You, Me and All the Stuff in Between

Drop by the Alchemist Theatre, 2569 S. KK from 4 to 9 p.m. Sunday, April 19, to show your film -- for free! For a few bucks, you and your pals can stick around and enjoy an evening of local film, friends and cocktails.

Details here:  http://a5pmproduction.com/

The story about Amy and cats goes something like this:

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Amy. She never had much interaction with cats, other than the pair her uncle owned – Ginny and Lacey. Lacey, a petite, shorthair, gray cat, was known for being temperamental. Amy stayed away from her and instead spent time petting Ginny, a mottled, brown-and-orange, longhair cat with a gentle demeanor. All was well, until the day Ginny unexpectedly hissed and swatted at then 7-year-old Amy.

That was when Amy got scared of cats.

She held onto that fear until she was in college. Her then-beau adopted a Siamese kitten no bigger than a guinea pig. The little kitten, named Shai, would often sleep in Amy’s clogs. As much as Amy resisted, she eventually fell in love with Shai.

When Amy and this fellow parted ways, Amy was surprised to realize how much she missed having a cat around the house. On one day, when she was feeling particularly lonely, she decided to visit the Humane Society – just to look, not to buy, she told herself.

Right.

Enter Emmett – the sleek, black, part-Siamese cat that is convinced he’s a dog. He plays fetch, tears around the house at a gallop and swats other cats in the head when they annoy him.

Amy had owned Emmett for a few years when she stumbled across another cat. She was walking into work when a chubby tabby cat crossed her path. She petted him and wished him well as she walked into the office. Eight or so hours later, when she left work for the day, she again saw the cat outside. Amy opened her car door, muttered, “OK, get in,” and that was that. A thorough search for the cat’s owner turned up nothing, and Lucas officially moved into Amy’s house.

Not long afterward, Amy moved in with another beau who owned a cat, Tina. The 5-pound longhair feline was skittish and antisocial, mostly from being raised in a household of single, 20-something men who prioritized video games and pizza over caring for pets. About two years later, the beau moved out. Tina stayed.

And then there were three.

It’s a generally accepted fact that three cats is the maximum number of felines any single gal can own without being – quite fairly – labeled crazy. It’s also a fact that the more cats a single gal owns, the less likely it becomes that she will ever get married. (I’m pretty sure there’s a math equation to prove this.) That is why Amy’s latest feline encounter has left her in quite a predicament.

On Monday morning, Amy was leaving her house for work as usual when she heard an urgent “meooooooooooooooooow!” A kitten that did not belong to the neighbor was sitting in the neighbor’s yard. This scrawny calico proved friendly and hungry. And, when it walked into the house uninvited, Amy assumed it also was looking for a place to live. This was confirmed when Amy found the kitten’s owner; she did not want the cat back.

Amy took the kitten to the vet for a checkup and shots. She is spayed, declawed and the picture of a healthy kitten. And she snores.

Now, it seems, Amy has four cats.

If you are in a position to give a kitten a safe, loving home, contact Amy at amymuehlbauer@hotmail.com. If not, Amy requests that you at least refrain from calling her a batty, cat-owning spinster when you see her next.

The end.

It all started when I heard the Peep Show was coming to town.

I sent an e-mail to a pal, inviting him to take a peep with me. The e-mail contained a link to a story about the show: http://www.onmilwaukee.com/ent/articles/peepshow2009.html

My pal’s reply was as follows:

Stage 1: Seeing the email 
"Yay, an email from Amy :)"
Opens email

Stage 2: Shock
Reads site name
"Is Amy suggesting we go to a peep show?" 

Stage 3: Disbelief
"There is no way that Amy is inviting me to a peep show."

Stage 4: Confusion
"Amy likes peep shows?"

Stage 5: Rationalization
"Well maybe it's a vintage peep show, or something more like a tastefully done burlesque show.
Opens link

Stage 6: Elation
"Oooooooohhhhhhhhh ... It's a ‘Peep’ show!"

Stage 7: Embarrassment
"I can't believe I thought Amy wanted to go to a peep show."

Stage 8: Laughter
"HAHAHAHAHA!"

And so to the Peep Show at Sugar Maple we went.

This Sunday afternoon show of stale sugary confection featured perfectly poised marshmallow Peeps – those little pink bunnies and yellow chickies that everyone wants, but no one really wants, to find among the goodies in their Easter baskets.

Some of the show’s highlights included:

• “Peeps in Space,” featuring, um, well, Peeps in space, complete with Peep-sized space helmets.

•  “Peepucci,” which was a beautiful handbag adorned with blue Peeps.

• “Michael Pheeps,” boasting Peeps dressed for competitive swimming in an Olympic-sized Peep pool.

• A pair of yellow patent leather “Peeptoes” shoes with yellow Peeps poking out of the toes.

• “Where’s your Moses now?” featuring a Peep Moses on high overlooking a valley filled with fornicating Peeps.

My favorite was the book titled “The Adventures of Peepee.” Little pink Peepee traveled all around the world whale watching and visiting ancient ruins. Who knew Peeps were such world travelers?

I also learned, as I sipped my frothy pink Peeptini, that Peeps float quite well.

This year I really do want to find Peeps in my Easter basket – stale ones, of course. That would be simply peep-a-fiffic.

I’m bendy (bendable?) but out of balance.

 

I was hitting my stride in my yoga class at the Beulah Brinton Community Center the other day – reaching, bending, reaching and bending. A quick glance around the room revealed what I had thought: I am more flexible than many. My arms and legs just bend in directions that, well, I’m just not sure they should.

 

It was just about then that our instructor, Ann, switched to the balance-pose portion of the class. That’s when I quickly slip from being the A+ student to being the C- student.

 

Simple balance poses are next to impossible for me to strike and hold. Take the tree pose, for example. All that is required is standing still with one foot pressed against the knee of the other leg. Judging by the other 20 people in the room who can execute the pose flawlessly, it’s pretty simple.

 

Unless you’re unbalanced me.

 

No matter how much I try to find something to focus on and try to go slowly, within a few seconds of bringing one of my two feet off the floor, I tip.

 

Fortunately for my fellow yoga students, I have yet to go careening into one of them, but, honestly, it’s just a matter of time until that happens.

 

Last night, as I performed my usual tippy teacup pose and then stood with both feet firmly planted on the ground waiting for the rest of the class to stop showing off their balancing prowess, I had a thought: What if my lack of balance is not a physical skill I need to learn but rather a mental skill I need to learn? That is to say, what if I am out of balance – me, my brain, my life – and that is responsible for my inability to attain balance in my yoga class?

 

Don’t roll your eyes at me – it’s plausible. Well, it’s plausible for someone like me whose profession basically entails reading, writing and spelling all day every day.

 

My life is not very balanced. It always has been heavy with work. At my worst (or best?) I had four jobs. These days I’m down to two, but I still work more than 60 hours each week. And I work at all hours of the day – and sometimes all hours of the night.

 

Second to work are my friends. After working a 12-hour day, I often head out to meet a pal for dinner or a chat. By the time I get home, there are usually about five or six hours to sleep before I get up and do it all over again.

 

Time for my family, time for my cats, time for exercise, time to cook, time to knit, time for reading all of those New Yorkers that are piling up on the coffee table – that’s what I’m missing. Add to that time to learn to sew, time to take a class and time to travel, and the lack of balance in my life becomes clear.

 

I can bend quite well. I multitask all day as I work to keep things on track for my colleagues in the newsroom and then, later in the day, for my students in the classroom. I also love my friends and want to fit them into my schedule whenever possible so I can support their endeavors and be part of their lives.

 

If only there were about 35 hours in a day instead of 24. If only sleep were optional. If only food came in pill form.

 

But making excuses won’t help me find balance in my life. I need to make some changes to my priorities if I truly want to be able to balance rather than just bend. I suspect I’ll always be a bendy gal – both mentally and physically. (For those of you who haven’t witnessed my party trick – put your hands on your hips and then bend your arms forward so your elbows come together in front of you. Can’t do it? Well, somehow I can.)

 

However, if I keep bending and don’t work toward balancing, I am afraid that, someday, I’ll break. At the very least, I’ll topple over onto someone in my yoga class and that won’t be pretty.

Sometimes technology slows me down. OK, OK, it’s not so much the technology as it is my aversion to it.

I am that gal who still prefers records and cassette tapes to CDs and an iPod. I am that gal who still subscribes to a daily paper. And I am that gal who can make and receive calls on her cell phone, but can’t do much else with it. (Apparently my phone has the capacity to access the Internet and – get this –take photos. Crazy!)

All of this is why, when the powers that be at BayViewNOW told me they were monkeying with the way our blogs work, I put my blogging on hold.

I read all of the e-mails that explained the changes. I filed them neatly in a folder in my inbox to sort through at a later date. I told myself I was really busy. I was working a lot and had lots of obligations to fulfill. Obligations, yeah, that was it. I had to, uh, empty the litter box. (And I live with a lot of cats, so that’s a big chore.) And rearrange the living room. And clean behind the fridge.

Those of you who know me know I am not much of a procrastinator. However, when technology is involved, I kick my procrastinating into high gear. My brother can attest to that. He gave me an iPod for Christmas a couple of years ago and stopped over in February? March? of that year to find I had not even removed the sleek, pink device from its box. Frustrated, he sat down at my computer, plugged in the device and downloaded a handful of songs to it. Two years later, those few songs are the only ones stored on my iPod, which resides in a knitted cozy carefully stowed in my desk drawer.

What’s my problem? Why am I the last person I know who does not have a Facebook account? Why do I get up and change the channel on the TV while the remote sits without batteries atop the set?

I’m not that old. I’m not that stupid. I’m not that pressed for time that I cannot be bothered to learn.

I guess I’m just convinced that everything I know how to do will suffice because, well, it has gotten me this far. But the thing is, “this far” really isn’t far enough. If I want to remain socially connected and competitive within my career field, I have to step up my game. I have to dust off my iPod, get my Twitter on and maintain a calendar that requires no paper.


At the very least, I need to get to the bottom of the changes with this blogging program. I’ll get to the rest. Tomorrow.

As we hurried up the little ramp to the front door, anxious to escape the windy chill, my girlfriend exclaimed, “I’m so excited to be the one to bring you here first. This place is the Fuel Café of pizza places.”

As I stepped into Classic Slice on the corner of California Street and Kinnickinnic Avenue, I couldn’t help but agree.

I know, I know, you’re shaking your head and muttering, “What? Amy, you really had never eaten a piece of pie at Classic Slice?!”
 
If only someone had told me I could order tofu on my pizza, believe me, I’d have been the first gal in line when the shop opened its doors a couple of years ago.

As my girlfriend and I strutted our way to the counter – much like Fuel Café, Classic Slice has a runway that must be walked to get from the entrance to the counter – I took in the ambiance. The ceiling is high, the tables are shiny – but crumb-covered – and the décor is simple and sparse.  Both the clientele and the counter help were hipsters, then again, compared to me just about everyone is a hipster. (I don’t think hipsters use the word hip.)

We ordered a slice of veggie tofu pizza and some breadsticks, which turned out to be more than enough food for two. The slice was nearly twice the size promised by the picture on the wall. The crust was thin and crisp and perfect. And did I mention my pizza was chock-full of tofu? The breadsticks were gooey and garlicky and completely unhealthy. Also perfect.

Overall, despite the lack of both killer coffee and lousy service, I’d have to agree that Classic Slice is the Fuel of pizza places. But, really, even if it weren’t a hipster joint, it wouldn’t matter. They had me at tofu.

The two Shawns in my life have joined forces. Well, to be precise, one’s a Shawn and the other is a Sean. Together they’re bringing tunes and flicks to the Alchemist Theatre on Friday night.

Shawn and his partner in filmmaking, Phil, are hosting their second of many BYOF – that’s bring your own film – events. Under the name Firestarter Films, the pair hosts the event every other month at the Alchemist. They invite filmmakers – from the amateur to the professional – to bring their work to share on the not-so-big screen at the kitschy theater/lounge.

What’s nice about this event is that it’s not formal. It’s not long. And it’s not rude to get up and head to the theater’s bar if you’re thirsty or to the potty if you’ve gotta go.

The event is a casual evening of flicks, punctuated by breaks filled with chatter, snacks (Last time Shawn’s mom baked cookies!), drinks and, of course, music.

That’s where the other Sean comes in. He’s the deejay for the evening. If I knew the first thing about music, I’d insert a witty comment about Sean’s musical style or his mixing prowess. Alas, I am little more than a Neil Diamond fan, so I can’t tell you much about Sean’s spin, other than to say it’s sure to be swell. Like him.

Two Shawns for the price of one – that’s the deal at the Alchemist, 2569 S. Kinnickinnic Ave., from 7 p.m. to midnight Friday, Jan. 23. For more info, visit www.alchemisttheatre.com or e-mail Shawn at info@a5pmproduction.com.

“I thought that all girls knew how to boil water and use a hand mixer. Bay View could use some knowledge like that, since the Journal-Sentinel does not accept the fact that Bay View actually exists. Maybe we can learn how to do basic things like you to support the community. We learned how to cook while we were in grade school. But there must be an exception to some people.”

-- John Manke, Bay View NOW blogger


John Manke posted this barb to the comment section of my blog Thursday afternoon. Needless to say, John is not a card-carrying member of my fan club.

That’s OK. This is one “girl” who has no plans to run for homecoming queen of Bay View.

However, there are a few things I’d like to mention.

•    I am flattered that John refers to me as a “girl.” At age 34, I get called ma’am more often than I wish I did.

•    I am becoming quite a whiz with my mixer. My pals will be calling me Amy “Mixmaster” Muehlbauer in no time. As for boiling water, John’s correct; all girls can do it. In fact, I am so skilled at this task, I often blindfold myself while boiling just to add an extra level of challenge to the chore.

•    John says, “Bay View could use some knowledge like that, since the Journal-Sentinel does not accept the fact that Bay View actually exists.” If you insist, John. Oh neighborhood of Bay View, you are most cordially invited to my house where I will teach you to boil water and use a hand mixer. I was unaware that the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel did not know of a neighborhood’s existence until all of its residents had attained proficiency in such domestic tasks, but if John says it is so, let’s start baking and boiling!

•    When it comes to the topic of “basic things,” I am, gulp!, guilty as charged. Basic things are a great way to benefit the community, and I do them all of the time. I spend money at local restaurants, I take a yoga class at the Beulah Brinton Community Center, I recently hosted a 50-person party at Sugar Maple, I attended the South Shore Frolic parade and festival, and the list goes on. Community support comes in many forms.

•    One final note: Most of us learned to be respectful and tolerant of others, regardless of age or ability, while we were in grade school. But there must be an exception to some people.

I am the only person who has ever had to read a manual in order to use a hand mixer.

Now, in my defense, it has been quite some time since I used a mixer.

It was 2004, to be precise.

That was the year my beau and I split. It also was the year I sold his Kitchen Aid stand mixer (along with most of the rest of his belongings) to the highest bidder. That used-four-times powder blue contraption netted me $200. Not bad.

In the five years since, this single gal has opted to buy most of her bakery rather than bake it.

Now, in my defense, I had a backup hand mixer from mom that was, I’m guessing, older than my 34 years. Needless to say, it was decrepit and more broken than I was after that jerk of a beau left me.

Are you sensing where I’m going with this? Somehow mixers remind me of my ex. Really, it’s not just mixers, but kitchen gadgetry in general. The ex was a big spender when it came to kitchen accoutrements that were sure to get fewer than a dozen uses.

(Years ago, when I moved, I was stumped when I found a handheld metal gizmo with tiny pinprick holes in it. When my girlfriend identified it as a garlic press, I promptly gave it to her, assuming she had some possible use for it, which was more use than I’d ever have for such a stupid thing. When one can buy garlic already chopped into miniscule bits, why would anyone ever want to mess with such an awkward chore? I also should note this same girlfriend inherited my vegetable peeler last year after she shocked me by finding that I did indeed own one. Who knew? “Wow. It’s totally all yours,” I remember telling her, stunned I owned such a useless apparatus.)

With all of this shedding of kitchen devices, you can imagine how surprised my parents were when I asked for a hand mixer for Christmas. Really, it’s my brother’s fault. The only things I bake are chocolate chip cookies, and those don’t require a mixer. That’s the advantage to baking something that’s supposed to be lumpy. Last fall I decided – partially on a whim and partially because I had a bunch of past-their-prime bananas – to try my hand at banana bread. I followed a recipe and somehow it actually worked. I produced edible bread. And my brother loved it – enough to ask for more. And more.

The problem with banana bread is that it’s not really supposed to be lumpy. When eating a slice of it, one can see right into the bread, so it’s difficult to sneak the lumps past people. And that is why I decided it was finally time to own a hand mixer.

Although I didn’t discuss any of this with my dad, it was as if he instinctively knew this was the gift that had to be purchased with care. It had to be just right if it was to whip away those stale memories of my ex. Dad went to five stores until he finally found what must have been the last pink Kitchen Aid hand mixer in southeastern Wisconsin.

She boasts seven speeds. And did I mention she’s pink? A cotton candy perfect shade, to be precise. She’s so pretty, I admit I was hesitant to dirty her by using her to actually mix something. But when I broke her out for her inaugural mix tonight, she proved her whir was every bit a match for her sleek looks. As I shifted her from first speed all the way to seventh – after consulting the manual to figure out how to get the beaters to stay affixed to the mixer rather than falling out into the bowl of batter – she moved with a purr around the mixing bowl, daftly folding and turning eggs and flour with bananas and sugar.

She put on quite a show, that gal. The bread is better – and smother – than ever before.

And now she is stowed away in the cupboard where she’ll rest elegantly until called to action again briefly in spring or thereabouts.

What? Did you think I was going to start baking more frequently than that? I can’t risk wearing her out or she won’t be fit to be passed on to future generations. And what’s a mixer if not an appliance that will live for decades?

It really comes down to macaroni and cheese vs. chips with blue cheese sauce.

When comparing the newish Café Centraal to its across-the-triangle-intersection competitor, Café/Bar Lulu, I have a difficult time deciding which I prefer.

Lulu: It rarely, if ever, changes its menu, which annoys me.
Centraal: It has a new menu, but it’s a new establishment, so that doesn’t count.

Lulu: On a recent Monday evening visit it was so crowded, not even a seat at the bar was available, leaving me stranded in the line of traffic with a glass of wine in hand.
Centraal: On a recent Monday evening visit, my pal, Tim, who manages the restaurant, seated me immediately.

Lulu: homemade pie a la mode
Centraal: flourless chocolate thingy with raspberries and mousse

Lulu: olive tapenade
Centraal: no olive tapenade

(This world needs more olive tapenade.)

Lulu: Monster-sized art on the walls always provides interesting dinner conversation. When I was the editor of South Shore NOW, my reporter, Nan, interviewed Charles Dwyer, who had a show of his art on display at the restaurant. After interviewing him, she did what any good reporter with an editor who is single and in her 30s would do – she attempted to set me up with him. While Nan’s plan did not pan out, the story – as was the case with all of Nan’s stories – was top-notch as were the accompanying photos, shot by Charles Auer.
Centraal: No dates associated with the restaurant – yet. I did run into Seth, the fellow who borrowed my pink Princess bowling ball (see previous blog entry), there recently. If only I were 10 years younger. Sigh.

So where does that leave the tally? Is anyone keeping track?

I’m really not sure which establishment wins in the end. I think the ultimate meal might entail a combination of the two.

Appetizer: olive tapenade and chips with blue cheese dip at Lulu
Entree: macaroni and cheese at Centraal
Dessert: chocolate goodness at Centraal & apple pie at Lulu (Note: It is acceptable to eat the second dessert after your appetizers at Lulu. It is also acceptable to take it in a to-go box and surreptitiously eat it at Centraal along with your chocolaty dessert. Well, perhaps acceptable is not the right word. Understandable might be more like it. I mean, c’mon, homemade pie is a rarity once the holiday season is over. Sometimes you’ve gotta bend the rules of dining etiquette a little.)

Princess proved popular last night at Bay View Bowl.

Silver slivers glinted through the cigarette smoke haze as she roared down the slick lane, an orb of sparkly pink perfection.

She did. Really. But not when I threw her around.

The fellow bowling on the lane next to mine felt sorry for Princess, I think, after watching me abuse her frame after frame. I didn’t mean to – honestly. It’s just that 8 pounds of pink is a bit much for a gangly gal like me to hurl down a lane, especially using just one arm. (I eventually resorted to rolling potty shots.)

My score went from lousy to lousier as I scooted up to the line, swung my arm awkwardly and dropped Princess with a klunk onto the hardwood. She lolled down the lane, averaging 11 mph, according to the alley’s fancy electronic scoring machines.

My clumsy hand stifled Princess. But when Seth, the fellow on the neighboring lane, picked up Princess, she strutted her stuff with ease. Since his fingers were too big to be stuffed into her gal-sized finger holes, he cradled her between his hand and his forearm. Seth strode expertly toward the line, pulling Princess back in his arm as he prepared to let her sail toward the pins.

And as he released her – silence. I’m not even sure if Princess hit the floor. She was a blur of pink sparkly perfection as she flew toward and then shattered the triangle of pins at the end of the lane. She proved a true princess has both beauty and skills.

After three games, I called it a night. Princess deserved a rest. I lovingly wiped her off with a towel and stored her in her bag. She did me proud, that gal.

It was noon.
I asked a pal if he was going to make snow angels as he went about finishing his workday early.
He said, “no.”
He had to go shoot scenes for a flick he is working on.
“Snow angels: There’s a movie right there!” I shouted as loudly as any text message can shout.
3 p.m.
My colleague left the newsroom for his usual grab-a-soda break.
I inquired whether or not there was any chance he might instead use his break to make snow angels.
“Totally,” he said with a guffaw.
6 p.m.
I arrive at home. In my backyard.
Quick, I think, do it before the ever-rational you gets the upper hand.
I drop. Into my bleached-white yard. Remembering the perspective I have not seen in so many years. Snow dropping on my face.
Swoosh swoosh swoosh.
I am an angel in snow.

 

When Neil Diamond grows up, I’m pretty sure he wants to be an evangelist.

He tends toward sparkly clothes.

He writes lyrics like this:

Hot August night
And the leaves hanging down
And the grass on the ground smelling sweet
Move up the road
To the outside of town
And the sound of that good gospel beat

Sits a ragged tent
Where there ain't no trees
And that gospel group
Telling you and me

It's Love
Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show
Pack up the babies
Grab the old ladies
Everyone goes
Everyone knows
Brother Love's show

And, let me tell you, the man can draw a crowd. And no one in that crowd needs converting. Each considers himself or herself Neil’s No. 1 fan.

(I’d like to point out that I actually am Neil’s No. 1 fan. I am, for example, the only person I know who named her car Neil Diamond.)

When I went to Chicago to see him perform this summer, I was sure it would be my last chance. After all, the man is 67 years old.

When he added Milwaukee as an afterthought to his tour schedule, I was thrilled. Getting to see Neil twice in six months was unfathomable for a performer who usually breezed through town once every five to seven years.

It was the early 90s when I bought tickets for my mom to go see Neil in concert at the Bradley Center. I was praying she wouldn’t make me go with her. I was about 18, and the last thing I wanted to do was attend a Neil Diamond show with mom.

But I’m a good kid; I went.

On that tour, Neil’s stage was in the center of the floor and there was seating on all sides. The stage rotated 360 degrees, so every seat in the house was a good one. The lights sparkled off Neil’s sequined shirt – white with an American flag appliqué. Next to me sat an elderly man who was as excited as the teenagers in the crowd to be singing Sweet Caroline. He attempted to clap along to the beat – attempted and failed – and appeared so happy that everyone around couldn’t help but smile at his smile.

It was after that experience that I understood. I was converted from a nonbeliever to a devout Neil Diamond fan.

It was really quite simple. Neil is one of those musicians whose songs you know without realizing you know them. Remember those road trips when mom and dad wouldn’t switch the car radio off the AM channels? And those picnics when someone would have a transistor radio scratchily blaring from atop a picnic table? That’s when you learned the lyrics to more Neil Diamond songs than you ever realized.

Song Sung Blue
I Am I Said  
Kentucky Woman
Love on the Rocks
Solitary Man
You Don’t Bring Me Flowers
America

And my favorite, Forever in Blue Jeans.

If only I didn’t have so many of Neil’s song lyrics rattling around my head, I might have more room in there for something more important. Like math.

But then again, the lyrics are important. They give me hope. They give me faith.

As I sat – OK, who am I kidding, I didn’t sit, I jumped, shimmied and danced – at tonight’s concert, my fourth time seeing Neil perform, I was filled with excitement and glee. (What? Glee is a great word.)

Listening to Neil croon reminds me to have compassion for strangers, to have faith in friends, and, perhaps most importantly, to have hope for love.

Money talks
But it don't sing and dance
And it don't walk
And long as I can have you here with me
I'd much rather be
Forever in blue jeans

Take a drive, if you dare, down the 2200 block of East Bennett Avenue. There, you will encounter a most frightening sight – a Sarah Palin jack-o’-lantern sitting next to an Obama-Biden lawn sign.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkkk!!!

And, if that’s not enough to give you the creeps, there are about 20 more jack-o’-lanterns scattered about the porch, porch steps and the front yard, including two carved in the likenesses of the homeowners. That’s what happens when you invite artists to a pumpkin-carving party: They show up the folks like me who keep it simple with triangular eyes and a dopey grin. Oh, and that dopey grin, it’s the same as the one on my face as I sit among people who apparently have master’s degrees in gourd whittling. (If you’ve ever met a journalist, you know we are, as a breed, decidedly un-artsy. And we can’t do math, either, even with a calculator. Now there’s a Halloween costume – a journalist dressed as a math whiz. Hmmm … anyone got a pocket protector I can borrow?)

As the sixth anniversary of my 29th birthday looms, I have been spending time reveling in memories of my younger days. And last weekend I decided to take my trip down memory lane to the extreme.

It all started with a box of frozen vegan corn dogs.

I don’t know what my parents were thinking, but they never fed me corn dogs when I was a kid. (Come to think of it, I never had pancakes or sugary breakfast cereal either. How dare they deprive me of such important coming-of-age foods? No wonder I was such an outcast in grade school.) But now that I had found corn dogs fit for a vegetarian, well, how could I not be excited?

I decided the dogs should be part of an entire evening devoted to all things from my youth, so I rounded out the corn doggery with roller-skating and ice cream. All in all, it seemed the recipe for a perfect Saturday night.

The evening started out perfectly. I donned my pink stripey knee socks and a perfect skating skirt to go with my blue suede skates that have white lightening bolts on the sides. Then I headed over to a pal’s place where we cooked a dinner fit for 12-year-olds: vegan corn dogs, tater tots (with tartar sauce, of course) and kiddie cocktails.

Now, I should explain that, as a kid, I never really thought hot dogs were all that great. I think most kids come to that realization after they get a stomachache from eating too many of them straight out of the package. (Why does eating three cold hot dogs in the span of five minutes ever seem like a good idea, even to a 10-year-old?) It should come as no surprise, then, when I tell you that I found my corn dog to taste downright disgusting. I appreciated the idea: pseudo meat + bun-like substance + stick = neat-o. But, after a few bites, I handed mine to my pal, who graciously licked the stick clean.

After such a disappointing turn of events, I was about ready to throw in the towel on the whole evening, but my pal was ready to roll. So we did – ’round and ’round the rink at Rollaero in Cudahy. I managed to show off my backwards skating skills without falling, only to be shown up by a fellow who moon walked on his skates to Billie Jean by Michael Jackson. After two hours of skating and drinking soda, it was nearly impossible to wipe the grin off my face. Although I could have skated the night away, my pal was beginning to blister, so we untied our skates, having both had a “wheelie good time,” as promised by the hand stamps we had received upon arriving at the rink.

To cap off the evening, we headed over to At Random on Delaware and Russell for ice cream drinks. It has been a favorite haunt of mine since I celebrated my 21st birthday there. On this visit, I opted for a chocolaty concoction that tasted like the McDonald’s shakes I used to slurp as a kid. I sucked the ice cream noisily through my straw, narrowly avoiding brain-freeze.

All in all, it seems I can still enjoy the same things I did when I was younger, even as I prepare to turn 34, uh, I mean 29. As for corn dogs, I realize I owe my mom a debt of gratitude for not making me eat them when I was a kid. I guess she knew all along that pseudo meat + bun-like substance + stick = grody.

I skipped yoga last Monday. And I almost skipped it again today because, you know, I skipped it last week.

Yeah, somehow that justification wasn’t enough to make it stick with me, either.

I promised myself that after yoga at the Beulah Brinton Community Center, I’d stop at Bella’s Fat Cat for a dinner of grilled cheese and onion rings with tartar sauce (try it sometime – trust me). That was enough to get me through an hour of yoga.

Well, no, not really. It probably got me through 10 minutes of yoga. And then Ann, my yoga instructor, started getting chatty with the class. She launched into a discussion of an article she read recently by Michael Pollan, author of the book The Omnivore’s Dilemma (which I read and loved) and In Defense of Food. The article was about how Pollan recommends everyone have a garden – even the president of the U.S. – so we can easily and cheaply feed ourselves healthy foods.

Healthy foods. That meant tofu, not tartar sauce, I thought.

The remaining 50 minutes of yoga went by in a stressful blur as I debated whether to go to Bella’s or to the grocery store after class. In the end, Whole Foods beat out Bella’s.

And that is where my story begins.

Going to Whole Foods always seems like a good idea. There’s easy, underground parking, it’s never too crowded, the stock boys are cute … and then I get there. And I remember that journalists (even those who teach on the side) don’t earn enough cash to shop at Whole Foods.

After doing a mental checklist of the contents of my fridge (which was pretty easy, I am a bachelor after all) and realizing that, in addition to condiments and beer, I had some rice and some tempeh that had been in my fridge for months, I bought some veggies (they were frozen because, well, that’s just what we bachelors buy) and headed for the checkout.

After emptying my pathetically light shopping bag on the kitchen counter, I read the ingredients on the frozen bag-o-veggies (and confirmed I would have prepared them incorrectly had I not read the instructions), grabbed my soy and hoisin sauces (I told you I have condiments), grabbed my tempeh (think tofu that has aged from the grape stage to the raisin stage) from the fridge and started to cook.

My first task was making the rice. Why did I have rice that was not minute rice? I must have grabbed the wrong box at the store two years ago when I bought it. No problem, I thought, just read the directions.

If only that were enough.

I’ll spare you the charred details, but I will tell you that I got confirmation that the smoke detector in the kitchen works. The one in the bedroom does, too.

And it was at about that point in my evening that I felt a twinge of remorse over my bachelorhood – not because I have no one to cook for me and no one to rescue me when the day comes that I do set my house ablaze – but because I had no one to laugh with me as two smoke detectors beeped their warning beeps and I ran between the two waving, high above my head, a spatula covered with burnt rice.

When all was safe again – meaning when I had removed all of the batteries from all of the smoke detectors in the house – I sat on the kitchen island and laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

In honor of the occasion, I decided my salvaged tempeh-and-veggie-hold-the-burnt-rice dinner demanded a glass of wine. I poured myself a glass of two-buck Chuck from a bottle that had been open for nearly two weeks and was clearly past the questionable mark.

And then I did what bachelors who are famous for eating from the pan and over the sink never do – I sat down and ate my food off a plate. With a cloth napkin. After all, it would have been a shame not to fully experience the culinary catastrophe I had created.

My B/F/F has pet rats. She lives with her husband and her rodent posse over on Bennett Avenue.

The rats live in huge aquariums, which are sometimes on the dining room table. Other times they’re upstairs in a room – sometimes the TV room, sometimes the office. But really, whatever room they’re in is their room.

They’re whiteish and big. They’re bigger than the gerbils I had when I was a kid – caramel-colored little Butterscotch and sleek, black Ziggy.

They sniff the air as if it helps them get a full understanding of what’s going on outside their glass walls. Sometimes my B/F/F lets them out. They sit on her, they explore, they hang out.

They have happy-rat names – Beesus, 26 and Becky to name a few. And, as far as rats go, they seem pretty happy – compared to what or who, I’m not really sure – but they seem to enjoy their Bay View rat lives.

This weekend I came to realize these rats are truly among the privileged in the neighborhood.

On Saturday night, a pal and I went for a walk along the lake. We walked through South Shore Park, and kept heading south along the bike trail. Somewhere near the Bay View-St. Francis border, we walked out onto a concrete pier and sat with our feet tucked among the big, chalky rocks.

It was warm. The view of downtown was dazzling. The only noise was … high-pitched squealing? Squealing isn’t even the right word. It was an almost mechanical sound – metal being scratched on something to produce a scrapey squeak.

My pal and I exchanged a look that said, “That’s not really what I think it is, is it?” He spoke first, confirming my fear. It was the rats.

When I realized the squealy screech was coming from all around – including under my feet, I immediately pulled up my feet from the rocks on which they rested, uttering an uber-girly “yeeek!”

These rats were RATS, not rats. They were not whiteish. They were not named Sprinkles. I couldn’t see them (I could only hear them), but I knew they could kick a dog’s ass – and not just tiny, white, puffy dog-ass, either. These guys had rat street cred, for sure.

The evening’s conversation didn’t last much longer, as I was waiting for the pier on which we sat to become overrun with what I was sure would be greasy, dirty, brown rats. They would be missing teeth. They would smell like old fish.

As we walked back, I heard the shrieks fading. Now, when I think of it, I can’t quite remember the pitch of their ratty screams. And then, all of the sudden, it made sense to me. If I were a rat living among rocks near a mucky lake, I’d be screaming for a better life, too. Fresh veggies, kisses and trips to the vet – yeah, those dining-room rats have it good – no need to cry.
 

In desperate need of coffee, I walk into Hi-Fi Cafe. As I walk toward the counter, I open my wallet to find {gasp} a couple of bills and a bunch of change -- mostly nickels and dimes.  

I approach to counter and flash my best I'm-sheepish-and-broke grin. 

Me: Can I please have a large coffee?

Fellow behind the counter: Room for cream?

Me: Nope. But ... uh ... {piling all the money I have on the counter} If I have this much ... like about $4, is that enough for coffee and a muffin, too?

Fellow: That's exactly enough.

Me: Yay! Thank you! 

I smile. Life is good.
 

When it comes to lighting up a night sky, Milwaukee, you do me proud.

I biked over to Veterans Park last night with a pack of pals to watch the fireworks display and it was, in a word, sparkleriffic.*

I’ll admit I am biased as sparkly things call to me. Fireworks are among my top five favorite things of all time. (They’re right up there with mint chocolate chip ice cream.) But last night’s display was truly breathtaking.

I “oohed,” “aahed” and even “eeked!” as the sky was filled with swirls, pops and splashes of glitter.

As I watched, I remembered last year’s display, which, while stunning, was much less enjoyable as I watched it through a clear plastic tarp during the thunderstorm. But I love that we must have our fireworks as much as we must have our beer and cheese. A little lousy weather doesn’t stop us.

For tonight’s light display in Humboldt Park, the skies look like they’ll be clear as can be. So grab a blanket and a pal and head over. The show starts at dusk. And it’s sure to be sparkleriffic.


*Note to readers: Professional editors are allowed to make up words on an as-needed basis for the purpose of this blog. If you are not an editor, please do not attempt this at home.

As predicted, my attempts to set up my friends failed, although not as miserably as it could have.

I pushed and pushed, but to no avail. So I decided to push myself instead.

Last week I was at Target – one of my favorite places to shop. I can get cat litter, mascara, a cute blouse – and maybe a date – all for $10.

As I looked high and low for the items on my shopping list, I wandered into the rug aisle, where I spied a lanky, bespectacled fellow. While I was unable to catch a glimpse of his ring finger, he was carrying a hand basket and was shopping late at night, so I guessed he might be single.

Now, I haven’t ever attempted the rug-aisle pickup, but I have done the checkout-line-at-the-grocery-store pickup and the thanks-for-helping-me-carry-heavy-stuff-to-my-car-at-Home-Depot pickup. You’d think some rug-aisle action would be old hat for such a pro.

But it seems my skills have gotten a bit rusty. As I ran through the catalog of pickup lines in my head – ranging from kitschy to seemingly accidental – Target fellow meandered away, but not before he gave me a look that, I thought, indicated he was looking for a way to ask my opinion on area rugs vs. carpet.

We reconnected near the aisles housing tampons and diapers, where I was hunting for child-proof locks for my cabinets – to keep my legion of cats from climbing into my kitchen cabinets, as is their recent pastime. This time I was faced with another dilemma – how to explain why I was in the baby aisle at Target. “Hi, my name is Amy and, no, I don’t have any children, just a boatload of cats who have taken up residence in my kitchen cabinets. Want to go out sometime?”

I turned and walked the other direction instead.

All the way home I lamented my missed opportunity. And then I got an idea. I would send word to my Target fellow via the “missed connections” section on Craigslist that he should meet me in the same spot our eyes first met exactly a week later. To my surprise, I got an e-mail the next morning. Unfortunately it was not my Target fellow. It seems there was more than one missed encounter at Target that night. Who knew it was such a pickup joint?

I’m not sure if Target fellow will turn up at our assigned meeting time or not. But next time the opportunity presents itself to meet a lanky, bespectacled fellow at Target, I’ll be better prepared. After all, those 10-pound bags of cat litter are too heavy for me to lug to the car myself – especially when I’m buying 10 of them at a time.