The Summertime Blues: My Cure

I am not a fan of summer. I know I am in the minority on this, but I just don't like it.

I remember being a little kid and waiting in Christmas Eve-like anticipation of summer break. In those salad days, summer was a time for swimming, vacations and fun. But by the time I hit age 11 or 12, it was simply a time when I had nothing much better to do than watch TV all day. When I reached the teen years, it was months of working crappy, annoying summer jobs. And now that I'm an adult, summer isn't much different for me than any other season.

There are some things I love about summer. The food, for example, is great. Nothing can beat a grilled steak and ice cream. I enjoy growing flowers and herbs and going to outdoor parties and even baseball games (much to the surprise of those who know me, but that's another story). And I love sitting on my balcony in the evening, listening to the trees rustle in the breeze, if it's not too hot.

And that's where summer goes wrong for me. The temperatures.

I abhor hot, sticky weather, the kind that makes you feel like you have to take a shower again as soon as you step out of the shower in the first place. The kind that makes you want to sit in one spot and not move till the sun goes down. The kind that makes people go out and buy the flimsiest, teeniest tank tops and short shorts they can squeeze into, especially those people who have no business wearing such items. Equally as annoying are the girls who put their hair into the sloppiest, lumpiest style possible to get it off of their necks. If it's too hot to wear your hair down, at least use a brush, ladies. Summer seems to bring out the worst in us when it comes to fashion. But I digress.

The alternative, of course, to the hot and sticky is the freezing cold brought to us by air conditioning. I'm happy to have it, especially when temperatures are in the 90s, as they have been in my area for the past several days, but I will never understand why, every year, as soon as May comes around and the temperature hits about 75, people crank up their air conditioners so the inside temperature plunges into a frigid zone. I wear a jacket when it's 60 degrees outside; why would I want it to be 60 degrees inside?

It's hard to enjoy my grilled steak and ice cream when I'm constantly trying to adapt to the extreme temperatures. It's hard trying to explain this to people, too, because most folks don't mind the highs and lows of June, July and August.

The only safe haven I can seem to find is my own home, and after a foray into my frigid local library, I am enjoying the season more than ever, right from my very own couch.

So bring it on, summer. Give me all you've got. I've got a pile of books in my living room just waiting for another hot day.

The Shrieking Machine

There's a woman at my gym who I can't stand. She is annoying, obnoxious and loud.

But I've never actually seen her.

I work out at a gym about three times a week, and one or two of those times is always during a very popular kickboxing class. I don't take the class, but the machines are right next to the area where the class is taught. I enjoy working out during this class, because the music is fast and the instructor is energetic, and that makes me push myself, even though I'm not actually taking the class.

And that's good, because I need a good workout to relieve the stress of being near the Shrieking Machine.

The instructor usually has the people taking the class count down or yell things out when they're doing things, but the Shrieking Machine takes it to a whole new level. She screams, she counts when no one else is counting and she yells out things that aren't even intelligible but sound a little like the noise chickens make when they're surprised. And she is so loud that her voice cannot be covered up by my ipod, which will cover the sound of the music and the instructor's voice -- and the guy has a microphone, for cryin' out loud.

I don't know if the Shrieking Machine is trying to let off excess steam or just trying to impress the instructor, who is the only male instructor at an all-women's gym. I thought for awhile that she was a plant meant to get the other students energized, but if they're like me, then hearing her makes them want to leave the gym.

But rather than complain, I plan to take action. If you can't beat them, join them, as they say. So next time there's a kickboxing class, I plan to attend, give it my all and kick the Shrieking Machine right in her yelling, screaming, chicken-noise-making face.

The Bad Takes

I am not a perfectionist, but I like things to be perfect. And when they're not, I get frustrated.

I took piano lessons for 10 years as a kid, and frankly, I am surprised I went as far as I did, because I hated to practice. I got so frustrated when I couldn't play something perfectly. I got upset when I couldn't immediately pick up something new, and I got upset when I couldn't play a song absolutely perfectly. If I made a mistake, I would stop and start the song from the beginning. Once I played the song perfectly, I would get up from the piano.

As long as there was one good take, the bad ones could be forgotten forever.

Throughout life, I go back and forth between fighting this theme and succumbing to it. On one hand, I feel that the bad takes can help us make better decisions in the future, and only once we have soldiered through a challenge and made some mistakes can we truly triumph and feel satisfaction. On the other hand, failures, being what they are, rarely come with the serene thought that this will all pay off someday if we just keep plugging away. And truthfully, sometimes, it really is best to close the door and move on.

I fight urges on both sides, and I have trouble finding a good middle ground. I want to try everything, but sometimes, when something isn't working, I want to forget I ever tried it. If you've never tried, you've never failed. But other times, I want to try, try and try again until I get something right. I fight as long as I can, till the bitter end, to keep something that anyone else would have thrown away long ago.

So what's better? Quitting too soon or hanging on too long? Does it matter as long as you end up in a better place at the end?

I suppose it's a futile question, at least for me. I tend to make these decisions on a case-by-case basis, and things rarely turn out the way I think they will anyway. I suppose the best any of us can ever hope for is to do the best we can today, in this moment. And no matter what we choose to do this time, we must never stray too far from the piano, because there will always be another song to play.

Between Grief And Nothing...

Out of nowhere yesterday came a memory that made me smile.

My pal Marla is the source of many fun memories for me, even though our period of regular hanging out didn't last all that long. Our friendship, admittedly, began in a strange way. To tell the whole story, I'd need a map, a calendar and more time than the whole story is worth, but suffice it to say that our exes are cousins, and once they were both exes, our friendship was firmly cemented.

Most of my fun memories of her feature shopping trips to Target and/or Ikea and a good many of them feature some sort of international cuisine. This one features both.

One evening last summer, Marla and I visited the Ikea store in Schaumburg, Ill., and then set out to find "the really good Indian buffet" where she'd eaten once before.

I find that Marla seems to rank her restaurants not with stars or points but with "goods" and "really goods." It's a fine system; I suggest the Zagat folks adopt it.

Neither of us were that familiar with the Schaumburg area; we were relying on a map and an address to find the restaurant. And we weren't doing too well. We went way down Schaumburg Road and couldn't find it, then ended up in the middle of nowhere, turned around and came back and couldn't find it....

It was starting to seem like we were in the middle of an 80s teen movie, getting lost on the way to a forbidden hot spot while borrowing the car without permission, getting a flat tire and waking up in a car with a big chunk of your hair in your hand and Anthony Michael Hall staring at you.

Well, maybe not that last part.

It was starting to get very dark, and very late, and we weren't even sure if the place would be open when we got there, but on we went down Schaumburg Road, past Schaumburg High School. Driving by, we both commented that it looked an awful lot like the school in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." The movie takes place in Chicago and its suburbs, so it made sense that that might have been the school used in filming. When we drove by a second time, we were sure.

Suddenly, the "wrong way" seemed not so wrong after all. Sure, we'd wasted some time and gas, but we'd found the Ferris Bueller high school!

We made it to the restaurant (which ended up being "decent" but not necessarily the "really good" we were expecting) and drove home without incident, still brimming with excitement over our find.

Everyone who grew up in the 80s knows Ferris Bueller and remembers the scene on the steps of the school, where Ed Rooney consoles Sloane Peterson on the death of her grandmother. And we had seen those steps, a symbol of Americana!

I suddenly understood how old-time immigrants must have felt seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time.

But my excitement didn't last long. When I got home, I went online to look up the filming locations for the movie and was shocked with what I found out. Ferris Bueller didn't go to Schaumburg High School at all. He (and, apparently, director John Hughes) went to Glenbrook North High School on Shermer Road in Northbrook.

Then I understood how Jay and Silent Bob must have felt in "Dogma" when they realized there was no town called Shermer, Illinois.

A week or so after this adventure, Marla decided to move back to her home state of Michigan. She is happy there, and I am happy for her, although I miss her terribly.

But I'm happy for memories like this one. I had a lot of fun that night, and it doesn't matter that we were wrong about the school.

I'll still always remember it as the night we saw Ferris Bueller's high school.

An Open Letter To Taco Bell

Dear Taco Bell,

Last week, I had the opportunity to visit the drive-thru of one of your fine locations to get myself a Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme and a drink. I had not visited a Taco Bell in a few years, due to awareness of good nutrition and a desire to eat quality food. However, the introduction of the crunchwrap and its catchy "good to go" slogan, coupled with the craving for delicious food with nothing much to offer me health-wise, moved me to do so.

First of all, I want to say that the Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme is a fine addition to your repertoire. The combination of the soft and crunchy is pleasing, and the chicken is spiced very nicely -- not too much, but enough to give it a kick. It was also a lot less messy than your other products, making it possible for me to eat it in the car. I do think, however, that the crunchwrap could use much less nacho cheese and much more sour cream. Perhaps if you switched the ratios of these two products, you would be more on the right track.

Secondly, I would like to address your new "fourth meal" ad campaign. I realize that people who eat at your establishment on a regular basis are typically not the health-conscious sort. So a fourth meal is an idea not foreign to them. I do, however, feel that marketing to these folks is rather cruel.

Obesity rates in this country are sky-high, and a big reason for that is the fact that people gorge themselves on food from establishments like yours. These people don't need a fourth meal at all, much less one from Taco Bell. You might as well just change the campaign to "Taco Bell: Proud Sponsor of Morbid Obesity." I doubt it would stop people from coming in anyway.

I know what you're going to say. The fourth meal campaign also targets the drunk twentysomething, and not all of them are obese. This is true; however, think about it for a moment. The ingredients in Taco Bell's food are not exactly conducive to a restful night's sleep after an evening of drinking. Most people I know who have eaten Taco Bell food while drunk have not kept it down and now refuse to visit your restaurant again because even the smell that wafts into the parking lot brings back bad memories.

So, you see, the "fourth meal" ad campaign will ultimately shrink your customer base. The customer who becomes obese after regular visits will develop health problems and either change his diet or die (either way, he's not coming back to Taco Bell), and the drunkard will refuse to return, even for the occasional Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme.

I implore you to take the word of this humble consumer and pull this campaign now, for your sake and mine. I would like Taco Bell to still be open three years from now when I get a taste for your food again.

Sincerely yours,
Erika

Zinc And The Big Cloth Bag

Growing up, I loved helping my dad wrap the coins he collected in a big cloth bag. I would dump them all into a pile on my bed and try to guess by the clinkety-clinks how much money was there.

Quarters were the best to wrap, of course. A roll of them is worth $10, but you only need 40 coins. Pennies were the worst, with 50 coins per 50-cent roll. Still, there were always so many more pennies than quarters that often, we didn't have an entire roll's worth of quarters, but we always had at least $5 in pennies to take to the bank.

I read today that U.S. Rep. Jim Kolbe (R-Arizona) has introduced legislation which eliminates the penny completely. According to the article, Kolbe considers the coin "a nuisance," and, in consideration of rising prices of zinc, the penny's main ingredient, believes now is a good time to get rid of the penny for good.

While I'll admit that the penny is seemingly useless in today's world, where even penny candy costs more than the name suggests, I respectfully disagree with Kolbe. If zinc is too expensive, make pennies out of something else. It's about time to make a commemorative penny anyway, a la the state quarter and the newly revamped nickel.

If Kolbe's legislation, the Currency Overhaul for an Industrious Nation (COIN) Act, becomes a law, what will happen to our pricing system? According to the Act, prices will be rounded to the nearest five cents. That sounds easy enough. But how long will it be till five-cent denominations become a "nuisance" too? The nickel will go, then all coins, and what next?

The truth is, I'm sure the day will come -- probably in my lifetime -- when we don't use hard currency at all. Even now, I hardly ever use cash, instead choosing my debit card, which allows me to spend only as much as I have but doesn't require me to carry or count dollars and cents. But I don't think we're ready for a completely cashless world yet. And until we are, I don't think we should eliminate the penny.

The penny was the first currency in this country, and more than $300 million worth of pennies have been minted in the past 219 years. It has been a viable coin since 1787, and I believe it still has a place in this world.

Even if that place is only my dad's big cloth bag.

Homemade: How Far Is Too Far?

I like to cook, especially for other people. It's fun to try new things, and it's always rewarding to be complimented on something you've made that other people have enjoyed.

And I always make things from scratch.

I grew up in a house where nothing was made from a box, particularly baked goods. Brownies were about all, because the boxed ones get that sugary film on top that scratch ones don't have. We never made boxed cake mixes, never got frosting from a can and never had cookies-in-a-tube.

We were a little more lenient with non-dessert foods. Growing up, I ate my share of Rice-a-Roni and Stove Top Stuffing. Still, we never actually stuffed anything with Stove Top Stuffing, and I could probably count on one hand the times my mom served instant mashed potatoes.

So now that I am grown up and on my own, I have adopted the from-scratch philosophy. Everything tastes better when it's made from scratch, and it's not like it's that hard.

I've taken a fair amount of flack for this habit of mine. A former roommate, upon seeing my contributions to the pantry when we moved in, mumbled "guess we won't be baking cookies together" and told me she was going to teach me how to embrace the convenience food.

I made a boxed cheesecake recently and proudly showed it to her, but a week later, I broke down and made a real cheesecake with a fresh strawberry glaze and vanilla sugar.

Guess which tasted better.

It's not that I disparage the convenience food. It has its place in today's society, and I fully admit to buying up the Velveeta Shells and Cheese when it goes on sale. But I don't see what's wrong with doing a little bit of extra work for a lot of extra taste, also eliminating excess sodium and preservatives.

Yesterday, I was in Trader Joe's (one of my favorite stores in the history of groceries), and I grabbed some pita bread with a mind to eat it with hummus. I bought the hummus too, if you must know. But I did linger in the canned foods aisle for a moment, wondering if I ought to just buy some chickpeas and make some myself.

You know what would be really good, I thought to myself as I carried my purchases out to my car. I should brush this pita bread with a little olive oil and spice it a little and bake it to make pita chips.

Then I started to get a little scared, because my next thought was, I wonder if it's possible to make pita bread at home. Darn! I should have just gotten those chickpeas. Why didn't I get the chickpeas?

Am I a little crazy here?

Yes, homemade foods are definitely better, but how far is too far? Today it's just chickpeas, but tomorrow, who knows? Pretty soon, I'll start raising cattle in the garage so I can have tastier, fresher steak.

I'm not sure what the answer is, but I'll have to ponder it over my lunch of homemade black bean soup which I froze in individual containers for healthy, convenient and tasty meals.

And some store bought chocolate pudding.

Dead Man's Ch

Like many folks, I was excited about seeing the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. So last night, I went to the theatre, paid $9.50, and saw some of it.

Let me first say that I thought the first movie was a lot of fun. I don't need to say why; a zillion other people thought so too. That's why there was a second movie, and why there will be a third.

Well, there will be a third chance to pay $9.50 anyway.

When I sit in a theatre with 18,000 teenagers for 2 1/2 hours, I expect an entire story. But I didn't get one this time.

Oh, Johnny Depp, why have you foresaken me?

It's not that the movie ends with a cliffhanger (which it does) but that it ends without an ending. The first movie had an ending, a resolution to the story at hand, and it opened up the possibility for another installment. This one told part of the story and let the credits roll.

I hate that.

Remember 1985 when Michael J. Fox went back to the future in Back to the Future? He went to the 50s, made out with his mom, got his parents together and returned to 1985 to save his mentor. Great story. At the end, the mentor showed up at his house and warned him that he had to travel to the future because his kids were in trouble. Cliffhanger. Altogether, a fine package.

It seems to be a trend these days to have multi-installment movies, and that's fine, as long as they're marketed that way. We all knew that Uma Thurman wasn't going to kill Bill in Volume I. That's why it was called Volume I.

But to have a whole movie, a half movie and then another half movie is just weird. It's like me writing an entry on this blog and then just

(The rest of this entry coming Memorial Day weekend 2007).

The Heckles' Lament

My boyfriend and I are bad neighbors.

We wreak havoc throughout our condo building, disturbing the peace and upsetting the quiet, happy existence of everyone in the place. Or at least one couple.

For purposes of anonymity, and as an homage to a similar character on Friends, I'll call them Mr. and Mrs. Heckles.

Mr. and Mrs. Heckles -- a greasy looking guy with a permanent scowl and his quiet, dutiful, most likely submissive wife -- live in the condo below ours. They're in their 50s but would seem much older but for their sharp sense of hearing. And they've hated my boyfriend since before he even bought the place.

I guess they could tell right off the bat that he'd be a bad neighbor.

He first encountered Mr. Heckles on his first viewing of the unit. Our future favorite neighbor came outside to strike up a conversation with him about how young he looked and how he hoped my boyfriend wasn't a wild partier, because quiet hours start at 10 p.m.

My boyfriend did his best to reassure him that he's not a wild partier, that he's a grownup with a job and is not, nor has ever been, a member of a fraternity. But little did Mr. Heckles know that I'd move in several months later and we'd both ruin his life with our loud, noisy, boisterous lifestyle.

Among our many offenses...

- Putting furniture together upon moving in.

- Making a "ruckus" while carrying something down the stairs. (This offense was committed by my boyfriend's mom, which just proves that he comes from a terrible family that cares nothing for others).

- Walking up and down the stairs too loudly.

- Playing pool on a hardwood floor, or doing something that sounded like that. (Note: At the time of this offense, my boyfriend was typing on his computer, and I was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed). His visit about this one came with a stern reminder, again, that quiet hours start at 10 p.m. and that hardwood floors are banned by the condo association as well as a request to come in to inspect the place.

- Doing laundry. Apparently the washing machine was making too much noise and my boyfriend was told he "should really have it checked out because the company that made it just laid off a lot of people, and it was probably made by a disgruntled employee who probably loosened something in there to make it loud on purpose."

- Inviting my boyfriend's family over for dinner. (Let it be known that they are generally a loud bunch, but they all left well before the witching hour of 10 p.m.)

- Walking up and down the stairs too loudly, again. This instance was the only time Mr. Heckles has ever spoken to me. I greeted him with a friendly "hello" when we were walking in the door at the same time, and he glanced at my boots and said, "so that's why there's always so much noise up there."

The latest of our offenses came Saturday night, when we invited the cast of Grease to come over for a beer after the show. Having missed the 10 p.m. quiet time deadline, we were already teetering on the edge of bad neighbor-ness when the first of our horribly rude friends to arrive called "hello" up the stairs upon walking into the building.

Well, that did it. Mr. Heckles made a beeline for our door, reminding my boyfriend again that he and the Mrs. like their peace and quiet.

I like my peace and quiet too (and might actually have it in this place if Mr. Heckles would shut his mouth some time). I have had to deal with loud neighbors in almost every place I've lived. In one apartment, I felt intimately acquainted with the couple upstairs, as they fought -- and made up -- at top volume, with their windows open, at all hours, seven days a week.

I'd love to know what Mr. and Mrs. Heckles would do if they had neighbors like that, who were actually loud.

Living in an apartment or condo can be tough, because you can't always have it quiet, and you can't always make all the noise you'd like, but there's got to be a happy medium somewhere.

Apparently the happy medium for Mr. Heckles is us having our wild parties (and I'll be honest -- there were chips and dip) elsewhere, namely a bar downtown. I might be splitting hairs here, but that doesn't sound like a compromise to me.

To reiterate his position that yes, the noise really does bother him -- in case we hadn't gotten that the first fifty times -- he came back yesterday afternoon to have a heart-to-heart with my boyfriend yet again about the quiet hours. As they both grew angrier, Mrs. Heckles became the mediator and piped up to say they like having us as neighbors and don't want to have to call the condo association, or, worse, the police.

My boyfriend, cool as a cucumber, told them that no one else in the building has complained and he has a hard time believing that we're making that much noise. But of course, as Mr. Heckles pointed out, he hadn't taken into account that the building was not built well and the walls are thin and that quiet hours start at 10 p.m.

Oh, and did I mention about the quiet hours? They start at 10 p.m.

As of the time I'm posting this, I have not yet had an opportunity to confirm this information.

My boyfriend explained that the show didn't end until after 10 and that it was Saturday and only the second party we've even given at the place, boldly implying that maybe it's alright to pick your battles and let some things go, but that was, of course, the wrong thing to say.

So from now on, we must end our parties by 10 p.m. and remind our friends to treat the building as a reform school -- no talking in the halls.

So come on over at 7 next Saturday, wear your boots, bring your pool cue and your dirty laundry, 'cause we're gonna have a wild time.

Just be quiet coming up the stairs.

Opening Night

For better or worse, Grease goes up in front of a live audience tonight.

We've had only six weeks to put this show together, a relatively short time considering that it's a musical with a large cast. That shows. Last night -- the final dress rehearsal -- was the first time the entire cast was together. That shows. But we've worked hard, and we're having fun. And that definitely shows.

I've been in many plays over the years, both good and bad. This is not the best or the worst of them. But when it comes right down to it, my own performance is the only one I can control and therefore the only one I'm allowed to sweat over. And after a night of incident-free costume changing, microphone using and bra wearing, I am ready.

Opening night is always a bit like Christmas. The anticipation of it is wonderfully excruciating, but once the fun starts, you feel a little sad, because you know it won't last long. The cast of Grease has been one of the friendliest and most supportive I've worked with, and I hope I will keep in touch with the pals I've made once the show closes next week.

But you don't think about December 26th on Christmas, so I'm not going to think about the show closing today. It's opening night, and I'm going to enjoy it.

Those Hasty Changes

I'm pretty sleepy today, and that's unfortunate, because I'm not in a sleepy sort of mood. Most of the time, when I'm sleepy, I mind not being able to go back to bed, but I don't mind the sleepiness itself. The sleepiness is something I want to embrace.

Today, however, is different. I want to have a ton of energy. I want to be in a great mood and have a fun day. I'm hoping my friendly neighborhood Diet Coke dealer will be able to help me out.

I got to bed pretty late last night, having spent all evening at rehearsal for a community theatre production of Grease. We open tomorrow night, so the directors were desperately trying to cram as much "do this, don't do that" in before an audience comes in. It wasn't my best rehearsal.

I play Marty, a Pink Lady who is talking about different boyfriend in every scene. But my big scene is the slumber party, when I sing "Freddy My Love" about an adoring Marine who sends gifts from Japan. I love and dread that scene. Love it because it's a fun scene, and my big scene, dread it because of what you are about to read.

Thanks to the script and the directors' insistence, I have to be in the previous scene to deliver one line, ("hey, that's pretty good," which, incidentally, gets skipped every night) and sing "Those Magic Changes" with the rest of the cast. Once the scene ends, I have approximately 15 seconds to exit the stage, take off my shoes, sweater and dress, put on pajamas, adjust my microphone and get back on stage. (The other girls don't have to mess with mikes and have clothes they can wear their pajamas under, so they're free and clear).

It's a little pathetic that I am always the last one to show up at my own slumber party.

Last night was the first time I had to work with the mike, and boy was it fun. In my rush to get changed and back on stage, I hastily clipped the mike to my pajama shirt and it didn't stay. It fell inside my shirt, right into a little undergarment the Germans call a "Buestenhalter." Luckily, there was lots of room in there, because in all the hurried madness, my breasts fell out of the same garment. The good news is, I had my shirt on at that point, but the bad news is, I was on stage. There's no denying that Marty herself is a little loose, but I don't think her breasts should be.

Nevertheless, no one noticed anything was amiss (although the mike, buried deep within the confines of my bra, did not pick up my voice during my song) and the scene went...well, in truth, the scene was crap. But I have high hopes that tonight's slumber party will be better.

I just hope I can stay awake for it.