The Traveling Sketchbook, or Serendipity

The Girlfriends gather once a year in South Haven for a weekend of getting-away-from-it-all which includes laughs, adult beverages, and a white elephant gift exchange. We enjoyed this annual event so much this year in January that we decided to make it a semi-annual event and do it again in September. 

We opened white elephant gifts while wearing fake facial hair, which made every gift and every conversation exponentially more hilarious. The gift exchange produced a collapsible, portable camping toilet; an awful "get-in-touch-with-your-feelings" card game from the 1950s, targeted to socially-challenged adolescents; and a sexy black lace dress with plunging neckline, which the recipient modeled. We photographed her and immediately sent the image to the husband in question. 

 
The most interesting gift of the night was an old sketchbook that Girlfriend Y-Tee had found decades earlier in an alternative school on Chicago's north side. No one claimed them or knew where they had come from, so she called dibs and brought them home. They had been sitting in a storage box in her basement for thirty years--and now one of them became part of Girlfriend Tradition. We wondered about the artist, and whether his career had taken an artistic trajectory.

"Let's try to find him!" we agreed, and I whipped out the trusty Internet. The name on the front cover of the sketchbook was David Enblom, so I googled "David Enblom artist." I got almost 40,000 results--but the first page of links was all our guy. The link led us to a website called MNArtists.org, and Mr. Enblom's homepage on that site listed his own website, which we quickly checked out. 

Mr. Enblom, it turns out, is a talented photographer, although his website was designed for minimum aesthetic appeal and maximum randomness. His landing page includes links to his photographs, his Facebook page, Beatles songs and lyrics, and a playable list of the Billboard #1 Pop Hits from 1941 to 1976. Glen Miller's Song of the Volga Boatmen is playing in the background at this very moment. 

I took photos of several sketches, attached them to an email, wrote "Found these in a sketchbook with your name on it. Are they yours?", and hit send. Thirteen hours later, Mr. Enblom replied enthusiastically, "Yes they are! Would love to see more!" 
 So we sent four more images, and told him that our friend had found his sketchbooks in an alternative high school in Chicago in the '80s. This launched a dialogue with Mr. Enblom, who thought his mom had tossed all of the sketchbooks in the trash. He asked to "borrow" them so he could copy the images, but G.YT was happy to reunite them with their creator. Mr. Enblom--can I call him David? I feel like he's practically one of the girlfriends by now--David lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, and has never lived in Chicago; so how did his sketchbooks end up in a north side high school? David started filling sketchbooks when he was in his early 20s, in 1971. He had switched from studying pre-med to art; you can see the influence of pre-med in his anatomy drawings. "I fell in love with art," David told me, "Dada, surrealism, fluxus." He believes that his girlfriend at the time brought the books to Chicago. She later married a guy who was involved in starting the Prologue school where the books eventually ended up, and where Y-Tee found them many years later.It was a big thrill, David said, when the sketchbooks arrived in the mail. He had assumed that they had all been thrown out and that he'd never see any of them again. Getting the books back "was like finding out you have a brother that you were separated from. I'm getting to know a part of myself--how many memories do you have from 40 years ago?"Many gifts came out of this little adventure. One of them is that David introduced us to The Sketchbook Project, which is a "global, crowd-sourced art project and interactive traveling exhibition of handmade books." There are already more than 28,000 sketchbooks in the exhibit--and you can join the fun. Order your very own sketchbook here for only $25--or check out the digital library of sketchbooks on the website.

You Learn Something New Every (Thurs)Day

I'm starting a new Green Room tradition. It's called You Learn Something New Every (Thurs)day.

I'm kicking off You Learn Something New Every (Thurs)day with something short and sweet that will probably make your day.

You how it's annoying when someone asks you a question that they could just as easily Google themselves? Like the other day, this guy at work asked me, hey E. Peevie, what league are the Chicago Wolves in? And I'm all like, I don't know, dude, probably the AHL (American Hockey League)--but I can't swear to it.

And during this conversation, he's sitting in front of his Dell computer, which I'm pretty sure has a keyboard and Internet access and the capacity for Googling--maybe even an actual Google button.

Well, I discovered the perfect way to respond to said annoying questions (props to my colleague, The Psychiatrist's Daughter): Let Me Google That for You.

If you are the one (ahem, Mr. Peevie) who gets the stupid, eminently google-able questions from lazy family members (ahem, me) or colleagues, you will find this site to be the answer to your unspoken prayers. 


You're welcome.

A Noble Persuasion

The traveling handbag strikes again!


Awhile ago I posted a little post about a cute purse I was carrying that my friend admired, which I gave to her. She subsequently gave it away as well--and then that person also gave it away. Here is the purse, along with one of its temporary friends:

I recently learned that the traveling purse had been donated to the Denver Dress for Success affiliate, whose mission is to "promote the economic independence of disadvantaged women by providing professional attire, a network of support and the career development tools to help women thrive in work and in life."

How brilliant and beautiful!

Here's what DenverJ had to say about the purse and its journey:

I just got a call from Donna, the Denver Director of Dress for Success, who spoke at the meeting I attended. She was really touched by our story and wanted me to know that she has shared it with about 50 people so far, including her director. She reads it to new volunteers when they come in. So, the blessings of the purse continue!

I hope to get another email soon about the purse going on a job interview, and a DfS client getting a job and starting a whole new chapter of her life.

Meanwhile, I have started another purse on its own journey. I bought it for $1.50 at the same resale shop where I bought the original Traveling Purse, thinking that it would be perfect as a summery tote to carry my lunch and stuff to work.

One day, my tote and I were minding our own business in my cubicle when my colleague Rosaduñas stopped by to show off her beautifully pedicured toenails. They were a smooth, summery, bubblegum pink. They looked smart and tantalizing against her sun-tanned toesies--and then we noticed that they were the EXACT SAME COLOR as the pink tote purse stashed on my messy desktop.

I had just told Rosaduñas the story of the Traveling Purse that very morning, and when we held the purse up next to her polished toenails (well, down, really), we both knew that the purse would be going home with her that night.

I don't have any expectations about this new traveling purse. It might be a staying-home purse this time, sticking with Rosaduñas until it falls apart or she leaves it at the beach by accident.

But I like to dwell on the freedom that traveling purses represent: freedom from a shallow attachment to a material possession.

Of course this noble persuasion only applies to purses bought at a second-hand store, not for example, purses special ordered by one's husband for one's 50th birthday and hand-made from a copy of one's favorite writing reference book.

Ahem. Can you sense another purse-related blog post coming?

No Stories, Just Pictures

My muse has departed.  I have stories flitting around in the back of my head, but my words are failing me.

More on this later, but for now, I just feel like posting a few photos of Paradise.

Sand boy, AKA A. Peevie

Cousin T-Bone, airborne, watched by C. Peevie.

A. Peevie, C. Peevie, and Cousin Ri-Ri over there in the right corner

A fierce predator, sculpted by J-Sell.

Happy Girl, M. Peevie, expressing her joie de vivre

Cousin T-Bone and C. Peevie

Old-fashioned fun.

Sleepy Hollow, 11A.  Highly recommended.

Story Slam: My Destiny

I got to tell a story on-stage at Martyr's last night, at the Moth StorySlam.

The room was sold out, standing-room only. About 30-40 story-tellers who wanted to tell a story on stage put our names into a hat. The atmosphere was fraught, because only ten people get picked. When host Brian Babylon mispronounced my name, I prayed I wouldn't trip going up the stairs and entered my Destiny.

The theme was Neighborhoods. My neighborhood is one of the whitest neighborhoods in Chicago. "It's whiter than this crowd," I told the StorySlam audience, which appeared to be approximately 97 percent white.

My neighborhood is so white that your car radio automatically tunes itself to NPR when you drive into it. It's so white that brown rice feels uncomfortable here. But that doesn't mean my neighbors are racist, I told the crowd. My neighbor will tell you: he has a friend who's black.

But this guy is a real piece of work. He didn't pay his water bill, and then the water got shut off, and his tenants had to come to my house to take showers. They moved out, and the house was vacant for six months.

In late summer he told me that he had a prospective renter looking at the house. "She's Caucasian," he said.

"I don't care if she's Caucasian, east Asian, or Martian," I said. "I'm just wondering if she'll chop down the NINE-FOOT TALL WEEDS in the backyard." Yeah. He doesn't want a brown person renting the house because they might not keep the property looking nice. I heart irony so much.

Anyway, after this intro, I adapted my story about this guy stealing my water in the middle of the night.

Certain female and gay male members of the audience cheered when I mentioned that I was watching Angel DVDs in the basement when I first heard the squeak, squeak, squeak of the felonious water-stealers.

"Yeah," I said. "I might be twice as old as you guys, but I'm not dead yet. I can totally appreciate a TV show in which David Boreanaz takes his shirt off."

I only scored 7.1 from the Moth scoring teams, but boy, I had a blast. I'll be back--and maybe next time, I'll actually prepare a story more than five minutes before I walk through the door.

Assault With A Deadly Cheeto

This might be a sign of the Apocalypse: A couple in Tennessee was arrested yesterday for assaulting each other with Cheetos. I can understand arguing, and I can understand assault; but wasting a perfectly good supply of Cheetos? That's just wrong.

It's not the first time Cheetos have been used as a weapon. People, listen: keep your Cheetos locked up so the kids cannot get to them. That way they won't be used as weapons, and also, they'll be there when you want to eat them yourselves. The kids can fill up on apples and grapes.

Although, grapes might be just as dangerous as Cheetos. In my house growing up, we used grapes as missiles, flinging them at each other when my parents were out of the room. This was when we were old enough to know better (in college.) Months later, we'd find them, only by this time they were raisins.

You just know that those pansy liberals in Congress will start passing laws against Cheetos now. And when Cheetos are outlawed, only outlaws will have Cheetos. Do not allow them to infringe the rights of Citizens to keep and bear Cheetos.

Please send $10 to the Save Our Puffy Orange Snacks (care of this blog) and keep Cheetos legal.

Summer Value, Simple Fun

My 8-year-old Peevie Child and her 8-year-old pal M. Black Hair and I put together our metal frame and vinyl pool in about an hour last week. (That's how easy it is.)

This little pool (which takes up most of our typical Chicago back yard at 10' diameter and about 3' deep) has served us well. Every year it gets a little more off-kilter, and it currently doesn't have a working filter (kilter, filter--it rhymes! I'm a poet!), and the vinyl is bleached, and we had to plug a filter hole with a sock--but this pool was the best summer entertainment value that I ever purchased. Assuming we get through this year with the pool still functioning, I think the cost works out to about 16 cents per hour of summer fun or less, not including the cost of filters, chlorine, pool toys, and other accessories.

They're running about $129 at Target this year*, but when we bought ours three years ago, it was $99, including the water filter, plus about $50 for the chemical kit. The filter gave out during the season last year, but we continued using the pool without it. I also stopped buying expensive pool chemicals, and just started using regular old chlorine bleach to kill the germs; and I used a skimmer net to skim off the leaves and dead animals that accumulated on the surface of the water.

(I still used the testing supplies to make sure that the Ph and chlorine levels were appropriate. It vastly amused me and made me feel like a mad scientist when I dripped the yellow and red solutions into the test beakers. But then again, I am easily amused.)

So for the first two days that the pool was up, M. Peevie spent great chunks of time in it--even though the temperature has barely reached 70 and the water temp is probably just shy of icicle. She floats on hot pink inner tubes, swims laps around the perimeter, practices holding her breath under water, and generally splashes happily for hours on end.

The good thing about having this pool in our tiny Chicago backyard is that it's fun for our kids and their friends. The bad thing is that sometimes I become slightly irritable at the parade of kids needing food, drinks, bathing suits, towels, sunscreen, and Band-Aids tracking watery footprints through my kitchen.

At this moment I have an 8-year-old, a 9-year-old, and a 10-year-old floating on inflatables and telling stories in the pool. It's sweet, innocent, and simple, and it makes me happy and grateful for my life.

*I saw the pool on sale for $99 again yesterday.

In Which I Take Up Smoking, And Then Quit

I smoked my first cigarette ever on my 48th birthday this week. Boy, did I feel cool. And sexy.

My friend Rock Star had to light it for me, because I had no idea how to do it. I sucked on it a teensy bit, and coughed like a 12-year-old sneaking one of mom's smokes behind the garage for the first time. Even though I watch lots of TV shows where people smoke, I still had to be reminded to tap the ash off before I set myself on fire.

I wasn't planning to acquire a new noxious habit on my birthday; it just sort of happened. We were celebrating Dr. Vespinator's upcoming nuptials with a surprise shower. J. Cool hosted what was supposed to be a "godden potty" on the verandah, but of course this is June in Chicago, so with the wind chill in the 20s, we took it indoors.

At one one point, Rock Star, our resident bad girl and the most fun pastor's wife you will ever hang out with, went outside to smoke. We all decided to go out and smoke with her, sort of as a joke and sort of as a sign of solidarity. ("Smokers are one of the few groups left that it's OK to malign," Rock Star had said. "Yeah," I added knowingly, "Smokers and fat people.") So I grabbed her cigs from her purse and handed them around to the rest of the gang.

We all went outside with a cigarette hanging from our lips or dangling casually between two fingers like Marlene Dietrich. Rock Star was touched, I think; or maybe she was annoyed that we had just wasted an entire pack of cigarettes.

With our cigarettes in one hand, and our glasses of champagne in the other, we went around the circle making toasts to the guest of honor.

"To 50 years of uninterrupted wedded bliss!" I said, and we all clinked our glasses boisterously.

"Move over, Brangelina," toasted Queenie, "Make room for Mixie!" We giggled, clinked, drank and smoked. (BTW, that's funnier if you know Dr. Vespinator and her fiance's real names.)

I got better and cooler with the smoking with every puff; and I even tried to smoke out of my dwindling surgical neck hole* like a tracheotomy patient. But I'm happy to say, for the benefit of the youngsters out there, it was not enjoyable at all. I'll stick to my many, many other vices, thank you very much.

*NOTE: I can't believe I never told you the story of my gigantic surgical neck hole. I'm sure you'll want to hear it, and see pictures. Maybe later, kids. Try to keep yourselves calm while you're waiting.

Yes, M. Peevie, There is Butterfly Poop

Since so many recent Green Room visitors have arrived via a quest for information about butterfly poop (because of this tangentially-related post), I figured it's only fair to offer a primer on the digestion and excretory systems of insects.

As it turns out, yes, butterflies DO poop. The bowel movement of insects, including butterflies, is known as frass. I assume that's a made-up word that combines "fragrance " and "ass" into an optimistic euphemism for excrement.

I tried to find an image of butterfly poop, but all I came up with was this image from a two-year-old post in a fun blog. It seems that it shows up as a reddish-brown stain, which is precisely the last thing I need in my house, so I will not be inviting any butterflies to flit around my living room. It's bad enough that there are seven unmatched dirty socks, miscellaneous overdue school forms waiting to be filled out, and a shoe-store's worth of cleats and sneakers lying around.

In my research I also came across a related story about an unfortunate tattoo.

That's all I got on the topic.

Seriously?

The most hilarious consumer item since The Clapper is the Chia Obama.

Every time I hear the radio ad it cracks me up--and then I click on the web-site and find out I can order a "Happy Chia Obama" or a "Determined Chia Obama"--or BOTH! I could watch Determined Chia Obama's hair grow over and over on the Chia landing page for hours.

In a ludicrous development, Walgreens decided that it would be inappropriate to sell Chia Obamas because some customers complained that they are offensive. Do they not hear the patriotic music playing in the background of the ads? This is not a product that mocks our president; it is a product that celebrates the fact that we finally have a president with curly hair. Duh.

I must have one. The only question is: Determined, or Happy?

Waiting for a Diagnosis

Well, with tuberculosis in the news because of an infected doctor making the rounds at several local hospitals, I decided I might as well join the fun.

I think I have TB.

We'll know more tomorrow after we get the results from my chest X-ray.

All's I know is, I have all the symptoms except the ones I really wouldn't mind: loss of appetite and unexplained weight loss. Those would be excellent, really. The only time in my life when I had appetite loss was when I was preggers with M. Peevie, God bless her. I was so happy to be un-hungry, and the doc confidently (if insultingly) reassured me that she'd easily live off the fat of the land, so to speak.

But back to the topic at hand: my imminent death from tuberculosis. The symptoms I could do without are non-productive cough, chest pain, and a fever that keeps coming back at night, with chills and night sweats. It's hard to catch my breath sometimes, especially after a huge coughing fit.

Wait, where are you going? Stop backing away! You do not need to worry about infection, as TB is not typically spread through blog contact.

The good news from Dr. Zippy today is that my blood pressure was back down to normal and my weight was down by about three pounds. (It wasn't unexplained weight loss, however, as I spent the last month trying not to drink much alcohol, limiting my caffeine, and reducing the number of times I ate potato chips for breakfast.) I also improved my spirometer score, pushing the little red marker up to about 350, and once to almost 400. Not perfect, but definitely an improvement over "Are you even alive?"

But the TB-type disease is making me tired and a teeny bit cranky. Plus, I stupidly googled "TB treatment" and learned that treatment is complicated and lengthy. Four simultaneous antibiotics, one of them for 6-9 months; blood and sputum tests; no alcohol for the duration; and no Tylenol for the duration. As a person who hates and fears pain, takes Tylenol at the first twinge of a headache or any other kind of ache, and is allergic to all pain relievers except acetominophen, this might be the worst aspect of treatment.

If I actually do have TB, which, of course, is highly unlikely, except I really do love speculation about worst case scenarios, which is why we're having this conversation, I will be all achy, cranky and needing an adult beverage for six to nine months. Look out, world.

And if it's not TB, then what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks is going on inside my chest? The docs agree it's not pneumonia--I guess they can hear pneumonia through the stethoscope. Is it just a particularly long-lasting strain of bronchitis? Is is chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD)--which, BTW, is the fourth leading cause of death in the U.S.?

Cancer? Brain tumor? Catastrophic lung failure, require double lung transplant?

Stay tuned.

I'm Done With the Shallow Life

Have you been enjoying 24 this season? Well, I haven't.

In fact, I've been completely disillusioned with the ridiculousness of it all. I mean, come on: one guy who's not even a superhero; who dies and gets resurrected more than once--but isn't actually Jesus; who makes the world safe for democracy over and over again; and who makes blondes, red-heads and brunettes fall in love with him with seasonal regularity--this guy who's so short you can store him up on your mantle, is not even super-great looking. I mean, I want a little more dish in my action heroes, don'tcha know?

Think Jason O'Mara.

And speaking of Jason O'Mara, I've heard that his show, Life on Mars, has been cancelled. They finally get a clever show with a supernatural twist and interesting, believable dialogue (unlike, say Lost, where they talk past each other like characters in two completely different plays), and a hot, HOT lead actor--and they cancel it. It figures.

It's enough to make me stop watching TV altogether. In fact, that's what I'm going to do. Starting today, I'm going cold turkey. No more Vincent, no more stupid Dancing with the Stars, no more Judge Alex. Cold turkey, man.

Oh, and no more American Idol, because Simon is too mean and Paula has too many unicorns dancing around in her cleavage; and also? No more Reno 911, because it's just too crude.

Seriously. What good is TV anyway? Does it help me love Jesus more? No. Does it improve my brain at all? Not really, except I really do feel that I learn some good stuff about rental laws and laws about whether you have to return the engagement ring if your wedding falls through from the judge shows, which could be very useful.

I'll use my new-found hours to better myself. I'll start exercising, I'll stop eating Pringles and Diet Coke for breakfast, and I'll read more. I've been reading Thomas Merton's The Seven Storey Mountain for about five weeks, and I'm only half-way through. Without TV, I will become a better person, I will finish The Seven Storey Mountain, and I will blog about the Important Spiritual Lessons I learned, and I will make the world a better place.

I'm done with the shallow life. Stay tuned.

Butterfly Poop and Other Inquiries

Conversations with my kids cover an amazing variety of topics.

When I was getting into the car one morning last week, some water from the tree above my head dripped down on me, and M. Peevie said happily, "Mommy, a bird pooped on you!"

I wiped my hair and looked at my hand--but it was only water. Nevertheless, it gave me the opportunity to tell a story about a hapless mommy getting bird-shat-upon.

M. Peevie was a babe-in-arms, and I had taken her with me to the zoo on a field trip with C. Peevie's kindergarten class. We were walking through the tropical bird sanctuary, where colorful birds fly free above your head and monkeys jabber in the trees. I was holding M. Peevie in my arms and just as I looked up, a really rude bird took a dump right onto my face.

I was wearing glasses instead of contacts, and the glasses were completely covered in white, gluey birdshit. I was holding M. Peevie, and I couldn't see a thing. It was oh, so amusing. I handed M. Peevie off to another kindergarten mom so I could hose down my face and wipe off my glasses. M.P. was oblivious back then--but today, she enjoyed the story.

When I was telling her about the bird sanctuary where the birds fly free, she said, "Oh! Like the butterfly garden!" which Brookfield Zoo opens during the warm months. Yes, I told her, like that, only the birds don't fly down and light on your hand if you hold still, like the butterflies do.

"I wonder if butterflies poop," M. Peevie segued. "And what does butterfly poop look like? I wonder if it smells bad." We enjoyed an entire car ride's worth of speculation about butterfly poop.

Another excellent conversational moment took place just this morning. A. Peevie had crawled into bed in between Mr. Peevie and me. He was cuddling close to his daddy, cheek-to-cheek, enjoying some tender daddy-cuddling. He lifted up his head from Mr. Peevie's shoulder and looked with gentle love and trust at the man who donated his DNA to make this moment possible.

A. Peevie looked into his daddy's eyes, smiled his sweet, curvy smile, and said, "Dad, is there such a thing as an eyebrow barbershop?" Not that he was suggesting anything, of course.

And finally, sometimes our sweet short-people interactions take a turn to the dark side. I went in to give M. Peevie her first wake-up call. I'm like a snooze alarm: I shake her gently, and pat her round bottom until she grunts or otherwise sleepily acknowledges my existence. She inevitably asks for five more minutes, which I generously grant.

But this morning, I peeked into a little gap in the covers and whispered baby-girl's name. Out came a chubby, waggling finger, inch-worming its way toward my face. I guided it to my nose, pressed it, and said, "Beep!" The finger waggled some more, so this time, being a friendly and playful mommy, I guided it into my mouth and gave it a gentle nip with my teeth.

M. Peevie threw off her covers and sat up in bed, screaming with gigglicious laughter. "Mommy!" she said with huge delight, "I just poked my finger up my butt!"

I was not amused, but Mr. Peevie doubled over laughing while I scraped a layer of tastebuds off my tongue with a grill brush.

Inadvertent Prophecy

Mr. Peevie pointed out this unfortunate juxtaposition of politics and seasonal fun in our neighbor's yard.

Can you read the sign on the right, on the tombstone? It reads, "R.I.P." Right next to the John McCain sign.

Apparently Officer Friendly's seasonal decorations are tracking the most up-to-date polling data, which give Obama a 96.3 percent chance of winning tomorrow.

My seasonal decorations tell the story in a different way. Ain't it awesome? I carved it myself.

Distance to Empty

I told you about the Big Game, but I didn't tell you the story about the trip back to South Haven after the big game. It will either make you think to yourself, "Oh, that sounds like something I'd do" or--and this is statistically more probable--it will make you think, "Geez, I'm glad I'm not married to that idiot."

C. Peevie and I hung out at the post-championship pizza party for about half an hour before we headed back out of town for the last day of vacation. It was about nine p.m. Chicago time when we hit the road. The low-gas indicator lit up on the dashboard as I pulled out, but I recklessly thought to myself, "There's no way I'm going to pay Cook County prices for gas when I'll be in Indiana in half an hour."

You know where this is headed, don't you? Uh huh.

I switched the navigator buttons over to the DTE setting. That's "distance to empty," which estimates the number of miles you can drive before you stupidly stall out and curse your stupidity on the side of the stupid highway because you've stupidly run out of stupid gas. I figured I had a handle on it; I was watching the DTE digits carefully. If I get too close to zero, I thought, I'll just pull over and get some expensive gas.

So as I was driving along, the DTE numbers were going down, exactly as logic would predict; but I was getting close to the Skyway, and from there it's only a few miles to the Indiana border. Gary was within smelling distance at this point, so I was confident that I'd find a gas station well before we hit zero.

[Confidence does not bear any kind of relationship to common sense or intelligence, or even to reality, it seems. Confidence is not a reliable predictor of success. Confidence is like frosting: it makes the cake look good--but if the cake is no good, people won't eat it.

OK, I don't know if that made any sense at all, but I googled "confidence + anecdotes" and all I got was about a billion links to anecdotes about how having confidence leads to success, so I had to make up my own damn analogy.]

Meanwhile, back to my story. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was approaching Gary on the Indiana Tollroad, and the DTE meter had dropped to about seven. No sweat, right? The first Gary exit was closed, so we kept going to the second. C. Peevie was beginning to get anxious as DTE had now hit four.

As we exited into beautiful downtown Gary, it was about 9:45 pm-ish. There was no gas station in sight. There was nothing but darkened warehouses in sight, as a matter of fact. "Is this Gary?" C. Peevie asked.

"Yup," I said, continuing down the deserted street, hopeful in spite of the absence of any signs of a gas station.

"It reminds me of Gotham City," C. Peevie said.

"You mean because it's dark and bleak and deserted?" I asked.

"Exactly," C. P. said, trepidation creeping into his voice.

Eventually, I turned the gas-sucking mini-van around, cursing my stupidity for having such a fuel-inefficient vehicle--but not yet cursing myself for not getting gas in Chicago; and at the same time suggesting to C. Peevie that he start to pray.

We headed back onto the highway, and almost immediately saw a sign for gas in two miles. Again, with more confidence than Danny Ocean, I figured, no sweat, we've still got three miles on the DTE gauge.

Two miles later, we reach the turn-off for 94, and I take the exit to head toward South Haven. "Um, Mom?" C. Peevie asks. "Isn't that the gas station down there? Why are we driving away from it?"

"Uh oh," I said. "I guess the sign for two miles to gas was for people staying on the tollroad."

DTE: 2 miles.

"Mom, what happens if we run out of gas?" said C. Peevie nervously.

"Well, honey, we'll just make a phone call and wait, or we'll walk to a gas station," I said, still optimistic. "But don't worry about that yet. We're still golden. But you might want to say another little prayer."

DTE: 1 mile.

"Mom, we're down to one mile left," C. Peevie said.

"I know, honey, but look--there's a sign for gas coming up!" I told him. The sign said that Portage was a mere four miles away, and--again with the confidence--I knew that the DTE gauge typically registered a conservative estimate of the number of miles, and gave no credit for fumes.

DTE: Zero.

"Mom," C. P. said, making it two syllables. "Zero, Mom."

"We're still moving, C. Peevie," I reassured him. "As long as we're still moving, there's a chance we might make it." My confident tone belied the pounding of my heart and the knot in my gut. Hey--it felt just like being at a breath-takingly close championship little league game!


Do cars use less gas at slower rates of speed? I wondered. I thought I remembered hearing during the "55 Saves Lives" campaign back in the Dark Ages that better gas mileage was a fringe benefit of slower speed limits, so I started conserving gas by slowing down.

"We're slowing down," C. Peevie observed. "I think we're out of gas."

But we kept going, and finally, three miles later, we coasted into the Marathon station in Portage. Gas was a scant $3.89 per gallon--fully 45 cents less than we would have paid in Chicago. I showed those Cook County politicians who were always raising my taxes.

And all it cost me was about four years of my life, foreshortened by anxiety-induced tachycardia.

"Well, C., that was an adventure, wasn't it?" I said happily.

"No, it was not," C. Peevie said, all grumpy-like. "I was scared to death."

Some people have no sense of adventure.

Deep Thoughts with M. Peevie

The other day M. Peevie and I were driving along, having our usual conversations about random things. She loves driving with the windows open and hanging her head and arms (a few inches) out the window, like a dog. I looked at her in the rear-view mirror, and smiled, because she's so alive, so in-the-moment, so happy--and I get to be her mom.

At one point, she pulled her head back in, pushed her hair back, and said, "Mom, do blind people blink?"

Where does she come up with these things?

"Great question, M.P.," I said. "I don't know. What do you think?" That's my standard answer, because I know she's got some thinking going on behind the question, and that's always way more interesting than my answer.

"I don't know," she said, pondering. "We blink to keep too much light from going in to our eyes," she said confidently, "And blind people don't have any light going into their eyes, so they don't really need to blink."

"Are there other reasons that we blink?" I asked.

"Well, maybe," she said. "Oh, yes! We blink to keep things out of our eyes, and air and stuff! So blind people DO blink."

I think you're right, I told her. Our eyes blink automatically, to protect themselves, and to keep from getting dried out.

And then she stuck her head back out the car window, squinted and grinned into the wind, and started pondering her next Deep Thought. I looked at her in the rear-view mirror, and smiled.

How Many E. Peevies in the U.S.?

There are 19,746 people in the U.S. with the same first name as me.

There are 51,644 people in the U.S. with the same last name as me.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are 3 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

How about you?

Gerbils on Stilts

The Fug Girls do NOT need my help boosting their readership, but this made me snort Diet Coke out of my nose:

"As Paula Abdul would say, it's just not connecting with the audience, and also, gelato unicorns don't talk to gerbils on stilts unless there's a rainbow involved."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! They've totally got their P.Ab impression nailed! In the proud tradition of Simon Cowell's favorite eye-roll target, it's a comment that vaguely alludes to an actual aspect of a performance, but then it veers off into a surreal, nonsensical, hallucinogen-inspired homage to Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky!

And after I read that line, I searched on the Fugly site, and discovered that these bee-yotches can totally channel Paula, every single time. OMG. I'm still laughing.

Vagina Dialogues, Part II

What do nine women of varying ages and backgrounds do for a whole weekend in the country, away from family, jobs, responsibilities?

They talk, of course. They tell stories, they emote, they give gifts, they encourage, they cry. They share little personal pieces of themselves that are too scary to reveal in the Halogen brightness of regular life. They laugh, sometimes a little too loudly. They drink, sometimes a tiny bit too much. They walk and shop and eat and take turns holding L. Tiny, who makes them yearn, or mourn, or remember, or sometimes, just smile at her baby-soft beauty and contentment at being held up by a net of loving arms.

Except when we dropped her. At one point, Bucky was holding L. Tiny and sitting on the arm of an over-stuffed chair. The chair tipped and crashed, L. Tiny sailed up in the air while Bucky hit the floor. When the dust settled, Bucky was holding LT over her shoulder, murmuring comforting words to her, while some of us were suggesting that perhaps she should turn the scared, crying infant over to her mama. It was kind of hilarious how long she resisted the obvious.

These women are some of the most amazing, beautiful, accomplished, brilliant, and tender-hearted women in the whole entire world. Even our normally reviled bodily functions became a source of venerated wisdom and hilarity. Some of us delivered farts with such skill that they engendered our first candidate for catch-phrase of the weekend, submitted by our own Arid Queen. A moth flitted in through the open screen door, and she said,

"That moth is a metaphor for your farts. Get it OUT of here!"

I know, right? Catchy.

Before we turned into Nighty-Nighters, we sat up late, talking and laughing and cocktailing our way into the wee hours. As we talked and laughed, our on-site mixologist (Bob the Builder) mixed and poured. One by one, the morning glories faded away, and we learned who really had the late-night cajones: E. Peevie and Arid Queen.

The rest of you light-weights can sleep your whole lives away, but we've got stories to tell and laughs to laugh! Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Zonk.

Stay tuned for Vagina Dialogues, Part III.