phrases ad nauseum until, of course, next season:

1) The “journey” to find love. Seriously – blech! Enough with everyones’  journey already. Next season let’s use the word “quest”, OK? That way it will be abundantly clear that we are over inflating the importance of each contestant’s role in a dating show.

2) “Opening my heart” or “being open to love” or conversely “being closed off” – What are you people, women or armoires?

3) “Falling for”, ”falling in love” and all variations of falling as well as any reference to “soul mates” or “belonging to or with” one another. You people just met and are spending time together in the least realistic environment ever. This, my poor delusional friends, is infatuation – not love. And are you at all familiar with this show? Less than 10% of these ”in love” matches have lasted three months past the Final Rose. Your chances are better at a bar or at the car wash.

Thank you, I feel better, Carry on.

My first job about of college was as a sales assistant (underpaid secretary) to five young stockbrokers at the firm of Dean Witter Reynolds, Inc. This was not my dream job; I had no dream job. I majored in business management, a practical sounding choice, but I never really thought about how that might translate into what I would do for a living. So when I interviewed for the position (my one and only post college interview) and was offered the whopping annual salary of $13,000, I accepted. My rent was $500 a month at the time. I have no idea how I made that math work, but somehow I did.

The first thing about my office that now strikes me as crazy is that we were allowed to smoke, not only inside the building,  but at our desks. I was a casual smoker when I began the job, but I soon graduated to junior varsity chain smoker as the boredom set in.

I reported to five up-and-coming, young, stock broker types who spent their days cold calling unsuspecting blue collar business owners to pitch the latest stock recommendations to come down from Dean Witter’s crack research department. All day long these young men would read their own personalized version of the script of the week, over and over and over. “Hi, Mr. Jones, yes this is Bill Smith with Dean Witter. Just wondering if I could take a minute of your time to tell you about blah, blah, blah?” Some prospects would hang up and some would wait to hear more. One such young man spent a full week calling all his prospects to keep them “up to breast” on a situation. We listened and we let him.

I was responsible for answering the phones of those broker types, particularly those who wanted to give the impression that they were more successful than they were. I was also responsible for copious amounts of copying – we had no regard for copyrights or trees in those days. My main function, however, was to type the names and addresses into copied form letters that would be sent with various investment literature or account documentation.

The job was mind numbing, but the industry was dynamic and most of the people I worked with were great fun. We were all young, fledgling alcoholics and happy hour was every night.  We girls didn’t often have to pay for drinks, as it was well known that we made less than no money. The jokes were all off color and no one thought to be offended. The idea of appropriate workplace conduct was completely unknown. By today’s standards there would have been at least one sexual harassment suit a week. Office relationships abounded and many were of the extramarital variety.

And to be clear – this was all in the eighties, not the Mad Men sixties that is all the rage now.

We danced in the aisles, literally. We swore openly and with gusto. We had liquid lunches. We napped on the lady’s room couch after late nights and paged one another when our lunch hour had ended. We photocopied our boobs. We made lifelong friends. We may have been the least professional people in the entire professional world.

I didn’t know it then, but it was perhaps the best first job ever.

Marriage can be hard. It can also be fun and silly and joyful and rewarding. But sometimes marriage is an uphill climb, over broken glass, in the snow, without shoes. The idea that two people who grew up with different parents and different families under different circumstances and who have different expectations and dreams can come together and create a harmonious life together is a bit of a leap. Most people take that leap under the adrenaline of love without fully contemplating the obstacles that lie ahead. I was older and, while definitely operating under the steam of love, under no such an illusion. Still the negotiations wear me down sometimes.

I am always surprised to hear young women speak about marriage as if it is a conclusion. It may be the end of a search for a mate, but it is just the beginning of the real journey. That awesome wedding is a distant memory of a great party five years in when you are having the same argument for the twenty-seventh time. Compromise becomes crucial and meaningful conversation requires honesty and vulnerability.

Don’t get me wrong: most of the time my marriage makes me feel loved, safe, happy and cared for. We are usually on the same team working toward the same goals. I am blessed to be married to my best friend in the whole world. The downside of that scenario is that when your best friend in the whole world hurts you, it’s hard to know where to turn. Ultimately you have to turn back to the source of the hurt, knowing he hurts too, and work it out.

I love my husband and my marriage; I just hate being a grownup sometimes.

Bob and his college buddies are seasoned live music aficionados. Back in the day they saw everyone from The Who to Jethro Tull (not a guy named Jethro, by the way) to Emerson, Lake and Palmer and Humble Pie. The one band that made a lasting impact on them (and many others) was the Grateful Dead.

Bob is admittedly a recovering Dead Head. He saw them first at Illinois State University and lastly at Soldier Field. After Jerry’s death he would go see the remaining band members when they performed in various combinations and bands. When he discovered the Grateful Dead cover band, Dark Star Orchestra, we began to buy tickets to see them when they were in town. This is a hardcore cover band that not only plays Grateful Dead music, but recreates an entire Dead concert from a certain date and city. He and his friends would guess by the set list and band members (or actors playing the band members) when and where that night’s show originally occurred and sometimes actually be right. At the time, still a practicing drinker, I would have used almost any excuse to have a socially acceptable drink or two and these events qualified.  When I got sober one of  the many difficult confessions I made to my husband was that I really don’t like the Grateful Dead. I tried, but I am not a fan.

Saturday night we went to see another cover band, the Musical Box, whose inspiration is the band Genesis. This group of grown men is currently touring performing a reenactment of the 1976 Trick of the Tail tour. They are not as meticulous as Dark Star in the specifics of each performance, but the idea is the same. I actually like Genesis and in particular the album Trick of the Tail, the only Genesis album that I have any familiarity with (I have no idea how this particular album made it into my collection).

Their performance was very good, though a tad loud (I am officially old) and not all the songs they played were familiar to me. The actors/musicians were all dressed in silly costumes that I can only assume were indicative of the band’s original wardrobe. I mean no one would intentionally wear overalls without a shirt in Chicago in February in 2010, would they? The original laser show (very progressive for it’s time) was recreated and black lights abounded. And the background visuals, supplied by the original band, were probably more appropriate for the original audiences and their recreational drugs of choice.

Which brings me to the highlight of last night’s performance, the audience. It was a predominantly male crowd; most of them in their fifties. There were fathers sharing their love of Genesis with their sons, a sweet sight. For the most part, however, men reliving their glory days surrounded me. They cheered and whistled at the song selections (which was funny because the set list was predetermined) and gave sporadic standing ovations. These men, with graying hair and mortgage payments, sang along with each song; many unselfconsciously playing the air drums or guitar or both. It was really fun to watch. I could totally imagine these guys sitting in their dorm rooms, black lights glowing, headphones on, listening to this stuff after spending some quality time with a one hitter.

The only downside of our evening, Bob is threatening to dig his own black light out of storage. I hope I’ve hidden it well.