Wow! I’ve been negligent. It’s Memorial Day, and…

Wow! I’ve been negligent. It’s Memorial Day, and I didn’t do anything especially Memorial.

I’ve been doing a lot of gardening, thus spending a lot of time at Home Depot (alias the pickup joint with tools). Recently I’ve become convinced that Home Depot is loaded with secretly evil people — and those would be the shoppers. Sure, they smile and appear to be just regular people who are also looking for tools, but they’re just waiting for that moment when you leave your basket unattended and they sneak over, empty your contents, abscond with your basket and blend in with the sea of other bright orange carts.

It happens almost every time I go there. Someone walks in and forgets to grab a cart at the door — undoubtedly a person who has underestimated the weight of their purchases — and when they’re physically carrying that 20 foot houseplant that they decided to buy on a whim, or when they’ve realized that two cans of paint are heavy as hell, they start looking around for orphaned baskets. That basket is usually mine.

So . . . today, I go in to buy a couple of perennials and 2 40 lb. bags of top soil. (I know . . . I lead an exciting life, right?) I thought I was securing my basket by throwing in the top soil, thinking that nobody could possible be desperate enough to unload 80 pounds of dirt just to get a cart. Au contraire. As I was deciding between Yarrow and Echinacea Purpurea, I glanced to my left, and saw two bags of soil laying on the ground where my basket had been. I looked around suspiciously, itching to kick the ass of the desperate bastard who had the audacity to steal my basket not 20 feet away from me. But this was the work of a professional.

Not to be outdone, I marched angrily to the front of the store and selected a new basket. Not just any basket, mind you. I wanted the dreaded mind-of-its-own basket that fights to go in the wrong direction no matter which way you push. I struggled to push it back out to the garden section, threw in a flat of Impatiens and left it there, already laughing at the next thief, who would curse him/herself for stealing the broken cart. So much that he/she might think twice before doing it again. Hmmmm . . ..

Until next time,

The Basket Avenger

What’s funny is the grave misconception that becau…

What’s funny is the grave misconception that because I write a relationship column titled “The G-Spot,” I would have men lined up waiting to go out with me. Are you kidding? It’s almost laughable. The guys know what I’m talking about. What’s worse than the potential to be written about for a mass audience (although I don’t know that I could consider my audience a mass audience)? So many times, guys have asked, fearfully, if I’m going to write about them.

Or even scarier . . . the ones who are trying to be written about. A few weeks ago, I went out with a guy who asked how he could get in the column. I told him he was on the right track.

American Idol — Go Ruben, Go Ruben! Yes, and my …

American Idol — Go Ruben, Go Ruben! Yes, and my vote counted. My theory is that, even if Clay wins, Ruben will have more longevity in the business. I don’t know where Clay will fit into the musical landscape of today. He seems to be best suited to sing show tunes.

Human beings are interesting. We’re only bothered…

Human beings are interesting. We’re only bothered by something if we see it. Yep, that’s right . . . I’m talking about the incident in the Chicago North burbs where these little suburbanite teenage high school seniors were literally torturing the shit out of the junior girls (and in some instances, shit was indeed included in the ritual).

It’s my understanding that it was an annual ritual that the school likely turned a blind eye to, but when someone brings a camcorder, it’s impossible to turn a blind eye. It’s out there for the world to see and they are forced to take action. And now that they’re giving the girls a virtual slap on the wrist (suspension, with every chance of obtaining their degrees), the parents are losing it.

One set of parents has decided to sue, saying that their precious daughter, who only poured a non-descript nasty liquid on the vics’ heads (I watch CSI), shouldn’t be affected by this suspension. “What about her future?”, they exclaim. Maybe their angel needs some suspension time to ponder her future.

It makes me wonder. Especially when I compare this scenario to a group of boys who started a fight in the stands during a sporting event in another high school who were expelled and unforgiven. A certain Mr. Jackson had to go and fight for their rights to graduation, but lost.

People will argue that it’s a different scenario, and they’re absolutely right. In my mind, the North Shore incident was far worse.

Okay, it’s been a few days, so I’ve accumulated a …

Okay, it’s been a few days, so I’ve accumulated a lot of rant material.

Let’s start with the most trivial, which is my cell phone. I’m one of those people who tries to maximize my time efficiency by making/taking phone calls while driving. (It’s funny because my mother hates it when I call her from the road. And the irony is that I love calling her while driving just to get that call out of the way.) The weird thing is that I don’t like talking on the cell phone that much. Aside from the overage charges I try to avoid and the inevitable, predictable dead spots in the city, talking on the cell phone for extended periods of time gives me a horrible headache. I don’t know what to attribute this to. I can’t decide whether I’m imagining it, or if radiation is, indeed, creeping into my skull.

So . . . I elected to try one of those headsets, which my mother is convinced will keep me from endangering myself and others on the road (little does she know that I’ve come closer to having accidents while switching CDs or applying eyeliner — quite the trick while driving). I got the earbud kind to avoid looking like an operator, or Janet Jackson in the Control video. I was all set for satefy. But, because I’m a veteran cell phone user, I often forget this headphone-jack-thing exists. It just sits in my car ashtray, begging to be used.

The other day, I’m driving and talking and feeling a headache on the horizon. So I decide to simply plug in my earpiece. At least it should have been simple. The challenge was removing the stopper from the jack on my phone so that I could plug in my headset. It was in so tight, it was almost like someone hammered it in. I tried to do it with one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, while attempting to pry the stopper out of its home with my thumbnail. That didn’t work. At the next stoplight, I gave it my undivided attention. A vigorous exercise in futility. Then I got mad at the stupid thing and decided to use teeth.

Imagine, if you will, an irate woman, with a congenital road rage disorder, bobbing and weaving between the temporary medians on Lake Shore Drive (which is currently construction hell), while gnawing on her cell phone. It wasn’t pretty. I’m surpised I didn’t get a call from the producers of Jackass.

When biting, my last line of defense, didn’t do the trick (and my headache was even worse), I came home, pried the damned thing out with a pair of tweezers and barbarically lopped it off, leaving an unattractive rubber stump on the side of the phone — my favorite accessory. All in the name of safety.

That’s right, my votes did it. Ruben was safe thi…

That’s right, my votes did it. Ruben was safe this week on American Idol. Buh bye Josh!

Okay, let’s discuss American Idol for a sec, shall…

Okay, let’s discuss American Idol for a sec, shall we? For anyone who actually reads this thing who doesn’t know me, I have an appalling addiction to certain reality shows. Periodically (okay, maybe frequently) you’ll see posts that discuss Survivor, American Idol, and, I’m embarassed to admit, Temptation Island (should Fox ever find more couples silly enough to undergo such an insane amount of torture for not nearly enough air time). That said, the post du jour is about American Idol.

First of all, am I the only one who preferred Clay’s look pre-makeover? He used to look like what he was — an understated white boy with a surprisingly soulful voice. These days I find myself distracted by the hair. What is happening with that hair? I couldn’t begin to tell you what he sang tonight or if he stayed on pitch. I was more intrigued with my imagination of what must be his hair stylist’s procedure and how many products are involved in making it look like he woke up minutes before show time.

And Josh . . . oh, Josh. How has he lasted this long? Granted, he’s kind of charming and gets the military vote, but he moves like a buffalo.

Kimberley didn’t do it for me tonight. I thought “Everything” was an Andy Gibb song, not a Bee Gees song? Hmm . . . And why did she sing the intonations of the Destiny’s Child version of “Emotions”? Double hmm . . .

Ruben . . . smooth as always. I just wanna give him a big hug. And just so we don’t have any repeats of last week (yes, he was one of the bottom two), I voted for him several times (cause that’s what we do here in Chicago).

I know that some people think Simon’s a prick, but at least his comments are constructive. Paula’s plasticky wide grin and sugary optimism are simply not going to be helpful for anyone’s career. And if Randy says “you rocked it” one more time, I’m going to lose it.

My bet is on Ruben to win. Any takers?

I don’t know what it is about getting behind the w…

I don’t know what it is about getting behind the wheel of a car that transforms me from a reasonably calm person to an out-of-control road rage maniac. All sweetness leaves from the moment my fingers turn the key in the ignition. I become more aggressive, irritable, and none of my exclamations would be fit for network television. Normally I target bad drivers, slow drivers, reckless drivers and bike messengers. Yesterday, during a rainstorm, my anger was directed at pedestrians.

When precipitation falls from the sky, pedestrians make amazingly stupid decisions. Let’s review the circumstances. Okay, so it’s raining (or snowing), and it’s safe to assume that visibility is lessened. The ground is slippery, which should lead one to the natural conclusion that, even IF a vehicle doesn’t have worn tires, skidding wouldn’t be unheard of. So why, why, why, do pedestrians feel the need to dart in front of moving cars during bouts of inclement weather? It’s proof that there’s trust in this world. They’re trusting that my brakes and reflexes are working in synch and assuming that I’m able to stop on a dime. My mechanic would say that’s a bad assumption.

I know they want to cross the street. I’ve been a pedestrian . . . I know how it feels to seek shelter during a storm. But however cold or wet you may be, you’re never colder or wetter than when you’ve been hit by a car. Not that I want to be on trial for vehicular homicide. Orange isn’t my color.

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This is my new RantSpot. This is just a test, real…

This is my new RantSpot. This is just a test, really, to see how it works. Perhaps nobody cares about my rantings, and maybe that’s okay. Periodically I like to write about things other than relationships, so I suppose I’ll do it here. Should be interesting . . .