Saying Thanks

For Activity Days with the girls yesterday, we had a lesson on the importance of saying thank you. The girls made thank you cards. I got a few. It was very sweet. And it got me thinking about things for which I'm thankful. Here's the start of a running list:

• Family, friends and coworkers who tolerate my quirks.
• Nieces and nephews who let me believe I’m the best aunt in the world.
• The ability to read easily and enjoy it.
• A healthy body that rarely gets sick or breaks down.
  
• Cockroaches that are all DEAD when I find them in my house, rather than alive and spawning.
• The fact that people are usually nice to me.
• Chocolate-covered cinnamon bears.
• A job I absolutely love.
• Music. All kinds.
  
• Straight teeth and strong eyesight.
  
• A pretty good idea why I’m alive and a strong desire to stay that way.

American Idolatry

Those cheeseball pop wannabes are singing Neil Diamond tonight and I’m glued to the TV hoping against hope the Man himself will do a song or two.

So far that dredhead dude with the wispy voice just ruined one of my Diamond favorites – Forever in Blue Jeans. And what’s with the guitar playing? Come on kids. Let’s just rock the Diamond music and forget the gimmicks. And America, David Archuleta?! Puhlease.

If someone sings/slaughters Desiree tonight I just might have to swear off all future American Idolatry.

To Hillary with Love

Wouldn't it be ironic if I vote for a woman to be President because I think one of her spokesmen is sexy? I don't even like country music but tonight Hillary Clinton had Ty Herndon perform at her rally in Charlotte and if there'd been a ballot box on hand, he'd have gotten my vote!

Seriously though, Hillary has some very good ideas if you can get past her grating voice. North Carolina's primary is next Tuesday, in case you haven't heard. We share the day with Indiana and both states are a little starstruck at all the attention. Usually nobody gives a hoot about our votes when May finally rolls around.

The Clinton/Obama circus has changed that for 2008.

And that means we're getting all kinds of visits from the Obamas and Clintons and their sidekicks (hello Ty Herndon!) So I've had the privilege of hearing both Barack and Hillary in person here in Charlotte.

This is going to make my mother scream aloud, but I think I'm voting for Hillary next week. Of course, that's not to say I will go that way in November - I'm officially unaffiliated, you know. McCain will be here next Monday and he'll have ample opportunity to convince me he's the man for the White House. I suggest he hire a hot country singer.

I'm Home

It's amazing how quickly my body seems to have acclimated to the southeastern climate. After only three months here, I went back to Utah for a quick visit and nearly went mad itching and chafing in the dry air. My skin crawled the entire time. And the one time I attempted a serious jog I got so winded I had to walk. How is it possible that I spent most of my 33 years at 4,000 feet above sea level and after three measly months my body can no longer function as well at that height?

The mild, moist air that met me on the tarmac in Charlotte tonight made my skin tingle and I forced me to breathe deeply in relief.

On a related note, the direct flight between Charlotte and SLC is slick and so worth the extra money to avoid layovers.

Paying Homage

I visited my trash yesterday. It's being stored under a big pile of clay and rocks in Clive, Utah - about 40 miles west of the SLC Airport. This is no normal trash, though. It's the low-level leftovers from the nuclear energy I use everytime I flip the light switch out in Charlotte, NC. It comes all the way to SLC by truck and train to the dry and desolate desert right here where I grew up. Such strange synchronicity.

I got a snap shot of me and my nuclear waste, but I haven't been able to load it up yet, since I'm still in Utah visiting the folks. Yeah, I figured since I was here, I may as well visit the family and not just the waste dump. You can probably guess which visit has been more fun!

A Custard Pie for Jan

My Grandma Jan is amazing and today she's 80. So Grandma, here's to you! I regret that I didn't get a custard pie off in the mail to you. I doubt they have very good custard pie on the Big Island.

I've never told you how much I respect that you had the nerve to convince Grandpa to let you sell all of your SoCal belongings and set up house on Kona where it's warm enough to suit you. People say "I'm not getting any younger," all the time, but very, very few add "So let's go today, instead of tomorrow."

I so admire your grace, your quiet strength, your nimble knitting hands and passion for Heavenly Hash ice cream. As a child I loved, loved, loved those summer days at your home in San Clemente - rising early enough to see you shuffling around the kitchen in your purple velour robe making toast and reading the tidal forecast for the day. We'd fix sandwiches, pack a few plums and head to the beach for the day.

The day the pelicans came back to San Clemente I thought something was terribly wrong. You were calling my name so loudly up there on the sand and waving your arms so frantically. I came running up from the water and dripped all over you as we watched the pelicans dip and glide way out beyond the waves. We wondered aloud how they could be so graceful with their big beaks and bellies. I smile every day at the little brass pelican on my nightstand - a gift from you.

Just now, as I remembered those times, I was fingering the tiny gold J pendant on a chain around my neck. It was yours and I can hardly remember a time that you weren't wearing it. Then last year when I came to see you in Hawaii, you brought it out for me on the last morning of my visit. Wrapped in tissue paper, it didn't look right in my hand rather than around your neck. I kept it in my pocket during the whole flight and before even unpacking my bags, I found the perfect chain for it in my jewelry. I've worn it ever since.

People probably think it's because I love my name and the letter J. I do, it's true. But really I wear it because I love you.

For 80 years, the world has been a better place. Happy Birthday Grandma.

Um, Can We Leave Now?

There's no question about it. I'm a city girl. I like to camp and hike. But I can't fathom living in the sticks where dogs, cows and chickens run wild and there's no cell reception. I went there over the weekend - deep into South Carolina for a cookout (that's what they call barbecues in the south) hosted by a coworker of a friend.

In other words, I didn't know a single soul. And they were something else. "Country folk" is what they called themselves. My friend says they're "redneck," but they may just as well have been "aliens." Very nice, friendly aliens. But altogether unfamiliar to me and while I'm not easily rattled by different folks and different strokes, I was gripping the bars of my cage out there.

I also don't think I stopped gaping. And I didn't touch any of the pork or chicken they'd slaughtered and cooked up for the occasion. I'm sure it was tasty - I just didn't like the look of it. And that's saying something, since I've no problem picking stuff I've dropped off the ground and popping it in my mouth. I think I was just too out-of-my element to feel like eating.

Maybe it was the dogs. I think there were at least 50, but I lost count. All I know is I didn't see the same one twice all night. They barked from a dog run along the driveway. They pawed and snarled from inside the screened porch. They ran wild underfoot.

Did I mention this was an engagement party? Some friend from a few towns over came in her minnie Winnebago and set up a full bar under the RV awning - complete with an enormous keg and her special martini featuring pickled green tomatoes in the place of olives. I'm no expert, but do tomatoes and martinis go together under ANY circumstance? That's what I thought. Yet again, I was pleased to say "I don't drink" and head for the soda at the kid table.

Incidentally, this bartender lady with the Winnegabo had on black stretch pants with peek-a-boo slits all the way up the sides of her legs. Everyone else was in jeans, flannel and work boots. I guess party protocol in the country allows you to dress like a flash dancer when when bring the drinks. Same rules apparently also apply to portable karaoke machines, which she also pulled from the RV so she could sing off-key all night long.

Aside from drinking and gossiping and a brief episode of gift-opening and toasting under a crepe-paper banner - the real entertainment was four-wheeled. Seems Bring Your Own ATV is an unwritten rule for these kinds of affairs. There were half a dozen, and a few hours after dark, they finally coaxed us city kids into a ride.

We stuck to a dirt road that ambled around the host's property past several pastures of mangy horses and stubborn cows. I didn't see much with all the the dust, bugs and pollen whipping my face. I needed goggles for the ride and a toothpick afterward to clean the bugs from my teeth.

There was no mirror in the port-o-john for guests, but the host let me use the bathroom inside her glorified double-wide. I glimpsed a couple of rooms nearly bereft of flooring. Such a humble life. I should reiterate at this point the people were VERY nice. Friendly and generous. But their world is completely beyond me.

No disrespect to John Denver, but Thank God I'm NOT A Country Girl.

Hidden Gems

For three months I've been living with just three TV channels. I refuse to get cable, so I've got a rabbit-ears antenna from RadioShack. But last night, I discovered eight more channels that come through clear as day in random spots on the dial - 87, 110, 120, 63. Not a single channel is consecutive with the next. I do not understand this. And furthermore my remote control will not find these stations on its own. I have to punch in the number rather than just the up or down scan button. That's probably user error, but I haven't a clue how to change it. So now I have three times as many TV watching choices. To keep track, I've written them on a piece of tape on the back of my remote. The most exciting discovery is the local PBS station.

I just spent the evening watching Masterpiece Theatre. What a lovely end to the weekend!

Keeping Holy Company

Look who lives on my street!

I'm puzzled by the KIA from South Carolina, though. Truly He moves in mysterious ways.

The Tax Man Cometh

My refund is already in the bank, so to honor tax day this week I started reading a new book. It's a memoir, of course. That's pretty much all I read - probably because I aspire to write one someday when something interesting finally happens to me.

At any rate, the book is "Confessions of a Tax Collector: One Man's Tour of Duty Inside the IRS."

So far it's playing into all the standard stereotypes - cold, heartless, power-hungry people who drink and cheat to cope with the fact that their job is one of the worst on earth. But he's a good writer with a dry humor, so it's not unpleasant reading. If I were behind on my taxes, the book would probably give me an ulcer.

The Wall Street Journal calls it "One of the top five books ever written about taxes." Honestly, how many books can there be about taxes aside from text books, the Dummies series and the tax code itself? Seems like kind of a backhanded compliment, but I'll take the WSJ at its word and skip the other four. One book about tax collectors ought to do me for life.

Waiting to Exhale

For a bit there I thought I was going to pass out from holding my breath so long under water, but I think I can see the sun shining up there now and the worst of the wave has passed. Working my way back to the surface for a big gasp of air before burrowing back down again to let the next wave pass. Steeling myself for a long weekend of work. The good news I can look forward to a few days off at the end of next week. Perfect timing.

Holding My Breath

Play in the ocean long enough and you'll learn that sometimes a wave is just too big. Anything smaller and you can probably paddle fast enough to catch the swell on a boogie board or body surf it stiff-as-a-board. But when that wave you thought was manageable from a distance suddenly rises up like the Titanic a few hundred yards away, there's really only one choice: wait until it's nearly on top of you, take a deep breath, plug your nose and dive as far down as you can and wait it out.

If you get far enough down, you'll miss all the turbulent spinning water and come out unscathed, if a little breathless, once the big one passes over you. I learned that lesson playing in the ocean at grandma and grandpa's house. And this week I'm putting it to good use - minus the saltwater and sand in my swimsuit.

A wave of work deadlines, church responsibilities and personal drama is crashing on top of me and I'm just holding my breath, knowing it will move on if I tread water long enough.

Some People are Saints

Back when I was in high school, we did our bible study during "Release Time." Utah has a law that lets public school students go to a neighboring building just off campus for an hour of religious study every day as part of their class schedule. Some people opted for the early morning class at 7 a.m. I was not one of those people.

Out here in North Carolina, release time doesn't exist. LDS High School kids go to seminary every weekday morning at 6 a.m. Let me repeat that. SIX A.M. The class is not at the high school and usually a 10-20 minute drive from their homes. So that means these kids are easily getting up at 5 a.m. to fulfill their commitment to religious study. Did I mention these are teenagers? No amount of parental forcing could get a student to go to seminary regularly at that hour. Which leads me to believe these kids really want to be there. I'm in awe.

Furthermore, they have a handful of incredibly devoted teachers - let's just call them saints - who show up with lesson plans and activities and visual aids to keep these kids engaged for an hour at that ridiculously early hour each morning. These saints are not being paid, either. And they mostly all have families and jobs and lives that would probably benefit from more sleep and fewer 5 a.m. wake-up calls.

Out of respect for these teachers, I agreed to be a guest speaker in one of these classes tomorrow. I'm already tired just thinking about it. I doubt I'll have anything so compelling to say that these students will think my visit worthwhile. I'll be setting two alarms so I can be sure to wake up. I have no way of guaranteeing I'll be coherent enough to make my visit worthwhile to anybody. Wish me luck.

What would you do?

A gas station on the North Carolina coast this week sold premium for $.35 at one of its pumps for an ENTIRE DAY before the folks inside figured out why there was such a long line at that one pump. A computer error had dropped the 3 that was supposed to come in front of the price.

(Read the story here.)

All day long people lined up at that pump to buy the ridiculously cheap gas and NOBODY said anything to the folks inside. Granted those inside folks weren't too quick on the uptake. Not until 6 p.m. did they notice that one of their pumps had a line backing up traffic on the street.

I have so many questions. How did people figure out the gas was mis-priced at that one pump? Were people calling their friends and family to get down to the BP on the corner? I bet they were all "Girl, get there fast before they figure out what's up! And fill up the portable gas cans in the garage, too. Hurry before they figure it out!"

I bet they were thinking "Gas prices these days amount to highway robbery so this is just karma. Nothing wrong with getting while the getting's good!"

I'm sure none of them thought the gas station was just being generous on purpose.

I wonder if any of them felt even the tiniest bit guilty.

And the main question I have is, what would I have done? I'm that customer who demands the price marked on the shelf, even if the stocker put it in the wrong place. So maybe I would have jumped in line - maybe even driven around the block a few times to make some extra room in the tank - for the miracle-price gas.

On the other hand I probably would have at least mentioned something to the cashier - after filling up, of course! It would have been hard to stay silent, don't you think?

Incredible that between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m. no one said a peep.

Jump Gangsta! Jump!

The equestrians are jumping their impeccably-groomed horses in Charlotte this weekend. Their manes are braided tightly, their tails brushed to shine and they wear cute little skull caps that make their ears stand up straight. They have very sophisticated names, too. Regal names that sound Latin or French. All but one. It's enormously amusing to me that the winner of the competition we saw this afternoon was a white horse named "Gangsta" with a rider name Charlie. Only in America would a breeder name his horse Gangsta, don't you think? God Bless the U.S.A.!

Quick flashback, if you'll permit me. Does anyone remember that Disney movie from the early '90s called Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken? The girl who comes up from rags to be a famous horse diver in Atlantic City and then has a bad fall and goes blind and overcomes her disability to continue jumping and marry the man she loves? Cheesier than a French dairy store. But man did I love that movie! Cutting Edge, too, but that's another story.

Anyway, I haven't thought about Wild Hearts in ages. Until I saw these horses jumping hurdles more than six feet high and I sucked in my breath every single time. I guess if I were a bit older it would have brought to mind Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. But I'm a child of the Disney Empire, so it's Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken. Jump Gangsta! Jump!

Greatest American Hero

I am thoroughly exhausted. Two of my coworkers were out of town this week and their absence triggered my worst work habit to kick into overdrive. I feel compelled to be a hero - picking up everyone's slack in a single bound; flying through projects at super-human speed and working longer hours than a mere mortal would dare. It's pathological and I thought I had kicked the habit with this move. But old habits die hard, I guess. And now that I've been on the new job long enough to learn all the ropes, I've got nothing but self-control keeping me from hero-mania. The problem is that being super-productive is addictive. I get a rush when I'm doing more than everyone else - racing to make deadlines and cram one more thing into the workday. It's an even bigger rush when I manage to keep all of the balls in the air gracefully; when I know my coworkers are admiring my tenacity. In the midst of it all, I recognize that I'm going overboard and that I should just say 'no' to a few of the projects I take on because they're not mission-critical and the world will not implode if I do less. But. I. Can't. Stop. And I've rarely had a coworker call me on it. Would you? If someone's making your life easier, why not let them keep right on?

The offshoot is that I can't fall asleep because my brain won't stop racing and my neck muscles get so snarled it hurts to type.

Then there's the withdrawal period when a coworker comes back or the schedule changes and it's no longer necessary for me to work like a maniac. I get depressed because I feel so much less productive. So I start looking for ways to get a fix - usually by taking on extra projects. And before long, I'm stuck in overdrive all the time and my coworkers start to expect it of me. I swore I wouldn't let the cycle happen again when I moved here. Yeah right.

The first step to recovery is acknowledging I have a problem.

My name is Julie and I'm a addicted to saving the world (at work) even when nothing needs saving.

Wicked Fun

Truthfully I'm not a big fan of the new musicals. My heart belongs to South Pacific, Sound of Music, Oklahoma, Guys and Dolls and all the good oldies from greats like Rogers and Hammerstein. Call it blasphemy, but I wish Andrew Lloyd Webber had never dabbled in theater.

Nevertheless, I scored some free tickets to the sold-out traveling production of Wicked tonight and it was a chance to make a new friend really happy.

So we went and it was fun. But if you have the chance to see Spamalot, I recommend you see it instead. The Witches of Oz don't hold a candle to Monty Python.

Cankerworm Update

For three days straight it's been nothing but cankerworms on the news, at the coffee shop, in the park. People can't get enough of talking about the pesky things that have been chewing Charlotte's trees to the bone. The big news - and the reason for all the chatter - is that the city finally took things to the next level and brought in 5 bright yellow one-seater planes to dive bomb the entire city with pesticide.

All day Monday and most of yesterday they roared over the city just above the power lines spraying an "organic compound found in nature that is only harmful to caterpillars." A doctor friend tells me the compound also happens to be a member of the anthrax family, but never you mind! It's gonna kill the cankerworms that have gotten so bad in recent years they swing from the trees and drop little worm pooplets all over your car and keep you up at night with their creaky-swingy noises.

The low-flying planes had so many people worried that 9-1-1 dispatch was overwhelmed with calls. I guess those people have been living under a rock because news of the aerial spray attack on cankerworms has been the lead story on every TV station for a week now.

I just pray it worked and I don't have to experience the horror of cankerworm poop first hand. Please, please, oh please. The dead roaches I keep finding in my apartment are trouble enough.

Martha's 'do

I met Martha Stewart's hairdresser today. Actually, I think some guy named Pierre does her hair in NYC. But I met the woman responsible for the hairstyle pictured at left. Missy was an inmate with Martha in the West Virginia prison where the queen of crafts also learned to knit (but apparently missed the lesson on never wearing your knitting project in public). Missy learned to cut and dye hair in the prison's cosmetology program and she reports that Martha was a rather snooty client. (Imagine that.)

Apparently Martha once complained that Missy didn't massage her head for 30 minutes before cutting her hair - that's how Pierre does it, I suppose. To which Missy rightly replied, "I bet he did for what you were paying him. This is prison and we don't do 30 minute head massages."

I guess Martha had sort of a "Do you know who I am?" thing going on when she first arrived at the pen. But Missy says that wore off pretty quickly when she realized that in the slammer she wasn't a media mogul or a home craft guru. She was just another number. And numbers don't get scalp massages in the prison salon.

A Spoonful of Sugar for a Monday

I dreamed of being Julie Andrews as a child. And a teenager. And even today, I dream that dream. Though I don't dress up in flowered skirts and twirl around in the backyard singing "The Hills Are Alive" anymore - at least not when the neighbors are watching.

But I had no idea she had such a dreadful childhood. A vaudeville performer feeding her family from her early teens' a drunken and abusive stepfather - even the botched surgery that ruined her singing voice. How she's managed not to go off the deep-end is amazing, and only makes me love her more.

Normally I wait for books to come out in paperback or hit the bargain table before I buy them. I think Dame Julie merits a full-price purchase. Even better - I might just buy the audiobook, which she narrates herself!

Listen to the lovely Julie interviewed by Terry Gross today on NPR.

Carolina Chocolate Drops

I love when young people make old things cool again. Last night I saw three young musicians from North Carolina bring to life the old string-jugband music of the African American tradition. They were just back from a European tour where people went nuts over their tunes. Most of songs they find on out-of-print or never-recorded albums. The work out the tunes, add their own spice and go to town on their fiddles, banjos and kazoos.

The crazy thing about The Carolina Chocolate Drops is that I first heard them in Prague last November when I was listening to a French radio station at 3 a.m. (jetlag) The announcer was just raving about how this band whose name she couldn't pronounce was reviving a lost tradition with great reviews. It's true. Even Rolling Stone singled them out. And that night in Prague I resolved to look them up when I got to North Carolina. I didn't have to wait long!

the little things

Days like today make me miss the desert. When it rains in the desert, the earth smells freshly-clean and alive. A good drenching is so rare, the ground soaks up rain like a thirsty sailor, opens wide with a powerful, happy belch that gives me goosebumps. I love the smell of the desert after rain.

I am not so enamored with the rain-smell of the south. It's a dank, wet-on-wet, chill-in-the-bones-even-if-it's-60-degrees scent. Rain seems to come down in heavier, wetter droplets here. The red dirt turns to red mud rivers and the moss on the trees turns a brighter, spongy green. The smell is not clean, but moldy and ripe.

When the earth burps here, I only smell bad breath.

I Have Been to the Mountaintop

It was all MLK all the time on NPR today. Forty years ago, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr was shot on the balcony of his motel in Memphis.

During the endless tributes on public radio, I learned a thing or two about the most famous civil rights figure in America. For example, he gave his famous "I Have a Dream" speech in 1963. He was assassinated in 1968. During that time, America made some significant gains in civil rights for blacks. In the last five years of his life, King turned his focus to the broader cause of economic reform to benefit the poor. And he was an outspoken opponent of the Vietnam War.

I didn't learn about that part of King's work in high school civics class. School kids memorize "I Have a Dream," but the night before King died, he gave another speech. Today I heard that speech for the first time today.

"We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. . . and I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land. And I'm happy tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."

The next day, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot and killed. Here's a link to the transcript and the audio (well worth a listen).

I'm resolved to learn more about the legacy of MLK in the years between "I Have a Dream" and "I Have Been to the Mountaintop."

Happy 60th!

My dad turns 60 today and I sent him this game for his birthday. I know it's a pretty lame gift for such a major birthday. But I saw it in the store and it just seemed appropriate, since Dad's the reason I love words and word games to begin with.

People sometimes comment on my vocabulary (mainly in mockery). I use more big words than necessary. I don't do it on purpose. They just come to mind - often as the one and only word I can possibly imagine using to express myself. I'm powerless to resist. Words are glorious and nearly every word I know is one I learned listening to my Dad. Or playing Stump the Dummy with him. Which was a terrible name for the game because Dad's no dummy and I rarely stumped him. The deal was that for any word I could find in the dictionary that he couldn't define, I'd get a dime. For all the years we played (well into my teens, I admit) I never won a dime. From the word's derivation, Latin root and similarity to others, he could deduce the meaning of even the most obscure one from the X's or Z's. I didn't mind losing, because his vast knowledge made me proud. And I set my heart on being just like him one day - able to find just the right word for every occasion, never at a loss for a spelling or pronunciation.

It's a trivial thing, in the scheme of everything Dad ever did for me, what with all of the food, clothing, loving guidance and endless patience during my angst-ridden teenage years.

But the love of words is a gift that brings me constant pleasure. It also puts food on my table and keeps me posting on this blog. So now seems as good a time as any to say thanks to my favorite sextagenarian and fellow logophile.

I love you Dad.

Longing for Life Elevated

A stranger emailed me today because he heard I'd moved from Salt Lake City and he has friends trying to convince him to move out there. What's the appeal? he wanted to know.

Five years ago, I would have said "Nothing. Your friends are crazy, man. Don't go!"

It took some time, but I eventually had a change of heart and really warmed to Salt Lake during the six years I was there. Today emailing about Salt Lake's great hikes just minutes from town, multiple independent movie theaters, killer indie music scene, solid selection of ethnic restaurants and general affordability, I got positively mushy on the poor guy.

Not once since I moved to Charlotte have I been homesick for SLC. (Not counting the second day here when it was 30 degrees, I had the flu and I dropped my mom off at the airport to face the city all alone. ) I've been completely content with my new town for more than two months now. Probably because the people are so nice and the climate so pleasant and my great little duplex has a front stoop and a huge tree in the yard.

But today, emailing a stranger about Salt Lake City, I felt the tiniest twinge of longing. Mostly for the hikes and the independent movies theater. (I miss my family a lot, but that's not what we're discussing here, and webcams makes the distance much more bearable.)

Salt Lake really is unique for its big city amenities, remarkable beauty and recreation opportunities. Sure it has religious tensions and idiosyncratic laws - but I'm pretty convinced Mayberry does, too.

Now don't get jealous on me, Charlotte. Truth is I'm warming to you much faster than I did to Salt Lake City. Five years from now, we'll be friends for life.

And if you ever get the chance to visit or move to Salt Lake City, do it!

This was not me. . .

. . . though it could have been.

"John Cusack's Alleged Stalker Arrested"

Unfortunately, it seems I'm a terrible stalker. All this time I thought John Cusack still lived in Chicago. For a brief time I toyed with moving there so I could hang out in his neighborhood and hope for chance encounters that might lead to romance, marriage and babies in a baby carriage or some such nonsense.

I find it humiliating that a transient woman with a few screws loose is more resourceful than me when it comes to stalking my one celebrity crush.

Once my brother-in-law told me a tall tale about his friend spending a layover in the first-class lounge with John Cusack. Said bro-in-law had me believing his friend had slipped John my email address with a strong recommendation to get in touch. I'm so unbelievably gullible.

Sometimes when I hear 80s music blaring from a passing car, I look out the window half-expecting to see John holding a boombox for me.

*sigh*