OJ has inspired me to poetry

Only VERY occasionally am I moved to write a poem, so I have to admit to having been inspired by the incredibly stupid OJ Simpson who, after getting an extremely lucky break over 10 years ago, has had the unmitigated gall to commit not one, not two, but TEN felonies, and now might get life in prison for allegedly stealing his own football memorabilia. He’s bringing stupid back. Not that it had ever gone anywhere.

The rhyme scheme is a bit juvenile, but here goes:

Ode to OJ Simpson

by Gina B.

Orenthal James, you dumb-assed man,

I hope they lock you up,

As fast as they can,

You got away with killing your wife,

So you should have laid low,

For the rest of your life,

Any sane person would hide from society,

Devoid of attention,

And press notoriety,

No writing of books and flaunting your crime,

No “here’s how it happened,”

Without doing time,

But no, not you, you can’t remain civil,

You enlisted your thugs,

You showed off your pistol,

And even if someone was selling your stuff,

You should call 911,

Not yell and get rough,

The public is angry and wants you in jail,

They’re pissed at the judge,

For setting your bail,

This time they’ll get you, there won’t be a glitch,

You’ll live out your days,

As Cell Block D’s bitch,

Don’t look for “your people” to show you our love,

We’re sick of you too,

Hey . . . could this be your glove?

Now that I have scoliosis . . .

All day I’ve been trying to recover from my bus ride this morning. I was sitting next to an overgrown teenager — tall and wide — who wedged me in toward the window to accommodate his girth. I emerged from the bus not ready for work, but ready for a long chiropractor appointment.

This is not a new argument, people. But, damn! Let me just highlight a few points about bus etiquette that most people haven’t been taught, or flat out refuse to acknowledge:

1. Be respectful of others’ space. If a person in the next seat continues to edge over, it is not so that you can have more room — it’s because THEY DON’T WANT TO TOUCH YOU. I don’t generally enjoy rubbing bodies with perfect strangers — particularly not those on the bus.

2. Watch your baggage. Backpacks and large purses are deadly weapons and nobody appreciates being hit in the head while seated on the aisle.

3. Control your kids! Everyone isn’t appreciative of your child’s nursery rhymes and tantrums. We also don’t want to hear their noisy toys, and we’re not especially happy that they’re kicking our seats. Teach them to be considerate. Although I suppose considerate children would indicate the presence of a considerate parent. But I digress . . .

4. Don’t yammer away on your cell phone at the top of your lungs. A quiet short conversation is acceptable. Screaming for the entire bus ride is not okay. And depending on who’s sitting next to you, your loud conversation could lead to cell phone destruction. There are some violent,edgy people out there. I’m one of them.

5. Turn down your iPod. If I wanted to enjoy your playlist, I’d ask to use one of your earbuds.

6. Eating on the bus is disgusting (and probably illegal), but if your home is devoid of a dining room table and you simply insist on having a finger-licking, lip-smacking rib tip dinner on the bus, clean that shit up when you’re finished. Nobody wants an ass full of your mild sauce, or to smell the remnants of your salt & vinegar chips and grape soda. Especially not while wearing a suit.

7. Try to refrain from flirting on the bus. Personally, when I’m on the bus, I like to be left alone. I’m either ramping up for work, or decompressing from work. It’s debatable as to whether I even want to talk to people that I already know. Having said that, any attempts at flirtation, seduction, or general random conversation are unwelcomed. However, I’ll allow for those people who will talk to anyone in any given situation, so here are ways to tell that you shouldn’t flirt with someone on a bus:
a) The other person is staring intently out of the window.
b) He/she is wearing headphones
c) He/she is reading a book
d) He/she is sending text messages, or playing a game on the cell phone
e) If you disturb this person from any of the previous activities, he/she gives you a terse, one word answer.

Let’s make the CTA a more pleasant place!!!

The beginning of life

So . . . yesterday I called and checked on my friend Dionna, who was past her pregnancy due date. Dionna is an amazing person who I hit it off with instantly when we met at Second City. Dionna runs Outreach and Diversity for Second City in Chicago. I don’t see her nearly enough. She’s always incredibly busy with creative projects. She and her husband are one of my role model couples. I attended their wedding last year, and it was so obvious that they’re really supposed to be together. Everyone should have a role model couple (if you don’t have one, find one).

The story is that, Friday night, we heard that Dionna was 1 cm dilated and going to the hospital. As it turns out, she ended up leaving the hospital and they all went to Anthony’s show that night.

Her husband, Anthony, answered the phoner and asked if he had called me earlier. Apparently he meant to, because he was trying to gather some girl-power to gather around Di while he was at his show that evening. According to Anthony, her contractions were 5-10 minutes apart and she wanted to be comfortable at home.

I agreed (because it seemed more important than the evening of mindless drinking that I had scheduled), picked up another of our friends, grabbed some munchies and trekked over to Dionna and Anthony’s house.

The cast of supporting actresses were L., a young beautiful dancer with an older spirit; P., a woman who’s a slight bit depressed about a breakup and a concern that she will not find her ideal husband and children; myself — a skittish, decidedly childless person who’s frightened of bodily functions and terrified that Dionna would go into hard labor on her watch; and T., a wonderful woman with a big personality who held everything together and was the only one in the room who had any knowledge, whatsoever, of the labor process and was completely in tune with Di as she went through her natural process of managing her pain.

We had a great time. We ate pizza. We talked. I ate a cupcake (nobody else wanted to partake in the deliciousness that I brought from the Hershey store on Pearson). Most of all we marvelled at Dionna, and how she handled her contractions.

We experienced one soon after walking through the door. During a contraction, she would stand and hold T’s hand, while swaying and moaning loudly. Once the contraction was over, she would resume whatever she was saying or doing. It was extremely bizarre, and she laughed at our faces as we looked at her in amazement. She kept asking us what we were thinking, as though anything that I was thinking held any relevance in that moment. In between searing attacks of pain, she offered to put on a movie, or play Scattergories. We laughed and told her that, since she had energy, she could make us chicken, a pie, pudding, a pot of greens. She wanted to know about our lives. I established that someone calm was tasked with driving to the hospital (and since I can barely drive three blocks to the grocery store without zigging, zagging and dropping a liberal sprinkling of F-bombs, that person was clearly not going to be me).

Love lives were the topic. P. and I shared sad stories of our recent breakups. L. talked about men that she can’t figure out for the life of her. T., married w/two kids, had the most to share. She talked about her surge in libido post-40, birth stories. At one point, we discussed soy products, and how I’m scared to death of them (more on that at another time). All in between Di’s contractions that we were measuring very carefully, hoping that we could hold out for Anthony’s return, before they rushed off to the hospital.

As it neared 11:00 pm, it seemed that Di’s water might have broken — at least partially. I thought that this milestone might’ve forced a quick dash to the hospital. But, no. The contractions were still far enough apart that she just took note of the water, and calmly continued to manage the pain. Wow.

Anthony arrived and the three of them — Di, Anthony and T. — managed her contractions together.

Finally the contractions were about 4 minutes apart, and they decided to call the midwife. We all decided to leave, with the exception of T., who was in it for the long haul. Di thanked us for the girl power that she claimed provided her with strength. We all agreed that she provided US with the strength to get through the night.

Her baby was born this morning at roughly 7:00 am. Happy birthday, Xavier! Welcome to the world.

New column et al

I used to be one of those people that wondered how it’s possible to slam one’s hand in a car door. Mystery solved!

This morning, during a scatterbrained moment of trying to maneuver in the space between my car and the crap that’s on the side of my garage, I closed the door and felt an excruciating pain. I wasn’t expecting to see my ring finger still attached to my hand, but it was there. And with only the tiniest of scratches on my top knuckle. I guess I was lucky.

The highlight of my evening last night was an interview with Leslie Talbot, author of Singular Existence: Because It’s Better To Be Alone Than To Wish You Were. Be on the lookout in the next few weeks for that column in RedEye. And please read her book! It’s a good lesson for anyone who is even thinking about settling just for the sake of being half of a couple.

The column released today, and I have to say that the only complication in writing for a newspaper – a Tribune publication, no less – is that I get heavily edited for all things profane and edgy. The latest column, which I titled “The Nice Guy” got a liberal chopping, which took out all of the funny bits that I loved when I wrote it.

So, as a special treat (probably more of a treat for me than anyone), see below for the unedited, raw version of the column. Feel free to let me know whether you prefer the original or the published edit.

And by the way . . . I often feel like I’m writing. Why the hell are you guys so quiet? Comment, already, wouldja?! Jeez!

______________________________________________________________________________

The Nice Guy
by Gina B.

I was recently having a conversation with a stranger in a bar, and I heard a familiar lament: “Women say they want to date nice guys, but they really don’t. I’m a nice guy, and it’s hard to find dates. Women would rather date the men who screw them over.”

For once, I didn’t say what I really wanted to say, which was that there must be something missing with this guy.

This particular specimen was the card-carrying nice guy. He was attentive, employed good listening skills, was eager to give up his seat for a woman, asked great questions, seemingly very considerate . . . the list goes on. So, what was the problem? There wasn’t really a problem, but he also didn’t inspire any of the women he talked to break out the cell phones and record the digits. Nice is a wonderful trait, and a good start, but unfortunately, sometimes it’s not enough.

Let’s be realistic – we all want to date nice people, men and women alike. We like to be treated with respect. I have never known anyone who sets out to find a person who treats them like crap. I’ve witnessed some sick and twisted relationships, but . . . seriously? Regardless of how the relationship turns out, none of my friends have ever said, “What I need is a man who beats me and calls me bitch.”

Nice, as a descriptor, has unfairly garnered a somewhat negative connotation. I know it sounds bad, but if a friend is trying to fix me up with someone and the only good thing she can say is: “He’s a nice guy,” I avoid that meeting like Hepatitis A through C. It’s not what she said, it’s what she didn’t say. She didn’t say “He’s nice and cute,” or “He’s nice and funny.”

What’s the difference? There’s a huge difference. Nice and funny or nice and cute could be great boyfriend material. But nice, just nice? That’s a friend.

Men feel the same way. If I’m thinking of making a love connection between two friends, I’ve learned never to describe the woman as a “nice girl.” Similar to women, men jump to terrible conclusions, and automatically envision a wildebeest with no sense of style who hasn’t had a date in three years and whose idea of sleepwear is a flannel nightgown and matching chastity belt. But she’s very sweet. And she can bake a mean apple pie. Just like her hunchback grandma. Whom she closely resembles.

Now, before I receive hate mail from the American Society of the Nice and Overlooked, I believe that as we mature, we learn to have a deeper appreciation for the nice guy.

As teenagers, those of us who hadn’t figured it out went for a recipe of two parts Hot Rebel with a half-cup of Asshole and a dash of Nice Guy thrown in as a sweetener.

Tastes change in early adulthood, and so does our recipe. Rebel has a bitter after-taste, so that ingredient is eliminated (also, aged Rebel turns into Felon). We opt, instead, for equal parts of Gorgeous and Sexy with a quarter cup of Arrogant and a tablespoon of Nice.

As we develop a healthy appetite for Nice, the recipe changes yet again. Other ingredients are eliminated for bad side-effects. Arrogant is too spicy and gives us indigestion, while Gorgeous is fattening. The new blend includes equal parts of Nice and Sexy, with generous handfuls of fresh spices: Intelligence, Confidence, Ambition, Humor and Loyalty. They add flavor and a rich aroma. Blend, bake and serve. As Rachael Ray would say: “Yumm-O!”

So, for those nice guys and girls out there, there are appreciative people. But it’s not just about being nice. We are all creations with special recipes. One ingredient, while it won’t make us sick, will probably not make for an interesting dish.

© Tribune Company

New column!

It’s all about Chemistry, people, so check it out.

I’m ba-ack

It was a good trip, but I’m glad to be back. I loved being away, but I clearly have relaxation issues. The concept of waking up and having nothing to do but go to the beach was something that would take some time getting used to. More than the five days that I was away. Lorrie brought up the point that I would have gone crazy had my beloved Blackberry not been operational. She might have a point. I was essentially glued to the thing the entire time. Yep, I’m pathetic.

On another note, I’m MCing a charity event in October (don’t laugh). It’s for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, and it will be held on October 11th in Bucktown. Click here for more information. I’m normally pretty weird about being on panels, because they’re often about being attacked, or fielding arguments with fellow opinionated panelists. This, however, will be a lot of fun. It’s a great cause, and I can’t think of anything more delectable than auctioning off young hotties.

If you’re interested in being an auctioned bachelor, let me know. If you would like to attend, feel free.

Today’s nasty bus sighting: someone had apparently been to McDonald’s, purchased a value meal that contained one of their behemoth burgers, a big-big-biggie fry and the Mickey-D equivalent of a Big Gulp. This person finished his/her meal, and left the paper remnants licked clean and neatly laying on the set behind mine. The funny this is that several people went to sit in the seat, but caught themselves right before their asses hit wrappers, sticky from ketchup. I wonder if anyone’s moved it yet.

Ola from Mexico

I came down here to Puerto Vallarta a few days ago to get away from the city. It took me exactly one day to pull out the laptop, and I was pleased to realize that the Blackberry works down here — although God only knows how much I’ve racked up in overages from making phone calls. But a girl’s gotta keep up, right?

We’re staying in a resort called Paradise Village, which is largely comprised of timeshares. I was invited by my friend Lorrie and her mother, who visit here annually. They hardly let you get your foot on Mexican soil before giving you the hardsell for a timeshare. They bribe you with a free breakfast, and discounts on activities to make you sit through a 90-minute spiel. And I’m embarassed to admit that I allowed myself to be pimped out for a percentage off of water sports and a couple of slices of french toast (which was muy bien, by the way).

I decided against signing my life away, with the notion that I might sponge off of Lorrie and her mother’s timeshare more often. Well, not really. But they do invite me every year, and I never come for various reasons. First, I don’t relax well. It’s a flaw. Second, I was freelance for a long, LONG time, and always thought I was going to miss a project. Third, which actually relates to the first, I’m really not the lay-out-on-the-beach-at-a-resort type. I don’t really need to get any darker, necessarily, and I typically last about 1/2 hour before getting antsy and saying “Okay, so NOW what?”

Let’s put it this way . . . everything I believed about myself is true — as is evidenced by the fact that I’m blogging right now instead of boogie boarding.

Not that I’m not having a good time. I really am. I’m having a great time. I’m concerned, however, that I’m eating my way through this city, and Mexican food isn’t exactly known for being light. I’m staying away from the things that I know are deady — such as creamy drinks and excessive amounts of refried beans (with the following exception. I had to at least sample ONE coconut mango margarita, didn’t I???).

By the way . . . say NOTHING about the hair.

Chips have been the enemy. The fortunate thing is that our penthouse suite has a kitchen (two, in fact), which means that I can stock it with thigh-friendly snacks, like cereal, dried apricots, and mega bottles of water.

The best parts of this trip are being able to hang out w/Lorrie, who I don’t normally get to spend this much time with, and coming in close contact with wild animals. There are a few monkeys in a cage on the property, and I’ve already made friends with one of them — he’s a baby, and I think he wants to come home with me. He’s about the only kind of baby I would bring home.

Some of you have asked if there are cute guys down here. The answer is a resounding no. Not that I was looking, but this is more of a family resort. If you’re a single girl with a hook-up plan, this resort is not the place for you. However, if you’re looking for a country full of flirtatious natives, Mexico just might be your spot.

I’ll be back very soon, and I’m kind of looking forward to getting back in the swing of things, although I’ve had a great time here. I wonder if I’ll ever get the sand out of my suitcase?