I'll Bet You Thought I Was Dead!!

Well, sorry to disappoint you...I assure you, though, there was a good reason for my absence from this screen.

Well, on reflection, it's probably not THAT great a reason, but I'm sticking with it because it works for me.

So, when I last talked to you all, I was headed to Milwaukee to open the first night's Pridefest show with The Joans on June 12. I left work at 3:00 and got on the road--the wrong road, as luck would have it. I started out fine on I-90/94 West, but somehow when I got up past Skokie, I made a wrong turn (or rather, I kept going straight when I should have taken a fork in the road) and ended up going north on US 41.

A regular highway.

With stoplights.

And construction.

I stayed on 41 and joined back up to I-94 when I got just past the Wisconsin border. Needless to say, however, my dreams of getting to the festival park by 5:30 were shot to hell.

I got there around 6:30, though, and after hearing the directions to the free parking the event organizers had provided us (which were at least 3/4 mile away), said "fuck it" and just paid $10 to park in the lot across from the backstage area. (Please--I live in Chicago. $10 parking is almost free for me!)

The reason I'm telling you all this is that it's really the most interesting part of the whole evening. The gig went fine, we had a huge crowd (who were all there to see Cyndi Lauper, but so what? We had them for 40 minutes to ourselves!), and there was no tornado chasing off the stage this year, like we had last year. But we didn't get to meet Cyndi, we couldn't even stay in the backstage area or even the back lot once we were finished, and I was damned if I was going to drag my cymbal bag, pedal bag, knapsack and garment bag out to the audience area where everyone could trip over them, and then pick them up and drag them back out to the car at close to midnight. Plus, it was already getting late (9:30) and I was going to Peoria the day after the next, and had stuff I wanted to do, so I drove back to Chicago.

So on Sunday (June 14), I went down to my Aunt Fay and Uncle Jim's to spend the week helping them put on their new roof. Monday was pretty good--not too hot or humid, and we got a lot of the old roof scraped off the back of the house.





Tuesday it rained, so we couldn't get anything done. Wednesday was the first day of The Mighty Inferno (the first day over 90 degrees that I think we've had all year--and it came just in time, didn't it?), but we got more old roof scraped off and tarpaper put down in preparation for the shingles, which arrived at about 4:30. We unloaded the pallets onto the roof. (85 bundles of shingles at 80 pounds each--you do the math. We were tired.)

The next morning at 5:00am, I woke to hear a steady drone on the roof, and realized it was raining. Damn, I thought. We won't be able to work this morning until it passes over. Then I became aware of frantic activity outside my door. I heard small snatches of conversation--just a word here and there. I could make out the words "Jim," "bucket's overflowing," and "fuck!" I went to get up, turned out the bedroom light, and saw water dripping into the room, onto the outlet where our cell phones were charging. Those were unplugged immediately and I went out to try to help.




We had every towel in the house mopping the floors, plus two of my dirty shirts that hadn't gone in the laundry yet. We also had every bucket, pan and kettle set out to catch the water that was coming in.

We didn't catch all of it, of course.

What had happened was that, even though we'd tacked down the tar paper over the seam in the roof, the storm was so strong that it had torn it loose and blown heavy rain underneath it, so it was essentially raining inside the house.

About 7:30, my uncle and I drove into Peoria to buy some big tarps and Menard's. When we got there, we saw that their emergency generator lights were on, and they had water on THEIR floor in the back, too! It really was a hell of a storm.

Friday was clear in the morning. It was my birthday, so I said a special prayer that we'd have clear weather all day long. We did have nice weather all through the morning, and got a lot more done until about 4:00, when the storm came again. (I figure that was God's way of saying, "You made it to 41, even with your lousy habits--don't push it, lush.") So we tarped up the roof and came down.

And watched the rain come in the house again.

We climbed back onto the roof to see what the deal was and realized that because of the way we'd laid the tarps, the rain was running underneath one of them and back into the unfinished part, which was right over the seam in the roof. But it was too late to worry about it, so we went back down and emptied the buckets and waited for it to stop.

Saturday was sunny and bright. We got old roof removed from the whole front of the house, and then I was off to my Dad's for our get-together with my other aunt, my cousin Tonya, my foster-cousin Lana and her two girls. We had a really nice time (and I DID get some video of that, which I will post sometime next week, along with the small bit of Milwaukee video I took--all backstage stuff), and I went back to Fay and Jim's about 6:30, where they had just wrapped up for the day. Shingles were on the front part of the house and it was looking nice!



Apparently, Jim fell while he was on the roof and sprained his ankle, so he couldn't move around too fast. Once he got up and moved for a few steps, he did a little better, but he wasn't going on the roof again THAT day! (Fortunately, he didn't break it. The ankle, I mean...)

The next day was Sunday, the day I had to come home. It's always depressing leaving my family to come back, even though I love Chicago (most of the time, anyway). I'm glad I only live 2 1/2 hours from them, so I can go back whenever I want or need to...

Well, we didn't get the roof all the way finished while I was there, but the bad part (scraping the old roof off) was done, and Jim says shingling is much easier and faster (and it's true--to do an entire portion of a roof only takes a little over an hour). The insurance adjustor came out that following Monday (the 22nd) to look at the water damage from the leaks, so those repairs should be covered.

And I was just glad I was able to go and help them. After all they did for my mom when I couldn't be there to do it, and just because they're great folks, I was glad to do it. It wasn't "restful," but it gave me peace of mind being there and away from the office for a week. Does that make sense?

After I got back, it was time to pack and move our offices to a new building a few blocks south. So I've spent the last few weeks in that drama, too, but we've been in the new space since Monday and it's REALLY NICE. We're on the 43rd floor, too, so we have a hella-great view. We're off today in observance of Independence Day (since it falls on a day when we don't have work).

So, anyway, now I'm back. Sorry there's no fake advice column today, but you'll understand what with packing, moving, and roofing, I haven't had time to think of mean things to say to stupid people who ask for stupid advice.

Next week, though.

OH, AND ONE MORE THING, BEFORE I FORGET:

Happy Belated Birthday to the ever-fabulous Debbie Harry, who turned 64 yesterday.



(I swiped the photo from David Cerda's/aka Davy Joans' Flickr page. I hope he'll understand.)

And by the way, if you're in Chicago, you have to go see POSEIDON! An Upside-Down Musical, which our theatre company, Hell in a Handbag Productions, is mounting again after its initial, fabulously successful 2002 run. I've seen it twice now (managing box office on Thursdays) and it's really a gas! (Love that new Mike Rogo...and Ed Jones as the dippy Nonnie is just a hoot.)

Unwanted Advice Temporarily on Hiatus

Since I'll be in Milwaukee tonight with The Joans, opening for Cyndi Lauper at the Pridefest show, and I'll be in Peoria next week, helping my uncle put on his new roof. Have a great few weeks! I'll see you again when I get back...

Geez, You Murder Just ONE Abortion Doctor...

Scott Roeder, the 51-year-old man who "allegedly" shot Dr. George Tiller, an abortion doctor from a Wichita clinic, is unhappy with his current accommodations, and warns that as long as abortion is legal, more violence can be expected.

Watch us all quiver. Well, who WOULDN'T be afraid of a middle-aged crybaby who complains that his cell is too cold, he can't use the phone and he has no access to his sleep apnea machine?

Here's a news flash for you, you gibbering bag of shit: you're a MURDERER ("allegedly" or not--your sly way of not answering any questions smacks of Yolanda Saldizar, that whacko bitch who shot Selena, and everyone could tell she was guilty). Whether you like the law or not, it is a LAW, and that makes you an OUTLAW. And here's a little social studies lesson: in our current post-9/11 culture, being an outlaw does not make you a folk hero, but rather a nuisance.

As a(n "alleged") murderer, you have forfeited your rights to the small creature comforts that the rest of us take for granted. So your room's cold and sheets are rough. Hard cheese. But cheer up: you'll still get free meals and and room and board. You'll be doing better than many law-abiding, tax-paying citizens who suddenly found themselves homeless. As long as you don't mind doing a little laundry, making a few license plates, or giving blow jobs when you can't afford to buy cigarettes to give away, why, you have the world on a platter.

As far as the absence of your CPAP machine, you'll just have to improvise: just shove something into your mouth to keep the airway open. I'm sure you have a bunkmate who'd be only too happy to oblige...

Unwanted Advice - June 5, 2009

DEAR AMY: Unbeknownst to us, our 23-year-old daughter ran up a large credit card debt in her last year of college, which she attended on an athletic scholarship.

Perhaps to take advantage of some graduation gifts involving travel, she told us she had graduated from college. She had not. She then asked to move back home, and we said yes, on the condition that she get a job and contribute her share of the expenses.She stayed for seven months, making no visible effort to find work, meanwhile going out to clubs at night and even spending a weekend in Vegas.

Still, no diploma.

Announcing that she had a job as a professional athlete in Europe, she went abroad and almost immediately asked us to wire her money as an emergency, because her contract was "delayed."
After two months of this, we decided not to send any more money, because we were contributing to a situation that left us feeling hurt and used. We are close to retirement and need to save our money.

In spite of our help with some payments, she has made no effort to pay off her debts, which have accrued penalties and been turned over to collection agencies that call us almost daily.

We have not heard from our daughter since, but I expect that one day she will surface again, wanting to move home to "get back on her feet."

How do we say no?

-- WONDERING

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

Quickly and concisely. An announcement on your answering machine would be a good idea.



DEAR ABBY: I am a gay man who has been with my partner for 31 years. I have a female friend, "Josie," whom I have known for years. She holds an executive position in the local bank and must attend many fund-raisers. I have been her escort to many of them. Josie knows and likes my partner, and he has never had a problem with my going to these social events with her.

Recently Josie became engaged, and she is now married. I was invited to the wedding, but my partner was not included on the invitation. I chose not to attend because of it. I have not heard from her since. It has been almost four months.

Josie's husband is a retired military man. I suspect she would rather not let him know about having a gay male couple as friends. Should I confront her or just end the friendship?

-- DON'T ASK OR TELL IN ALBUQUERQUE

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

I would just let it drop, but consider the friendship ended. Don’t you find it a little galling that she saw fit to use you as arm candy for decades, knowing all the while that you had a partner at home? Then, when she no longer needed that service, she issued a half-assed wedding invitation that excluded your significant other?? Boy, that puts the “hag” back in “fag hag.”

It also shows that she clearly doesn’t understand what “partnership” is all about, so I hope G.I. Joe knows what he’s in for.



DEAR MISS MANNERS: I have one relative and one dear friend who each insist on knowing where I was or what I was doing when I fail to answer their telephone calls, whether it be at home or on my cellular device. Often times I am simply trying to complete a task, such as balancing my checkbook or checking out at the grocery store, before engaging in a telephone conversation.

Sometimes I simply do not wish to share my personal information and am looking for a polite response that does not accommodate their need to know every detail about my life.

The dear friend is a bit pushier than my relative and will try to goad me into giving her the information as to my whereabouts when I missed her call. I am well into my 40s, with my own career and home, and I don't think I owe folks a minute-by-minute detail of my day, if I am simply unavailable once in awhile.

Please help me with a polite way to let them know that not all of my business is their business.

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

If “none of your goddamned business” seems too harsh, I urge you to re-read the following phrase from your own letter: “I am well into my 40s, with my own career and home, and I don't think I owe folks a minute-by-minute detail of my day.”

Bingo! There’s your answer, verbatim.

And don’t worry about offending your “dear friend”—if she’s so “dear,” you owe her the encouragement to get her own life and spend less time worrying about yours.



DEAR ELLIE: My mother-in-law is very critical of me and doesn't see it. She says I'm overly sensitive. We haven't spoken since November. On more than one occasion she's referred to me as "just the daughter-in-law." My husband (we're married four years) takes our son there to visit, but I fear as he gets older things may only get worse. We need a solution now.

We've tried talking to her twice, and once without me there, but no luck. She refused to take responsibility for her hurtful actions.

--DESPERATE IN-LAW

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

Actually, you’ve solved half the problem by not talking to her since November. There’s nothing more you can do except withhold the grandchild. It sounds drastic and spiteful, perhaps, but what kid wants to hear his mother run down by his grandmother? It starts to show the kid just what a rotten person she really is—very disillusioning for a child.

Tell your husband that since she refuses to change, and you don’t want your kid exposed to that sort of toxicity, the visits will cease. She will most likely tell the world that her “awful” daughter-in-law is keeping her grandchild away, but the world will know that’s your prerogative. Besides, if she’s like that with you, she’s most likely that way with other people too, so she’s unlikely to gain much sympathy.

If Marshmallow Tits* confronts you about it, tell her that it’s for her own good as well as the child’s: does she want her grandson to end up hating her?

*Try calling her that and see if she gets upset. Then you can tell her SHE’S “overly sensitive.”


DEAR MARGO: I have somewhat of a potbelly that makes me look like I’m about three months pregnant. I’m not pregnant, never have been and never will be (at least not for a few years anyway). Some people, mostly family, keep asking if I am pregnant. It’s embarrassing and annoying. While I’m not always happy with my figure, I’m comfortable enough with it. Is there anything I can do to stop getting asked this?

— ABSOLUTELY NOT PREGNANT

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

Say, “No, I’m not. Are you?”

Who Asked for My Advice?? I Give Freely...

DEAR ABBY: My mother is a wonderful person but is one of the world's worst cooks. She'll see a recipe that looks tasty, but if she doesn't have all the ingredients, she will make substitutions. If the recipe calls for uncooked shrimp, she might replace it with canned tuna. If she doesn't have bleu cheese on hand, she will use imitation cheese spread instead.

I have tried to offer her a few important guidelines. First and foremost, be sure to have all the necessary ingredients on hand before beginning to prepare a new recipe. Understand the basic techniques -- dice, shred, simmer, stir-fry. Use the recommended cooking temperatures. If the recipe says "saute," do not fry it until it's like shoe leather. Follow the proper cooking time. Fish should not be baked for 90 minutes!

Mom may not appreciate the suggestion of cooking classes, and I know about your cookbooklets. I wonder if they are simple enough for Mom to follow. What do you think?

-- DYSPEPSIA IN DENVER

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

I think you should stop bitching and cook for yourself. (Hey, you asked.)



DEAR MARGO: I am a 40-year-old college-educated business owner, wife and mother of two young boys. My mother and father live a half-hour away. I used to call once a week. If I let more than a week go by, I would get a sour greeting from my mother, such as, "Oh, about time you called," and the conversation would go downhill from there. This would get me mad, as I did not call to be scolded.

As the years went by, my phone calls became less frequent. In 10 years (I’m not exaggerating), my mother has called me maybe five times. She just expects me to call her. Why would someone act that way?

— FRUSTRATED DAUGHTER IN ARIZONA

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

Because she can. As that stupid beer commercial once said, “Why ask why?” Some people just expect Mohammed to come to the mountain, so to speak, no matter the circumstances. Also, your mother sounds like the kind of person who doesn’t want to put much work into a relationship, but just expects that it will always continue on someone else’s impetus.

Next time you call, and she blows you shit about waiting too long between calls, tell her you can wait a whole lot longer before the next one. Then hang up and show her.



DEAR MISS MANNERS: I have two questions which rarely arise these days, and my own efforts to find any guidance at all have proven fruitless. I adore gloves, and have several pairs of various types, colors, materials and lengths.

First, at what age are crocheted net gloves no longer appropriate? I have a lovely pair, but I suspect the time has come to pass them on to one of my nieces.

Second, when one wears full dress (such as a dinner dress or ball gown) with full-length sleeves (to or even beyond the wrist), what length gloves should be worn? Or is this one of the few occasions when no gloves are appropriate?

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

There’s a reason these questions rarely arise. And you are the reason.



DEAR ELLIE: I’m 14; my mother embarrasses me every evening when telemarketers call. She yells something nasty or hangs up when they’re still talking.

- RUDE MOM

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

At first I wondered what planet you were on. Then I reminded myself that you’re 14—the age where everything’s about you. Otherwise, I couldn’t imagine why you’d be embarrassed by something that had nothing to do with you. It’s not like your mother says to them, “My 14-year-old is sitting here smiling and nodding while I curse at you. We live at 524 Meadowlark Lane.” How would they know you exist?

Having been a telemarketer myself years ago, I can tell you that your mother is not going to be the first or last person to abuse and hang up on them, and they’re not going to consider your household unique or special in its vulgarity. So don’t get your little panties bunched.



DEAR AMY: I am a woman in my 70s, although I'm told I don't look it.

I have a very negative reaction to being greeted as "young lady."

I feel it is patronizing and demeaning and makes me want to whack the person who says it.

I'm not the only one of my friends who feels this way.

I have asked a couple of people not to call me that, and they have replied that they thought it was flattering.

Not so!

What do you think?

-- JENNY

THE UNWANTED ADVISOR SAYS:

Well, you must admit, “young lady” is certainly more polite than “pruny old battleaxe.”

However, I agree that people who greet other people as “young lady” and “young man” are beyond patronizing—they’re almost belittling. And there’s nothing more insulting than being huffed at that “they were only trying to flatter you”—as if, on top of being annoyed by the address, you’re now supposed to feel guilty about throwing their “gift” back in their faces.

Next time they say, “I thought it was flattering,” say, “When did sarcasm become flattering, pencil-dick?” Failing that, if you don’t like being compared to a young lady, you might want to change your name to Ethel—"Jenny" just isn’t an old lady name.

"Serious Concerns"

Sen. Jeff Sessions, a conservative from Alabama, says he has "serious concerns" about the judicial philosophy of Sonia Sotomayor, the recently-announced Supreme Court nominee.

Really? Well, that's what we commonly refer to as "tough shit." The rest of us had "concerns" about John Roberts back in 2005, but President Bush and his band of jug-slurping conservative cronies shoved him in there anyway. After eight years of hijacking both sides of Congress, the conservatives are now complaining about the same treatment.

Sucks when the shoe's on the other foot, doesn't it, Jeff? Well, you'll just have to suck it up, because that's the Chief Executive's prerogative: to appoint members to the Supreme Court that suit his beliefs and philosophy. Just as the Bush and his father had a penchant for conservative minority yes-men, Obama has a penchant for people with humble roots who can rise from unlikely beginnings through sheer intelligence and hard work to achieve great things. Those are the people we're going to need during times of progress. (They'll help balance out dinosaurs like Scalia.)

She will have to be confirmed by you men and women of the Senate, but I foresee little difficulty there, as the Democrats kinda, sorta, CONTROL it now. (And didn't you just lose Arlen Specter a few weeks ago? Ouch, Jeff!)

Well, take heart: as one who has lived through unpalatable federal appointments several times, I can attest that you will, likewise, live through this.

And if you don't? So what?

Bad Pennies

This weekend, The Joans played a private event for an international gay sports group, held at an elegant venue downtown.

The audience, who were almost exclusively gay men--rather inebriated ones--really enjoyed the show and loved the way Jennifer and David played off of them. (Jennifer understands that "little bitch" might be an insult in most circles, but when spoken to a gay man in public, it's equal to a blessing from the Gay Pope, if such a thing existed.) David got off a good one-liner about having something in common with the the players: "We both love balls."

I fucked up a few times, since I moved my mic stand too close and inhibited my range of motion, but nobody seemed to notice (did I mention that they were very inebriated?). Besides almost getting locked into the loading dock for almost a half hour, calling security to open the door three times, nearly missing sound check because of it, and getting our bags searched like criminals on the way out (because we had to use the Associate's Entrance, and they have better security than an airport), we had a good time.

It was what happened before the show that twisted my insides.

A few years ago, I wrote about a chance street meeting with my first ex-boyfriend, "Dagwood (not his real name, although it would fit). In a two-part blog entry at the time, I described the entirety of our relationship, which, although it essentially lasted no more than three months, loomed large in my life ever after (since our acquaintance continued for two more years, and also because the initial experience has made me afraid to ever try a relationship again, hence my bitter bachelorhood).

At the time, I never heard back from him, so I assumed that it was a one-off encounter and perhaps he'd moved away from the area again.

But fate is a cruel and dessicated bitch.

Sunday started off nicely. I had a nice big breakfast and started laying out my clothes, doing last-minute ironing as needed. I picked up my drums at Taylor's and headed down to Lincoln Park to pick up Jennifer. We got to the venue right around 6:00PM and called our event contact, who was going to send a security officer down to open the loading dock door. I put my hazard blinkers on and Jen and I got out of the car to stretch our legs and wait.

I heard my named called. "Oh," I thought to myself, "are Taylor and Steve here already?" I turned around. It was not either Taylor OR Steve.

It was Dagwood.

At first, after my asshole unpuckered itself, I felt a little confused. That lasted about half a second. Then I remembered that Dagwood had, in fact, worked at this place when we were together (although I'd thought he had left there at some point). So of course, it would make sense that he would be there. If he worked there. Sadly, I did not know this beforehand, so I could not take the precaution of disguising myself--say, by donning a fake moustache or perhaps disfiguring myself with acid.

His shift was over and he was waiting for a co-worker and they were going to dinner down the street. So there I was, a duck in a gallery. Right out in the open on a brisk early evening in downtown Chicago. Wearing a white undershirt that made it amply clear just how brisk it was.

The thing that bothered me the most was that this time, another person (Jennifer) would be subjected to him. My history with him had previously been something I kept as a sort of shameful secret, like nail fungus or a past as a Mouseketeer. I introduced the two (actually, I was kind of a daze--Jen may have had to introduce herself) and she and Dagwood chatted. As our encounter entered what must have been minute five, my mind flashed over the several chance encounters I'd had with Dagwood over the years since our breakup. And they all had one thing in common: subsequent digestive upset.

Finally, after he was done pumping us for details about our gig, regaling us with tales of his current activities, and trying to impress Jennifer by dropping names, and I had drawn blood from the palms of my hands from digging in my nails, his co-worker emerged from the building and, their shifts over, they walked down the street to the restaurant they'd selected. As they walked away, I had a sense of deja vu--I remembered a time I would have longed to be part of their group and feel his approval. (Was I ever that stupid? Apparently. Jesus.) This time, I watched him leave with an enormous sense of relief, rather like the one we feel when a Jehovah's Witness has stopped banging on the door and moved to the next house and we can safely emerge from behind the couch.

By this time, Jennifer knew who he was (we'd had a murmured conversation when he'd stepped away for a moment earlier) and after he was safely out of earshot, she turned to me and said:

"I hate that creep."

That's why I love Jennifer. It took her five minutes to figure out what it took me two years to learn.