Day 61: Shakespeare's High School Poetry... On Sisters.. SISTERS!

An ode is a poem on an occasion or particular subject that's typically dignified and more serious than other forms of poetry. There are several versions of what the rhyme scheme for an ode should be, but in respect to this form, I'm going to give it one and write an ode to my sister, who I've been thinking about a lot recently because her birthday is coming up and I miss her.

Ode To My Sister

You couldn't pronounce my name
While you were learning how to talk
So you called me A-E-Kah
Even before you could walk.

Then when you got older
You became my exact clone.
You followed me like a bad private detective
And "borrowed" everything I own.

Battling over my makeup or clothes
Divided more than our relationship.
The masking tape down the center of our room
Solidified this earthquake-like rift.

I have never been so thankful
That our fights were a juvenile phase.
Only lasting as long as we were running
Through that crazy adolescent maze.

Though we missed the opportunity
To be friends when we were young
My love for you Brittany
Will never, ever be undone.

Day 60: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words...

Gah! The dang cat brought a severed foot into the house! Someone's missing some toes!

Last week's cliche: At The End Of The Day

Day 59: Stop. Focus. Click... On Ridiculousness

Welcome to this post that I’m going to call “Ridiculous”. I have gathered some pieces that completely fit into this category, and would like to share:

The very first telephone call was placed in 1876. Nearly 100 years later, the cordless phone was invented, and then introduced with the cellular phone to the consumer market in the 1980s – more than a decade later.

And it only took us a little over 20 years to go backwards 120 years from amazing portable cell phone technology to chained-to-the-phone-in-one-spot primitive technology.

The iPhone Desktop Handset costs $60, and allows you to turn your iPhone “into a more comfortable desktop handset phone.” How is this more convenient, especially with the invention of a New York City taxi driver’s best friend, the Bluetooth headset?!?!

Ridiculous.

Speaking of cabs, everyone who sits in the backseat of this cab will automatically be charged a “fuel surcharge” of $1, regardless of where you want to be taken.

“CALL 311 FOR COMPLIMENTS OR COMPLAINTS”. Seriously? Who is going to call to give a compliment?

“Finally! I don’t have a car because I live in the city and rely on public transportation, but am thankful that I don’t have to miss paying for gas,” one caller may say.

“It’s about time taxis keep up with airlines and charge for not only getting into the cab, and for each quarter of a mile driven, but in the case of Chicago, for any extra people that get in with you and now gas,” another caller may add. “I can’t wait until they start charging me per bag I take in the cab with me or how bad the weather is.”

Ridiculous.

Wow, these chips are a Great Value! No one will notice the bag is virtually empty with these chip photos on the front! They'll think they're buying actual food, which is how they can afford to charge $1.99 for it! What a steal!

Ridiculous.

Day 58: Remember the Time... I Announced What I Was Born To Do

"Thanks for taking me out mom and dad," I said, beaming at my parents while my brother and sister looked on at the table at my favorite steakhouse. "I know it took me awhile, but I finally figured it out. I am going to be..."

It was nearing the end of my sophomore year of college at the University of Toledo. For the first year and a half, I had decided not to declare a major because, well, I didn't know what I was going to college for. But I had a bunch of basic classes to take and figured I'd take some time to figure out what it was I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

I've always been good at writing, but didn't know what I could do with a degree in English besides teach, which I knew I didn't want to do. So I floated around for awhile hoping the answer would eventually come to me.

And it did in the form of Ed Whipple's Introduction to Journalism course.

I. Loved. That. Class. Maybe it was the way my 113-year-old teacher sarcastically taught the class or maybe it was because the subject matter was simply fascinating. Plus, being the lover of words that I am, I reveled in the way words could be misconstrued if you used them the wrong way ("High Photographer Shoots At Crowd" headline about a photographer on a very tall building taking photos of the people below, anyone?)

At the end of each class period, I'd go to a common area and start on my homework for that class, ignoring the fact that I had other homework due days sooner. I loved weaving the facts into a story and coming up with creative story leads so much that after a few weeks of class, I made the decision and added "Communication with a focus in journalism" next to my English major declaration. I knew I wouldn't touch it again until I accepted my diploma for the dual degree.

And since my parents were paying for my education, I thought they should be the first to know. So I asked them if they wanted to go to dinner because I had a big announcement to make.

"I know it took me awhile, but I finally figured it out. I am going to be...a writer," I said, anxiously waiting to see their immediate reaction to the news.

They laughed. A lot.

"You needed to take us out to dinner to tell us that?" my mom managed to sputter through her laughter. "Come on, Erika. We knew that already. You've always been a writer. Did you think we were going to be surprised or something?"

"That's what I'm paying for?" my dad good-naturedly ribbed. "For you to do something you've been doing since you were little?"

"Well I didn't think that Life As A Fish (the "book" I wrote in first grade about my brother turning into a fish somehow and discovering - shockingly, apparently - that a fish's life is boring) was destined to be a bestseller, but maybe something else I write could be," I said defensively.

"I have no doubt that it will," my mom said, turning serious with a nod of agreement from my dad. "You're so talented, honey. We already knew you would be a writer. You already are one."

Looking from one to the other, it was obvious that they were serious and not even the slightest bit surprised at what I had thought would be a huge revelation. It doesn't happen very often, but it was that moment that I just knew that this decision was the absolute right one, even if it was an obvious decision.

"Well, fine, then," I said, stabbing my steak. "Don't be surprised at my news. I'm just going to take satisfaction that at least I got a good meal out of it!"

Day 57: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... There'd Be A Network of Caves

Sometimes you just need to be alone. Maybe you had a crummy day at work, maybe you need to cool off from an argument, or maybe you just need to feel sorry for yourself for awhile then get over it.

The problem is, it always seems like there are people around when you just want to be alone. It's not personal, but you just sometimes need "me" time to decompress or think.

Therefore, every citizen of Lichtenstein will have their own designated "alone" space. No one else is ever allowed in this sacred space, which will be available to every citizen whenever they need it. It will be a simple space - not one designed to go and spend hours in with hobbies or activities - just somewhere you can go to be by yourself.

There will be no knocking on the door of this space or hollering into this space, and you will be free to spend as much time as you need to get your head straight without retribution.

Alone time keeps us sane, and will be given the focus it deserves in my country.

Day 56: What Did Batman Say To Robin... About Bop Shu Boppin'.

Holy invented words and strange lyrics, Batman!

Who put the bop in the bop shu wop shu wop? Contrary to the song lyrics by The Platters, it was not, in fact, a man who put it in there. It was a woman. 

The singer wants to know who put the "bop" in the song because it made his baby fall in love with him.

Women, by nature, are much better matchmakers than men. They would know best what would make another woman fall in love with a man that they had set them up with. And of course, the women would have set up their friends with men the old-fashioned way - in-person introductions, as this song was released in the early '60s long before eHarmony, OKCupid, or Match made dating impersonal and anonymous.

Plus, as most women were housewives during this time period, they would have had the time to think about who they could pair up with their spinster sister because heaven forbid she remain single into her 20s while their husbands were at work.

Therefore, it must have been a woman who put the "bop" in the song because women trust other women's matchmaking abilities and intuition and if that's how a woman fell in love with a man, you can bet it was a woman behind it.

My partner in crime weighs in: Life has many questions. Why is the sky blue? Why did the dinosaurs die? Why do hipsters wear pants so tight that I can count their pocket change? How did Zack Morris get involved with every girl, break it off, and there are absolutely no hard feelings? Why in the fuck does traffic go from 80 mph, down to 40 mph, then back up to 80 mph, and there is no apparent accident or sun glare?

The most pressing question today is; Who put the “bop” in the “bop shu bop shu bop?” The answer to the most complicated questions is usually the simplest of answers. The person who put the “bop” in the “bop shu bop shu bop” is probably the same person who put the “ram” in the “ramalama ding dong.” Furthermore, upon further inspection the person that committed this act also most likely stole the cookie from the cookie jar. All signs point to one person; the infamous Carmen San Diego.

She is the probably the most elusive criminal this world has ever seen. She sneaks around the world from Kiev to Carolina. She's a sticky-fingered filcher from Berlin down to Belize. She'll take you for a ride on a slow boat to China. Tell me, where in the world is Carmen San Diego? Steal their Seoul in South Korea, make Antarctica cry "Uncle!" From the Red Sea to Greenland, they'll be singing the blues

Well they never Arkansas her steal the Mekong from the jungle. Tell me, where in the world is Carmen San Diego?

shu bop shu bop? Why would she be on the run if she were innocent of these crimes? Guilty parties act guilty. Hence, being on the run simply does not do much to prove her innocence now does it? The answer is no.

So who put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop? The woman Carmen San Diego.

Day 55: Never Have I Ever... Followed Someone Stalker-Style

It was totally an accident. I didn't even know I was "following" the guy until we were almost at our shared destination after leaving our shared departure building. It wasn't until then that I actually went into stalker mode mostly out of curiosity.

Let me back up.

After punching the "down" button one morning last week, I stepped onto the elevator of my apartment building in Arlington Heights next to a good-looking guy about my age dressed in business casual clothes. Never having seen him before - which isn't unusual, as I've only lived in this apartment building for two months or so - I nodded an unspoken hello, and then busied myself with checking my mail from my cell phone.

I then speed-walked to the train station across the street from my apartment building and went to join the group of people I always stand with at the usual time to wait for my usual train. After grabbing my book from my bag, I glanced around and noticed Elevator Guy standing right next to me.

This might seem a bit weird, I thought as I moved a little ways away from him so he didn't think I had been following him.

Elevator Guy was then promptly forgotten about as I lost myself in the second installment of The Hunger Games. In fact, I didn't think about him again until the last leg of my mile-long walk to work, when I spotted the khaki pants, brown loafers, and pink-and-blue-striped shirt belonging to Elevator Guy walking just a few steps in front of me.

That's really weird, I mused to myself. I didn't even see him the entire way here. I wonder where he works.

Turns out, I needn't wonder too long, as Elevator Guy walked across Michigan Avenue and right into the entrance I always use to get to my building.

Now this is getting weird, I thought, as I hadn't ever seen this guy before, and here he was leaving from my apartment building, getting on the train, and going into my office building 30 minutes away from where I (or we, I guess) live.

Maybe he even works in my building, I thought, as I followed him from one of the three connected buildings that make up my office complex to the other two. I'll be really weirded out if he gets in the same elevator bank as me, given there are three in my building alone.

But instead of turning right toward my building, Elevator Guy continued to go straight to a neighboring building.

Hmm, I wonder where he's going, I thought, as I continued to follow him past the McDonald's toward Houlihan's Restaurant at the end of the corridor in the third building of my complex.

And just as Elevator Guy turned 180 degrees to hike up the stairs that lead to that third office building, I spun the same amount to walk back toward the way I came, having my curiosity somewhat satisfied.

OK, so we work in the same office complex. That isn't that much of a coincidence, is it?

I haven't seen him before or since, and probably don't have a private investigator career calling, but it was fun to have something to occupy my mind before work, and even more interesting to play detective for awhile.

Day 54: Shakespeare's High School Poetry... On Teaching What Is Tough To Learn

A didactic poem is one that is instructional where the poet expects the reader to learn skills, science, philosophy, love, crafts, etc. I wrote one the other day, actually, in typical Erika form: because I was feeling it randomly while sitting at my desk at work; I jotted it down. It is in a modified form of an acrostic poem, but I think it works in this instance as well.
Trust Me

Trust is
Responsibility
Us people
Saddle ourselves with
To not be taken lightly.

Trust is telling the truth
Regardless of the situation for the
Utmost respect from those we love.
Sometimes it's harder
Than lying, but necessary for ourselves and those we love.

Trust is tough, but
Real. And
Until you trust, you won't know the full
Scope of
True love.

Day 53: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words... On Time

This week's cliche is a tough one, as it may be pretty obscure, but makes sense if you think about it long enough.

Last week's cliche: Faster Than A Speeding Bullet.

Day 52: Stop. Focus. Click... On The Midwest

It's definitely not as stunning a view as New York City, but Chicago suits me much better. I'll always be a midwestern girl.

Day 51: Remember the Time... I Couldn't Have Spent A Better $65

Part One: Love At First Sight

As long as I can remember, I've been a "dog" person. I grew up asking for a puppy, but after the Bob Dog debacle when I was a kid, that wasn't ever going to happen as long as I was living under my parents' roof.

Long story short: my brother, sister, and I were probably all under the age of 10 when my parents agreed to watch their friend's dog named Bob (my dad's name). We were too young to take any real responsibility of the dog (plus it ran away once, causing my dad to go out and call his own name while looking for the trouble-maker) so that became the reason we couldn't get a dog, even after my sister went so far as to give my parents an ultimatum:

"You either need to get us a dog, a baby, or a trampoline."

We got none of the above. But she tried.

So growing up, I had to settle for smaller, easier-to-take-care-of pets. We had a huge fish tank with a rotating cast of fish, and also there was Hampy the golden hamster, Taz and Tiger the dwarf hamsters, Cocoa the dwarf rabbit (we liked miniature animals, apparently) Jake the piranha (inherited from an ex-boyfriend), a gecko (inherited from the ex-boyfriend's female "friend" (yeah right)), and another hamster (inherited from a high school friend).

But since I've always wanted a dog, the moment I could get one I started research on petfinder.com (which consisted of aawing at all the adorable puppies).

I had made up my mind that I didn't want a puppy for my first dog because I didn't want to deal with the chewing and potty training, and I picked breeds that didn't shed - an akita, poodle, or bichon frise. I also wanted a female so I didn't have to deal with the "marking" business.

I went to a few different shelters after finding a dog matching my criteria on petfinder, but apparently PetFinder doesn't update their website too often, as the dog was usually either long gone or spoken for when I got to the shelter. And the other ones were either too young, too old, too big, etc.

Then I paid a visit to the Toledo Humane Society when I was free one day and clanked open the door to the dog room only to be met with barking, howling, and general ruckus.

After passing by adorable puppies, older dogs, and a frightened-looking pup in a corner, I came upon a calm black-and-brown dog who wasn't barking or cowering, but just looking up at me with the darkest brown eyes. I glanced up and saw this dog, whose name was Chloe, was a "Shepherd mix, about 2 years old. Spayed."

Well this dog fits the age range, I thought to myself. And she's really cute with an adorable name, and is already fixed.

So I asked to take her outside - even though the employee there at the time, an older woman, was extremely rude and acted like I was bothering her by asking questions. Chloe dragged me out to the back and paid absolutely no attention to me whatsoever, something drew me to her. I think it was clinched when I was told "Chloe just needs someone to love her."

I could totally be that person.

So I called Brent and told him about this dog I found and asked if I could take him to meet her on his lunch break from work. He agreed, and the first thing he said when he saw her was, "I didn't think she'd be that big." But I told him how old she was, and that she was full-grown and I thought she was "the dog." 

He gave me the go-ahead, and after paying the $65 adoption/registration fees - and trying to be patient with the same rude woman who was irritated that I was asking what kind of food they'd been feeding her so I wouldn't shock her system - I took Chloe home to love.

Stay tuned for Part Two: Winging It As A First-Time Pup Mom

Day 50: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... Flexibility Would Rule

Among many, many other reasons, one of the aspects I loved about college (the later years, anyway) was that I could set my own schedule to correspond with my interests and my body’s natural alarm clock. If I didn’t want to go to class until noon, I wouldn’t sign up for any morning classes. If I didn’t want to go to school on Fridays, I didn’t go to school on Fridays.

This is how the office-dwellers in Lichtenstein would model our work schedules. I knew that to graduate from college, I had to take certain classes, but worked them in as was convenient for me and my schedule. Similarly, our workers know they have to work a certain number of hours a week, but will be permitted to do so when it works for them. But the flexibility will be there for those who would like to take advantage, as long as it’s not abused.

Most people would still probably go the 9-5 route, but that’s because the school systems would be on a similar schedule. Classes will not be starting at 7:15 a.m. or whatever ungodly hour they are starting classes these days. Whoever thought it was a good idea to have kids awake, fed, dressed, and transported to class anytime near 7 a.m. is ridiculous, especially since parents generally head to work nearly two hours later, and then have to worry about picking their kids up and/or having someone watch their kids for two-plus hours before they get off work.

Come on people. It just makes sense.

Day 49: What Did Batman Say To Robin...

Holy Similar Children's Songs Batman!

 

Why is the Alphabet Song and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star sung in the same tune?

My partner in crime weighs in: We are all familiar with the Alphabet Song. We are all familiar with Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. We are all familiar with Coke. We are all familiar with Pepsi. We are all familiar with Barnes & Noble. We are all familiar with Borders. What do all of these things have in common? One came first, the other came second, and also, no one cares why.

One great idea spawns an even better second idea. Competing products start and are defined by the consumer. Like who invented the first chair? And who invented the 2^nd chair? And why are lions so afraid of chairs? Obviously, people were tired of standing around. Enter chair. The first chair was just a stick in the middle of a flattened surface. This was good for the time, but people eventually got confused on which part to sit on. Ass injuries went through the roof. Enter 2^nd chair, a beautiful, yet simple design. 4 legs, a flat surface, a back to lean on.  

Before you knew it, people started making all kinds of chairs. Benches, bleachers, stools, folding chairs, beach chairs, folding chairs, stools, plastic chairs, wooden chairs, metal chairs, soft chairs, sofas, love seats, car seats, wheel chairs, rocking chairs. I think that’s all the kinds of chairs there is.

The story is similar with the Alphabet Song.  Because people were far, far stupider in beginning times, they needed a short mnemonic device to remember the alphabet. “Always Beware of Cats Darting Erratically Forward Going Halfway Into Jungles, Kathy, Lest Mopey Neighbors Open Poorly Quitted Radioactive Sunlamps To Ultra-Violet Waves or X-rays, Yo Zack!”

It eventually took the dedication of famous cryptographer, Althea Thoon, to write a simple, yet catchy song with only letters to remember the alphabet as we know it.  Before anyone could realize the popularity of the song, an astronomer, known only by his moniker, “That Lonely Guy” took that melody and started applying it to the only things he spent most of his weekend nights with, the stars. Hence Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. This resulted in two songs of the same tune with no one understanding which came first or why. Well, dear reader, I hope you can sleep easier having one less question.

 

My response: I care why. That's why I asked this pressing question!

 

The Alphabet song is generally the very first song a child learns. It's necessary for a child to learn in order for them to eventually form words and talk. But because they are just learning how to talk, the songwriters didn't want to throw words and a new melody at the children. It's like writing a poem worrying about rhyme scheme and syllable count (see yesterday's entry).

 

So to alleviate the difficulty that might cause children to give up attempting to talk and oversaturate the mime market, the songwriters decided to keep it simple and keep the same melody. Done and done.

 

So why is the Alphabet Song and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star sung in the same tune? Because people in early times needed mnemonic devices and children need to learn one skill at a time.

 

Day 48: Never Have I Ever... Walked In Chloe's Paws

Holy crap I need to vacuum, was the first thought that popped into my head after getting down on all fours next to my German shepherd mix, Chloe, to take in just what she sees on a day-to-day basis. When I'm down on all fours, my eyes are at eye-level with hers, so it's the perfect way to see how she perceives the world.

Chloe immediately thought I was down on the floor because I wanted to play, so she plopped right down in front of me and started pawing at me.

"It's not time to play right now Miss Chloe. It's time to research," I informed her as I unsnapped her collar and put it around my neck. Of course right after snapping the collar into place and taking my first few glances around the bedroom is when Brent meandered into the room and stopped short when he saw me.

"You. Are. A. Freak," he said, shaking his head and immediately heading back out the door while calling over his shoulder, "If this is for your blog I don't even want to know."

Ok, ok. Maybe this is really weird, but I don't care. It's interesting, and I love to experiment.

"Good. Now we can do this in peace," I say to Chloe with a quick pat on her head. After marveling at just how much black dog hair I choose to ignore on the beige carpet fibers, I realize that having a collar with metal tags that jingle around my neck with every step right near my ears is extremely annoying. I like it on Chloe because I can always tell where she is, and I can only hope she's used to it by now and doesn't resent me for making her wear it.

First stop? Chloe's dog bed, which I have wedged in a corner facing two floor-to-ceiling windows next to both of my dressers. I actually find it quite peaceful lying there looking out past the leaves of a tree to a busy street with whizzing cars. Lying on dog beds - although a bit smelly, I notice - is not too bad. After all, my 3 1/2-year-old niece Kenzie seems to enjoy it.

Next stop? The bathroom next to the toilet, which has been Chloe's favorite place in every place she's lived with us. I always make sure that the trash can is on one side and the other is clear so she has a place to lie. The dog bed is much more comfortable, but it's cooler next to the toilet, which smells like, well, a toilet. I guess I shouldn't read too much into the fact that she likes to curl up amid stenches, as dogs are fascinated with other dogs butts and poop after all.

After a minute in the bathroom, I head out on all fours into the living room. Geez my neck is getting sore, I think as I realize that I've mostly been looking up because everything near the floor is bland and boring. The carpet is tan, the walls are tan, and all the pictures and color are at human eye level, not a dog's.

Note to self: Put a picture of a dog or a bone or something right above the lower moulding, I think, ignoring the fact that Chloe would never notice. And is that really what the back of my couch looks like? Huh. I never noticed that wide pattern it's so much lower than I'm used to looking.

I end my not-so-scientific-and-strange experiment crawling under the daybed in the den, which is where Chloe goes when she's scared. I can see why, as it's quieter under there and there's a sense of security with the close proximity of the bottom of the daybed. Plus you can see just enough to know what's going on by peeking out under the bed.

"Although I would love the sleeping-all-day-and-getting-petted-all-evening concept, I just can't deal with this jingling collar and monochromatic stinky environment," I tell Chloe after straightening up and concluding my experiment. "I think I'll leave being the pup to you. Come here and let me rub your belly."

Day 47: Shakespeare's High School Poetry... On Struggling In Quicksand

This week's poem is not quite like what it sounds. A Minute Poem does not take just a minute to compose, as it's strict and formulaic and I found really quite frustrating to write.

A minute poem is 60 syllables consisted of 12 lines of strict iambic meter. The 12 lines are broken up in three stanzas consisting of six rhyming couplets. There are eight syllables in the first lines of each stanza, and four syllables for the remaining nine lines. It's as formulaic as a minute, which is strictly 60 seconds - no more, no less - yet much more complicated with its rules.

I can handle a rhyme scheme or syllable count, but having both really made it too constricting for me to enjoy because I couldn't make it perfect in my eyes. Maybe that's how and why it developed into the quicksand theme. But in any case, here it is:


Sinking

Thinking of who I used to be
is how I see
how I became
part of the game.

While in its throes I justify,
turn a blind eye,
give in to it –
a quicksand pit.

The change made for me to my life
balanced the strife
I fought to keep
while in too deep.

Day 46: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words... Even If It's Poorly Drawn

This picture could also be a "Remember the Time" because it would end with "I really suck at drawing but I had to draw because I was home sick from work on Friday and don't have Photoshop at home."

So just to help you know what's going on in the drawing so you can guess the cliche, yes the bullet to the left is wearing a headband and jersey and no I don't have a peach marker which is why the girl in the front apparently has never seen the sunshine even though it is in the picture. Yet it's so clever that I'm sure you won't have any trouble guessing the cliche.

Last week's cliche: Let sleeping dogs lie.

Day 45: Stop. Focus. Click... On My Favorite Game

When I moved to New York, I knew exactly one person - the person I moved there with. So to meet people, I joined a basketball team and ended up meeting some of the best friends I have from New York.
Here's hoping the same thing will happen twice now that I'm here in Chicago. If not, at least I'll have a basketball in my hands again. Fingers crossed!

Day 44: Remember The Time... I Constantly Feel Like I'm On The Witness Stand

Remember the time that I constantly feel like I'm on trial and being judged for every single action I take?
Maybe it's called being an adult. Whatever it is, I'm not liking it.

Day 43: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... No One Would Have To Tell Me To Break A Leg

Sometimes I feel like I'm an actress playing a part in a play that I didn't try out for. Actresses in plays have scripted lines, stage directions, and cues. They have very little control over how they play their characters, which were written by the playwright and are instructed by the directors.

Life in general is too controlling. To survive, we need jobs, requiring us to wake up at certain times, be at a building at a set time after driving within certain speed perimeters, finish particular tasks, and take care of work obligations.

At an errand run on the way home from work, we must pay tax in addition to our purchase.

When we get home, we have to pay bills, complete chores, and take care of our family's needs.

In a relationship, we're required to be faithful and compromise even when doing so may go against what we want or need. 

We must do all of this regardless of how we're feeling on a particular day, how late we stayed up the night before, and how much we loathe the tasks we're required to perform. If we don't, we could lose our jobs, go to jail, become single, or land on the TV show Hoarders.

Our lives are filled with "must dos" and "have tos" and "honey dos". While I agree with some of the rules - mainly the ones that if you broke would land you in jail - if you think about it, our lives sometimes down to the smallest detail is controlled and scripted. And that's no way to live.

A college friend once told me that if he had his way, he'd be able to "eat, sleep, and screw" whenever he wanted to. Think about this. You get to the 3 p.m. slump at work and desperately wish for a nap, so guess what? You can sleep. You just passed the "next rest stop 52 miles" sign on the turnpike when you hear your stomache growl, so guess what? You can eat. And you get an urge to... you know. So you get some. How awesome would that be?

They're the basic needs of a human being - eating, sleeping, and reproducing. So why shouldn't we be able to do them more often, and when we want to? Apparently it's called being an adult, which is so not what I signed up for on my 18th birthday. 

In Lichtenstein, everyone would be required to visit a remote part of my country for at least a day twice a year either solo or with a group. This place is called "Spontaneousville" with the tagline much like Vegas: "What happens in Spontaneousville never actually happened."

It will be a place where you will be free to do whatever is in your heart to do. Before you arrive, you have the option to submit a form where you will outline what it is you would like to do so those who run the place can be sure to have it on hand. If you don't choose to fill out the form, you could just take advantage of all the games, toys, and activities will will have readily available. If you're tired, take a nap. If you're hungry, eat. The only rules would be not to break any legal rules, like killing or stealing.

Every adult needs to be able to get away and just let loose for awhile and here they'll be able to do it in a safe and fun manner. Some aspects of life could be much more bearable if you're not directed toward what to do all the time.

Now if you'll excuse me, I feel like eating some peanut butter out of the jar and drinking milk out of the carton.

Day 42: What Did Batman Say To Robin... About Loving Lamps Not Being A Better Idea Than A Slap-Happy Phallic Hot Dog

Holy Rated R Commercial Batman!

What exactly went on during the creative meeting that resulted in this commercial? 

My take on it: The meeting to brainstorm this commercial took place on the south side of the 22^nd floor of the tall building that stands at 233 North Michigan Ave. in Chicago. Though I work on the 20^th floor of this particular building, I am sure the meeting that led to this phallic hot dog bitch-slapping this guy in the face - leaving creamy mustard evidence - must have taken place on a Friday afternoon two floors above my cube.

First of all, nothing productive happens on a Friday afternoon, as everyone is already mentally checked out, getting slap-happy, and daydreaming about their upcoming golf outing/date/dinner reservations, etc. The bunny mass was invented in my office on a Friday afternoon. (So how can we list each of these animals’ weights in a fun and engaging manner? … I know! Let’s calculate how many bunnies it would take to equal the weight of every animal! We can call it “bunny mass!”) Need I say more?

And although I have a pretty good view of it from two floors down, the hardworking TUMS folks on the 22^nd floor have an eye-level view of the happy penis drawing that greets me every morning from the window of the building adjacent to mine with a simple, yet cheerful “hi”.

Now I know how much the penis drawing amuses my colleagues and I. We enjoy pointing it out to other colleagues, marvel about how it’s “the happiest organ ever,” and brainstorm about how to respond (since my entire department is female, we have overwhelmingly decided cheerful boobs would be the most appropriate response to the happy penis).

Therefore, on the Friday afternoon when the TUMS employees were grumbling over who the hell thought it was OK to schedule a meeting on a Friday afternoon, all they were thinking about was what they needed to throw out that would cause the bigwigs to throw open the gates and free them for their weekend plans.

Humor. Though it’s a difficult genre to do right, it’s also the most welcoming and the most rewarding (hence the non-gendered, yet smart cyborg with three arms that I drew with green and pink markers at a meeting today with not only both of my bosses, but the president of the company and representative from our parent company to illustrate what I think World Book the person would look like. My pathetic excuse for a robot drawing did get a big laugh from the 40 people in the room, though. Mission accomplished.)

So humor is the genre and since it’s Friday afternoon and the creative juices of the TUMS employees goes on their weekends early – leaving it physically impossible to craft new ideas - they don’t have much choice other than to pull a Brick Tamland in Anchorman and throw out ideas from what they can see. (“I think carpet.” … “What about lamp?”)

This is the point where one employee gazing out the window wishing it was 5 o’clock already spots the penis poster and says “What about a peni – err… uhh – hot dog? We can feature a hot dog!”

The boss says “go on,” and the employee scrambles to come up with something that will just get her out of the hot seat and immediately thinks “Ummm carnival! There are hot dogs at a carnival!” And since she’s still looking at the penis that is so happy and funny and makes everyone’s day brighter, and is well into the throes of Friday afternoon slap-happiness, she begins to describe a slap-happy hot dog designed to sell heartburn medicine.

And since it’s Friday afternoon and there is an actual idea on the table, everyone enthusiastically agrees that it’s a great one because really what else do they have? “I love lamp… buy TUMS?” A slap-happy hot dog smeared with mustard is such a better idea than that.

Now let’s get out and enjoy the sunshine.

Day 41: Never Have I Ever... Paid So Much Money To Lay In Dirt

I'm big on adventures and new experiences, and what better way to do something new and fun than when you're on vacation?

This was why - during an otherwise fantastic vacation cruising up the coast of California - I was figuratively kicking myself while lying naked on a tombstone in wet brown insulation.

The Calistoga Golden Haven Hot Springs Spa marketed this poor excuse for Mud Bath pampering as a "wonderful Napa Valley spa experience". I had been looking forward to not only my first mud bath, but the following mineral water shower, jacuzzi, and blanket wrap treatment. Plus, this was the first time my husband agreed do any spa treatment with me so although I was shockingly surprised, I was also especially excited to share the experience.

After pulling into the "spa" (yes, I'm going to use quotation marks when referring to this Motel 6 someone decided to slap the word "spa" on) we both grimaced at its appearance, but decided to give it a chance.

After changing into scratchy robes, we were led into the mausoleum - err mud room - and told to slowly sink into the mud. (In no way did this wall-to-wall drab concrete room even resemble the photos in the brochures.)

With a wrinkled nose, we both dipped into the "mud" which reminded me of a wet version of the insulation with the Pink Panther on it that my dad has in the garage. After our goodies were covered with the stuff, our staff member came in and gave us cool compresses for our foreheads and backrests that were - I'm not kidding - shaped like tombstones.

After just minutes, I could not wait to get off the concrete tombstone-shaped slab and out of the disgusting goop that got progressively scaldingly hotter the more you sunk down into the unsanitary concrete tub.





Plus, it was hot. Eventually, I kept my arms out of the tub because I was overheating.

After unsuccessfully trying to get the crusted mud that got stuck to every single hair on my body in the provided shower that was fed from a visible garden hose, we were shown to the jacuzzi. Just what I needed after overheating - to sit in hot water. So I spent the majority of this time with just my feet in the water as I was attempting to cool down.

But I was looking forward to the blanket wrap, even though after what we had endured up to that point, I wasn't sure what to expect. Finally, we were told to put our robes back on and go into the wrap room.

After lying down naked atop a table with just a thin sheet covering me, the staff member came in to perform the wrap. She stood over me, took the edges of the heavy blanket I was lying atop that was under the sheet I had over me, and tossed them over my body. It took about three seconds. Then she turned out the lights and we were plunged into darkness with only the glow-in-the-dark stars that one might find in a child's room on the ceiling.

Just what I needed after overheating twice - to be left under a sheet and thick blanket.

Brent was just as hot as I was at this point, and kicked off the heavy blanket soon after the staff member left after wondering aloud if he'd get in trouble for doing so. He then told me he'd give me $5 to walk over to the cooler of ice and dump it on him. This gave me a good laugh that turned into downright hysterical laughter at the ridiculousness of the entire situation as Brent started putting his hand under the tiny fountain between our two beds meant to relax us with its sound and started flinging droplets on his body in a failed attempt to cool himself off.

Although the horrible experience has since served as a hilarious story that we've told a number of times, what was truly horrible was actually forking over cash for this overheating abomination. It'd have been better spent to lay in actual mud. At least that would have been cooler.

Day 40: Shakespeare's High School Poetry...

Sundays are one of my favorite blogging days because I'm a writer and I love writing poetry.

But my writing needs to be perfect to me. Maybe that's a flaw, but it's important to me. So although this is not how I intended for this blog to be - where I put off entries until the following day - sometimes it needs to happen because I'm not one to just throw something together for the sake of throwing it together.

So when I see that it's 11:38 p.m. and I've been working ever since dinner and the dog still needs a walk, I need a shower, my work bag needs to be packed for tomorrow, etc. I realize I won't be able to take the time I properly need to write today's fun poetry style that I've never done before. So look for it tomorrow after I've gotten a proper night's sleep.

......

And it's tomorrow. Or today, rather. This week's poem style is Shape. Also known as a Pattern Poem, a Shape poem is one whose shape refers to its subject.

After doing this exercise, I have realized that I have a love/hate relationship with this type of poetry. I love it because it challenges me to think of different words to use and different ways to get across the same type of concept.

But I hate how horribly constrictive it is. I wanted to use certain words a number of times, and became frustrated when I realized that I couldn't because it didn't fit into the pattern. I'm a writer. Words are my tool and I hate when I can't use them the way I want to.

There's a reason I like free verse best - because I don't end up with a cliched poem in a cliched shape with simplistic language to make the words fit like the one below. Patting myself on the back for deciding against writing a love poem in the shape of a heart. Gag.

Plunging Skyward

I

do

truly

believe

that what

does go up

must

then

fall

just

because how

else can we

know what

true joy

is

?

Day 39: A Picture s Worth 1,000 Words... On Identity Crisis

I am a cat and want a ball of string...

Last week's cliche: Carpe Diem. 

Day 38: Stop. Focus. Click... On The Beauty Of Nature

Another reason Chicago feels like home is that there's more green space to remind me of my mom's garden at home. She has a gorgeous array of flowers, including poppies that fondly remind me of a childhood staple, The Wizard of Oz, and the purple ones that always make me think of my grandmother.

Day 37: Remember The Time... I Finally Saw The Beauty In The Beach

I loathe four things most people love:

Coffee tables (where did the entire freaking room go and just how many bruises do I have to endure on my legs?).

Parades (Is it over yet? How about now? Haven't I seen this band before?)

Star Wars (None of this would ever happen nor do I want to pretend that it could like with Jurassic Park.)

The beach (the salt and/or murky water, the lack of shade, and by far the number one reason I hate the beach: the sand that I'll still be finding in my ear folds a month later.

I begrudgingly accepted an invitation to play volleyball with my colleagues today because the last few times they played, I was legitimately unavailable to play. I promised them last time that I'd go the next time they played, and that happened to be today. On the beach. In the sand. Ugh.

So I rode the bus up to Oak Street Beach today and got off pleasantly surprised by the beauty of the park area near the beach. Then I walked down to the walkway that runs under the street and then up to a bike path adjacent to the beach.

And the sight was breathtaking. I actually paused to take in the beauty of the sparkling water and the vast span of white sand in front of me stretching out to my left and the city of Chicago to my right and behind me flanked by small patches of greenery.

I was even able to ignore the cigarette butts and pieces of garbage poking up through the sand to enjoy the gorgeous day and my hilarious colleagues, pausing several times to marvel at the beauty of the juxtaposition of sand, water, and nature and the bustling city.

Not even the sand clinging to my legs and arms after diving into it to bump the ball bothered me - and I even quit dusting myself off after the first few times I dove and allowed the sand to stay on my skin, which is virtually unheard of when it comes to myself.

Remember the time I actually enjoyed being at the beach? It's hard not to with great weather, great company, and great scenery. Maybe as I get older, times will continue to be a changin'.

Day 36: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... There Would Be No Miss Lichtenstein

I'm generally a pretty open-minded person, but absolutely cannot get behind anything that resembles exploiting children for profit and pedophiles.

Yes, I'm talking about beauty pageants for children.

The TV show Toddlers and Tiaras often crops up on a show I love called The Soup, in which Joel McHale pokes fun at events that happened on TV shows over the past week. I have learned to mute the TV at that point and read a magazine or otherwise occupy myself because if I would watch whatever clip they feature, I would most likely launch into a violent rant at whomever happens to be in close proximity.

I loathe parents who live their own dreams vicariously through their children. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the child of a soccer player playing soccer, for example, but as long as it's what the child wants to do. The moment they don't want to do it anymore, the parents should not force the issue.

It just makes me sick seeing the children complaining to their parents about practicing and having to put on pounds of makeup and fake their way through a pretentious routine in skimpy clothing. There's even a bathing suit round - for kids! What are they judging - who's lost the most baby fat? And if that's the case, I shudder to think of the diet their parents force them to eat. They're children! They should be being loud, getting dirty, spilling ice cream on their shirts, and playing off the cuff instead of having their every move be scripted.

OK so before I get really upset, there will be an absolute ban on beauty pageants of any kind for anyone under the age of 18 in Lichtenstein. No exceptions. In fact, I don't want there to be any kind of beauty pageants at all in my country. People will be too busy having fun the good 'ol-fashioned unscripted way.

Day 35: What Did Batman Say To Robin...About Mannorexic Magicians

Holy Yankee Doodle Dandy Batman!

I was especially excited for this week's Batman and Robin posting after a night of looking through yearbooks from the early '70s. My mom's best friend and sister came into town for the holiday and were reminiscing with the dusty volumes, which turned into a laugh-until-you-cry episode for everyone when my mom started reading aloud what her friend and their former classmates wrote in her yearbook all those years ago. 

Among all the queer comments (everything was referred to as "queer" back then, apparently) were that generation's very own Batman and Robin jokes:

Don’t ever catch a cold at the football games because of all the fans.

Why are there so many fans at basketball games?
Because they are so cool and air-conditioned.

Did you ever hear about the pencil that talked?
But they don’t so shut up.
Awesome. Simply awesome.

But now getting back to this generation's Batman and Robin joke... today's question is, "Why did Yankee Doodle call a feather in his hat macaroni?"

My partner in crime weighs in:

Yankee doodle went to town
riding on a pony
stuck a feather in his cap
and called it macaroni

This is a popular childhood song. It's catchy, innocent and easy to remember. It reminds me of another song with all the same qualities.

Ring around the rosies
pocket full of posies
ashes, ashes
we all fall down.

We all know, or at least I know, that the legend following this song revolves around the Black Plague that took place during the middle ages. The original lyrics were "Achoo, Achoo we all fall down." A victim of the plague would enter a sneezing fit before collapsing to the ground and dying.

Though Yankee Doodle did not die with the song about death, it too has its own message. The original verse goes "stuck a feather down his throat and threw up macaroni." You see dear reader, Yankee Doodle suffered from what is now labeled as "Mannorexia." He was very image conscious and would make himself vomit after a meal, which was usually macaroni salad.

Simply, the song describes the tale of a young Yankee Doodle and his struggle with body image. He would binge eat on his favorite foods, stick a feather down his throat and throw up macaroni salad. It is indeed a sad, sad story. However, since the diddy was so catchy, future song writers decided to change the lyrics. Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months and 300-some-odd years later, we have a song whose origins very few people now remember. A song which recorded the very first case of Mannorexia.

My response: The reason Yankee Doodle was image conscious was because he was constantly being scrutinized by his audiences, many of whom weren't used to the big city folk coming into their towns. You see, Yankee Doodle was a traveling magician. He took his magic show on the road by riding his horse, Macaroni, from town to town (yes, the horse's name was "Macaroni").

Macaroni was involved in one of the tricks in which the magician Yankee Doodle stuck a feather in a hat, and called it Macaroni because he then pulled out the horse from the hat. It was amazing.

Yes, Yankee Doodle was the original Houdini, but is not as well known because he just did his show for small audiences in small towns with no phone lines to pass the word along. And he and his horse ate hardily with all the dough they were rolling in, but Yankee occasionally felt bloated and didn't like to perform on his "fat" days, but sometimes had no choice, so he found his own solution.

So why did Yankee Doodle call a feather in his hat macaroni? Because he was a mannorexic, macaroni-salad-loving magician with a horse named Macaroni.

Day 34: Never Have I Ever... Actually Hated The Truth Table

Never have I ever actually hated the truth table, even though I've insisted at every single 4th of July that I did. But I'll explain more tomorrow. Too much fun eating too many cocktail weenies, catching up with family, watching tank wars, handing out sparklers to all the kids, oohing and aahing over the fireworks, roasting marshmallows and telling stories around the fire pit, and skinny dipping. I love being home.
Happy 4th of July everyone.

Edit: It was 2:30 a.m. when I finally went to bed yesterday after an absolutely fantastic holiday at home. The weather could not have been more perfect, the company was great, and it was just plain good to be home. So I postponed writing this post until today.

In true Ray family tradition, the impromptu truth table turned up again this year. The truth table was accidentally created a few years ago among myself, my cousins Emma and Breanne, my aunts Liza and Kathy and my Uncle David, and has since appeared at the 4th of July every year.

The six of us were sitting and talking around the six-seated, circular table on my parents' back porch when a few touchy, juicy topics came up and the more senior members of the family started goading the younger generation to tell them the "real" story, which we did. And, apparently we had to tell the truth because someone started yelling "Truth table! Truth table!" and the truth came out.

The same concept has cropped up every year since then whenever someone has said "truth table." Although I pretend I hate it and always say something along the lines of "How did we get to this topic and why are we still talking about it?!?! (referring to sex, embarrassing stories from childhood, etc.) I not-so-secretly love being able to be so open with my extended family.

This year's topic revolved around drinking in college because my Aunt Liza's youngest son, Nate, is headed to Central Michigan University in the fall. Emma recently graduated from the party school, so my Aunt Liza (who did not attend college) wanted to know "the real story" about college kids and drinking, and could not believe some of the stories we were telling her (which, in the grand scheme of things, were "normal" stories about underage drinking in college at parties).

This somehow led to the names of sexual acts (yes, the Generation X- and Y-ers had to explain to some of our Baby Boomer aunts and uncles about tea bagging, dingle berries, a dirty Sanchez, and the superman dance); what middle schoolers are advertising with bracelets these days (what sexual acts they're willing to do); and what my mom thinks happens at teen parties (all the girls put on different shades of lipstick and give the boys oral sex, apparently).

It was a little embarrassing seeing the reaction of my aunts and uncles as we explained that yes there is a name for those stray balls of poop that are missed with toilet paper, but actually pretty dang hilarious at the same time.

This closeness is something I cherish in my family, have fought like hell to keep through the years, and will continue to do so as long as I'm breathing. It's too important to just let it go.

Day 33: Shakespeare's High School Poetry On Top 'O The Mornin' To Ya

If I must write a poem with a rhyme scheme, I must say that I love a good limerick. Maybe it's because of my Irish background (some people believe the limerick was invented by soldiers returning from Limerick, Ireland in the 1700s) but I suspect it's mostly because of the fun, funny, and lighthearted nature of this particular style of poem.

A limerick is a five-lined, beat-centric poem with one couplet and one triplet in the rhyme scheme of a, a, b, b, a. They generally contain hyperbole, puns, and onomatopoeia (which happens to be one of my favorite words in the English language along with the words "shenanigans," "juggernaut" and "snafu") with the last line being the punchline of the poem.

I love this fun type of poem so much, in fact, that as a supervisor at Starbucks, I wrote a limerick for every one of the colleagues I worked with within a two-week period (give me a break; I got bored there a lot). I wrote my favorite limerick for my colleague Lionel, who would sometimes come to work with a Red Bull because espresso just didn't do the trick, and would drive me nuts bouncing off the walls:

There once was a boy named Lionel

Who if I could I would sell

For when his belly is full

With a venti Red Bull

I swear to God I'm in hell.

But for this post, I wanted to write a new one because I'm sitting on the couch looking at great inspiration: Chloe

Whenever Chlo falls asleep

I always hear more than a peep.

It always seems

Squirrels rule her dreams

Scaring her from her deep sleep.