Lost and Found

Egg Salad, Please.

A guy in the deli relayed a message to me today concerning one of the chefs involved in the Yuppie Trade Show that we're helping sponsor.

I thanked him for the information and ordered my sandwich. "Can I get you anything else, Jill?" he asked. I said no, thank you, and walked back to the office.

To be honest, with the exception of a few boisterous co-workers who provide customer service in our delicatessen, I don't really think of the group as individuals. I know this is terrible and elitist. I have an office, a 401k, a business card. But the only reason I really have a job is because the random guy in the deli smiles before handing the bitchy old lady her low-carb hye roller.

I market the people whose names I don't even bother learning. I'm shit.

Baggers, cashiers, produce girl, dishwashers, meat kid, stockers: I apologize. I vow to learn your names and what you're about.

In two weeks, that is. Because I'm very busy and important right now.

Movie Review.

Last night I watched "Mystic River", while Sarah watched an old man masturbate next to her.

"He's moving very slowly," she whispered to me, "It's creepy."

"Mystic River" is much more disturbing when someone is masturbating (slowly) next to you.

I give it two and half stars.

Medical Blues.

"I go to church with your boss," she said as she looked over my file in the doctor's office. "But don't worry," Kay added, "everything in this office is confidential."

I was relieved to know that my nurse practitioner and my boss wouldn't be discussing my most recent pap smear near the coffee and doughnut table after church.

That was about two years ago. Like boyfriends and hairdressers, I don't keep doctors for very long. For six years I've had to play the "could you please fax my records to my new doctor" game. It's not that they don't like me, it's a convenience factor. I don't want to drive far to get weighed and asked what color my snot is.

Kay was a keeper, though. Visits to her office were like a full service oil change. I'd come in for antibiotics and leave with birth control pills, cream for a bi-monthly rash (a direct result of using The Patch in August) and cough syrup with codeine (for my cough and long flights). Usually, most of this stuff was free, in sample form. Two months of Ortho Tricyclin top the butterfly stickers of my adolescence any time.

I went in on Thursday, to be told that I have fluid in my ears. Kay and I discussed my snot, my coughing and she let me look at my chart to see if I've gained any weight. (No.) I left with three prescriptions and a business card.

"This is my last day here," she told me before leaving the room, "I'm going to be practicing in Gahanna."

Gahanna? I can't go to Gahanna! This was not at all convenient to me. Looking at my address, she suggested a quick route to her new office, and recited the hours.

I went to my car and sulked. This woman not knew me inside and out (literally). I trusted her. I liked her. Kay was the only professional I could ever feel comfortable telling, "I had loose stool for the entire month of November, but it could have been because of alcohol."

Followed, of course, by, "What color was it?"

As I drove back to work, "No Woman No Cry" came on. That's when I knew that I would have to move on, that there are other Nurse Practitioners out there, as talented and wonderful as Kay.

I rolled down my window - who cares if I get a cold - I have antibiotics and codeine - and sang along.

Everything's gonna be alright.

In Retrospect.

Kurt and I used to steal bread from your restaurant and throw it out the car window on Riverside Drive at oncoming traffic.

He taught me how to say "queer" in Spanish.

In college, he'd show up at my dorm room, unannounced. Usually his timing was impeccable; I'd be returning from the shower, wearing only a towel.

We would lie on my floor, looking at the glow in the dark stars, singing along to Janis Joplin's cover of "Bobby McGee."

You know, he used to get me to skip class. He'd make me grab my camera and show me places in Athens that I'd never seen before. Lumber yards, bridges, bike paths.

In high school, we used to play this game where we would sing along to oldies songs, except we'd replace the words with the suburban verbal jungle surrounding us. Imagine "Strawberry Fields" with the words "be prepared to stop when flashing".

He knew a lot of oldies. Joni. The Beatles. Janis. Did he learn the music from you?

I met someone the other day - someone you know - whose grandson is named after Kurt. That's kind of sweet, isn't it?

I have photos of him on my desk, in my room. Three of them. I took those on the last day we ever spent together. I don't know if I should be telling you this, but that day, we climbed to the roof of the elevator shaft in the parking garage in Athens and watched the sun set. He tried to kiss me, and I said no.

I was pining over another guy, someone that I dated long distance. It didn't work out, though. He's married now; he's in New York. In retrospect, I would have kissed him.

I've met you before. At his memorial service. How long ago was that? Spring of '99? I gave a short speech. You probably wouldn't remember. I'm terrible at public speaking. There's one thing I said though, something that I still believe. I said that Kurt taught me my most valuable lesson in photojournalism (and I could probably equate it to life, too); he told me that my problem is that I shoot (photographs) for other people, and that I should always shoot for myself, that the results will be better.

I miss him. I think about him when I'm on Riverside Drive, when I see a "be prepared to stop when flashing" sign, when I hear certain names, on spring days. You raised a wonderful young man, Mr. Coursen.

I wish I could have told you that today on the phone. Instead, I said that I'm looking forward to meeting you next week, and that I've heard wonderful things about you.

And for that, Mr. Coursen, I feel terrible.

Dream Lover.

I had a celebrity sex dream the other night. My dreams mainly consist of nightmarish situations:

My roommate gets three new cats that pee all over the floor.
Me not being able to dial a phone number properly in an emergency situation.
Going on vacation with my family.
A photo shoot at the store goes completely wrong when the photographer takes a photo of the vice president on the receiving dock instead of the prepared foods case.

You know, the regular scary dreams.

But I awoke a few mornings ago feeling alive, invigorated, ready to start my day. The sex was good. We were in this fantastic house that was perfectly designed and decorated. There was a courtyard in the middle with columns and candles and hand-woven hammocks. My celebrity lover and I were in love.

I forgot about the dream until Sunday, when I was in a book store with Sarah. Displayed on the front table were the books used to attract attention and, therefore, consumer dollars. In the center was a book featuring my dream lover.

I blushed and called Sarah over.

"I dreamt that I had sex with one of the guys from 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy'," I tell her.

"The hot one?" she asked.

I pointed to the man that invaded my dreams. It was confirmed. I had had sex with the hot one.

"In the dream," I told her, "I said to him 'I thought you were gay'. He answered with 'But I like you.'"

To quote Belinda Carlisle or the like, Only in my dreams.

Love is Murder.

Saturday morning, I found myself in a news studio at 5.45. The anchors were reading sexy predictions from chocolate fortune cookies in between actual news content. Apparently this was supposed to get the 6.00 a.m. viewers in the mood for Valentine's Day.

Except, when you follow a fortune such as, "Kisses are like real estate. It's all about location, location, location," with a late-breaking story about an 82 year old woman who was stabbed in a retirement home downtown, you don't really feel the love.

Memory Lane.

We ditched the rest of the group. I didn't want to go dancing, especially at a franchise night club like "Frog Bear & Wild Boar." Not at 10.00 p.m. Having danced many a night away in London, Edinburgh and a place or two in Spain, I haven't really warmed up to the Columbus night club scene. My few ventures to the clubs have found me surrounded by bachelorette parties and teenagers.

Laura felt the same, so we went to St. James Tavern to observe Valentine's Day. I love dives. They're welcoming, unpretentious and familiar. This dive in particular boasts the best jukebox in Columbus. Laura sipped her Amstel Light while I poured over the song selection.

Sleater Kinney. Duran Duran. Neutral Milk Hotel. Wilco. Pete Yorn. Lucinda Williams. Tom Waits. The jukebox was the ghost of all relationships past. I dedicated a song or two to the bittersweet memories of the gentlemen who have contributed to my character, and are fodder for many a good story.

Though sometimes painful, the memories that the songs revived were welcome. In the cold of February, living a cynical sarcastic existence, constantly looking at my life as a story to tell, the small bursts of emotion triggered by Jeff Buckley, Tom Waits and even Built to Spill remind me that I am not completely frozen, and someday soon I may thaw.

Meanwhile, waiting for that time, Laura and I sipped our beers, played pool and congratulated one another for being smarter than the group we'd left behind that evening.

Warm Greetings.

I've received three Valentines and an overdue gas bill this year.

1. A card from my mom. No matter how infrequently I call her, or how far into March she gets her Christmas present, I can depend on a Valentines Day card from her. Her signature is the same, the hugs and kisses (xxoo) on the bottom are always there, as well. The only thing that changes is whose name accompanies hers on the bottom of the card. This year, it was signed "Mom & Chuck."

2. An anti-valentine from Maya, referring to the day as "Black Saturday." It should be said that although she doesn't like to admit it, this is the second "Black" day that she will be celebrating (or not) with a loved one. And the same one, at that.

3. A hand-painted card saying with a quote about hearths and heat and burning desires from Mark Fisher, a Columbus hippie/lawyer/music aficionado. He asked me for my address a few weeks ago at a concert. I was sufficiently tipsy enough to give it to him, with a footnote that read, "I'm not sure why I'm giving this to you. Please don't do anything creepy."

4. I still need to pay the gas bill.

Beauty Secrets.

I used to wear fuchsia sweatpants underneath my jeans in middle school so that I'd look like I have curves.

(Imagine me in gym class, nonchalantly taking off the pants, nestled inside one another, hoping that no one would notice my secret.)

Ah, those were the days.

These days, I dream of spring days, so that I can go running, so I can get rid of my curves.

Faking It.

Without meaning to, I've become quite the business professional these days. I'm to the point where not only am I showering before work (and regularly wearing both heels AND hose), but I'm getting home after Jeopardy every evening.

My e-mail relationships are suffering.

I've been working on a trade show for yuppies, making media contacts, blowing kisses over the phone at people I've never met, and pounding out, on average, two stories a day for writers, marketing people and our newsletter.

I talk to Jenny about it on the drive back from New York. "It's like journalism, but not. What is it?"

"It's P.R., Jill. You're doing P.R."

"Except, I really like journalism, and the stuff I write, with the exception of two or three lines, is pretty much journalism," I say, five hours into Pennsylvania.

"Jill, I like journalism, too," she says. "As a matter of fact, I like it too much to say that what you're writing is journalism."

She's right, of course. So I change the subject. "Do you know that I've always had trouble spelling Pennsylvania? And Massachusetts? I was born there, and I can't even spell it."

Back to the job. So, in the middle of this exciting chaos that the yuppie trade show has thrown upon me, I've begun a relationship with a woman from a consumer group who seems to like me and has a lot of access to the media. As a result of this relationship, I've been forced to answer e-mails that include the following line, or the like.

"So what did you think of last night's Bachelor?"

Um.

I wrote back saying that I'm partial to Joe Average. Had I done my research over at msnbc.com, I would have a) known what happened on the previous nights' Bachelor and b) called the other show by its correct name. But then, there's always the fear that she might invite me over to watch it with her.

I can fake sophistication, I can fake journalism, but I don't think I can fake the Bachelor.

New York Firsts.

This weekend harbored many premier experiences for me.

1. My first real bagel. I had no idea that bagels were actually good.

2. My first internet friend. I got to meet the auteur of "Scenecrasher" at the Rated Rookie party on Saturday night. Unfortunately, by the time she arrived, I had consumed my first of number three, making the moment a little blurry. I remember calling her friend by three different names and feeling like an ass.

3. My first Everclear experience. In the form of a jello shot. Never again.

4. My first drunken hoola hooping contest. Try drinking half the beer in Brooklyn and then intentionally moving your body in such a way that the spinning in your head counteracts the spinning of your body, therefore making everything seem really clear. Kind of.

5. My first piece of published writing that isn't shit. Check out Rated Rookie. (www.ratedrookie.com)

He's Perfect.

It's midnight and my phone rings. I look at the caller ID. It's Abby, my sister. I pick up, because I fear that something might be wrong. That's how often I receive phone calls from family members.

"Are you at the bar?" she asks.

"No. I'm actually working," I say. Which is true. I had been writing an article for the newsletter.

"I thought you'd be at the bar."

"Nope. I don't go out on weekdays very much. What's up?"

"What are you doing on Saturday night?" she asks.

"I'll be at a party in New York. Why?"

"Oh. Well we're going out to dinner for my birthday, and we have a guy who wants to meet you. He's twenty-seven."

Every five months or so, Abby has a guy who wants to meet me, or someone who remembers me from high school, or someone that I've apparently met before, that 'wants to meet me'. I normally brush this stuff off, telling her that I'm not interested.

But this is the third time in a short time period that a family member has tried to 'hook me up' with random people they've met.

Last Sunday, it was my dad telling me about a 'twenty-five year-old used car salesman' that he met. And in December, my mom met a 'charming guy who's only one month older than you, who likes to read and travel' while doing my Christmas shopping.

Apparently they're terrified that at twenty-four years old, I'm going to become an old maid. I appreciate the concern, guys, but I think that I'll be alright.

Flack and Huckster.

I had lunch today with a prominent food critic in Columbus, whose character has earned him the nickname (and the pen name), "Grump".

In between bites from a colossal plate of chicken, noodles, potatoes and green beans (the only entrée the restaurant serves on Thursdays) he asks me, "Why don't you write for a newspaper?"

"Because I don't want to write about high school basketball games or city council meetings," I answer. "I know you have to start at the bottom, but my love is feature writing. Magazines."

"So you don't want to be a beat writer," he concludes. "You know, I started out writing obituaries."

This does not surprise me. Most of his columns are memorials for failed restaurants.

"At any rate," I say, to avoid the inevitable 'you can't just swoop in and get a job you want; you have to work for it' lecture, "I like what I do."

"You know what you are?" he asks.

I kind of shrug, knowing that he's going to tell me momentarily.

"You're a flack. And a huckster. Do you know what those are?"

"No. I don't know whether I should be flattered or offended."

"Write them down," he demands. "Flack and huckster."

The words appear on my margins.

You want to know why I don't write for a newspaper, Mr. Grump? Because I don't know the meanings of the words 'flack' and 'huckster'.

I'm Insane.

It's been a quiet week in Lake Grandview, my hometown. Well, it's not quite a lake, yet. But once the ice rink in my front yard melts, I may need a boat to get to work.

I'm resting my body for this weekend's debacles. Like Garrison, while I live in the Midwest, and marvel in the joys of frostbite and windburn, I like the city a little, too. For anyone who leans toward the logical side of thinking, I warn you in advance for what you're about to read.

I'm driving to New York City, through freezing rain and Pennsylvania, to go to a party. Following the party, I will turn around a return home through the arctic tundra.

What's more, I'm doing this with three non-smokers.

How can a party be so grand that one might risk his or her life two times, without a smoke, only to spend a little over a day in New York City? It's the Rated Rookie Screw Canada Party. Not only will I get to see the magazine that houses my Vagina Story, fresh off the presses, but I will also get to mingle with friends rusty and shiny.

There's going to be rock and roll (ironically, by a band from Columbus), weird happenings with tricycles, and a possible appearance by Janet Jackson's left breast.

Note: I write the following statement fully realizing that my readership consists of a) people within fifteen miles of the I-270 Shooter, b) a guy in France, and c) people who already know about this party.

So, if you're anywhere near Brooklyn on Saturday night and don't fall into any of the above categories, go to OfficeOps* and help raise money for literature. Garrison would be proud.

And so I took off my shoes, looked out the window and thought, "Gee, I'm glad to be home."

* Details are at www.ratedrookie.com

True This.

Do you know what hurts like hell the next day, after you haven't engaged in any physical activity aside from "Dance, Dance Revolution" for three months?

Pilates.

Gateway Drug.

"Are you registered to vote?" I ask my sister at her 20th birthday dinner on Sunday.

"No. I don't want to get called for jury duty," she says.

Although I'm pretty sure that with her track record for skipping class in high school, Abby doesn't know what jury duty is, I'm relentless.

"Abby, do you want a bunch of old people to run your life? Voting allows you to have a say in what you want."

Patty pipes in, with her motherly wisdom. With the same intonations as "Don't ever drive drunk" or "Don't ever do drugs" she said the only words that could make me happy that concealed weapons are now legal in the state of Ohio.

"Abby, don't EVER let anyone make you vote."

Okay. Let's be clear here. She didn't say, "Don't ever let anyone tell you who to vote for."

She said, "Don't EVER let anyone make you vote," followed by, "My ex in-laws made me vote a couple times. They said it would make me feel good."

Because voting is a gateway drug. You do it once because someone makes you, and you feel good. But it's only a small rush. The next thing you know, you're at jury duty, carting recyclables out to the curb, reading books and volunteering for community service.

No, Abby, don't ever vote if you don't want to. Listen to your mother. Look how far not voting got her. She's got a nice car, a clean, warm house in the suburbs and a wonderful job heating up soup at a sandwich chain in the mall.

I shot a look over to my father, who was looking away from the table, as far away as possible. I wondered how he could possibly be married to a woman who looks at suffrage as a crime.

I have plenty of reasons to hate this woman. But her Bible told me to forgive, so I have. Nonetheless, her ignorance yesterday caused more rage than I have ever felt for her.

I stopped talking and ate silently until the dinner was over.

On a related note, I've decided that as a service to my community, I will drive anyone with a DUI to the booths next month. But don't worry, I won't MAKE you vote.