Lost and Found

Google-Proof Advertising.

How do I tell you about the wonderful event that I'm hosting tomorrow without having actual customers come across my site while searching for information about the aforementioned wonderful event? Damn you, Google.

Okay. Well, tomorrow, from 1.30 to 3.30, my place of employment is hosting a rather large event that involves grilling mass quantities of a fish of a certain color. There will be lots of beer, hot dogs and a steel drum band. Oh, and a radio station that happens to cater to the "alternative" audience of this town will be there live, with a prize wheel. The weather will be beautiful and the fish will be fresh. And I might be drunk.

Add some vowels to these letters and you might find our website for directions.

www.thhllsmrkt.com

Old Friends.

I ran into one of my oldest friends last night. I was peeing and she walked in on me. We both apologized and when I left the bathroom, I looked at her and realized I was staring at the girl who rode in the back seat of my mom's station wagon all the way down to a retirement community in Florida for Spring Break my Freshman year of high school.

"The last time I saw you was at Senior Olympics," she said.

We did the three-legged race together, which was most likely the only time either of us did any running in high school, outside of gym class.

I was going to Ohio University. She was going to OSU. We didn't stay in touch.

We reminisced for a few moments. Do you remember so and so? I have so many pictures from that trip. And, how's your mom?

"She's the bartender."

Stunned. This woman had served me several beers over the past two years; I'd always been fond of her, but had never talked about anything of consequence. Like the fact that her daughter is one of the only people who befriended me in those horrible and awkward middle school years.

When I went to leave, I handed her a business card.

It felt weird.

I'm Running for Office.

Folks, I've decided to start my campaign. I'm not quite sure where I'll end up, but I belong in the decision-making part of government, whether it's the school board or the House of Representatives.

"But Jill," you say, "What about your record? They'll dig so much stuff up about you. You, yourself tell people about the time you cheated in Ethics class in college."

Irony, my friend. That was pure irony.

"Okay. So it *is* kind of funny. But what makes you think that you'll be good in public office? You can't even speak without uttering a profanity…"

This. This is my idea for changing the problems in the world. And per usual, it starts in the homes and the schools.

Let's bring up a generation of children who whole-heartedly believe that you can only have intercourse with people that you're able to successfully complete a Sunday *New York Times* crossword puzzle with.

Think of the abstinence! Think of the SAT scores!

I'd be a virgin.

Thought.

I was chased into the Home Depot parking lot yesterday by a man named Ed with a handlebar mustache, with the ends actually held up with wax.

As he followed me, asking me if I was parked out there, I thought to myself, "I love my job."

A Good Way to Meet People.
(Or) Panhandling in Suburbia.
(Or) How To Get a Guy To Buy You Dinner.

Try, unsuccessfully, to walk through the drive-through of your local fast food joint. Ask the guy in the car behind you to order food for you. In exchange, you'll give him your credit card to pay for his food as well. Stand next to his window as he orders a late dinner for you, Sarah and himself. Walk to the first window and try, unsuccessfully, to give him your credit card, while Sarah vigorously searches her purse for money or a checkbook.

He'll look at you and say, "If you're hungry enough to try to walk through a drive-through, then this is on me."

Hand him a business card with "We owe you - Jill and Sarah" on the back of it.

Laugh hysterically during the entire walk home, while eating your cheeseburger.

Good Sport.

They want me to play softball tomorrow night, so the game won't be cancelled due to a lack of women on the co-ed team.

The last time I played softball was in the advertising league in Chicago. I went to one game, hit the ball straight down the first base line and then continued to run chest-to-chest right into the first base woman. I couldn't stop running and didn't know which way to swerve. It was a game of chicken that turned out to be useless, because I was already out.

The time before that, I didn't even get to the game. I volunteered to play on an intramural college team and was practicing with a girl from my dorm. We threw the ball back and forth three times. The third time the ball came at me, I caught it with my eye socket, rather than my glove.

That was the week that we were doing portraits of our classmates in photojournalism class. I had a black eye.

I think the team will do better without me.

Guest Columnist.

Today we have a guest writer on Lost and Found. The wonderfully talented Maya has written this short piece on dating. Should you find her wisdom titillating and poignant, Miss Maya will be invited back on Wednesdays to write a column entitled, "I'm Not Joking, This Is My Fucking Life." Please vote with your comments.

My now-standard dating advice:

1. Make sure he's a legal resident of the country before things go too far.

2. Make sure it's impossible that, a month or two prior, he fathered a child who will become a factor in the future.

3. Do not, under any circumstances, move into a studio apartment and then find out that his mother will be your houseguest for two months.

That is all.

A Sampling of Today.

"Is this Jill?"

"This is she."

"Hi Jill, this is Jeremy from AOL?" (Yes the question mark is meant to be there.)

I sigh, "Hi Jeremy."

"Hi Jill. I'm calling to tell you about a new program we have designed to put you ahead of your competition?"

"Jeremy? Can you do me a favor?"

"What can I do for you, Jill?"

"Jeremy, can you give me call next week?"

"Most certainly."

Click.

Garden Report.

Front Yard.

The weeds are growing with vigor and passion. The prickly ones seem to be reproducing at record rates and are nearly up to my waist. We already have some dandelion skeletons, ready to pollinate the vacant areas of the garden. I'm curious to see which of the weeds will ultimately dominate. Or perhaps they will coexist and join forces to become the most unsightly garden on the street. One can only hope.

Back Yard.

There's a large elephant ear-like leaf growing by the back stoop. We don’t think it's a weed; perhaps it's rhubarb. If it is, I must learn how to make a rhubarb pie. It is my familial duty. I may not eat the rhubarb pie, but I must be able to tell the matriarchs that I grew some rhubarb and made a rhubarb pie. They will be proud of me and tell far off cousins about how Jill made a rhubarb pie - from scratch.

The dill is definitely dill. I know this because it looks like dill and I planted dill seeds. The seedlings are not growing in straight rows, like I planted them. I seem to have found a variety of travelling dill.

The lavender is either lavender or weeds. I can't be quite sure yet. But something is definitely coming up. A poet who writes in Scots (a very difficult style of poetry to read without pronouncing it out loud) once told me that lavender attracts men. Her garden is filled with lavender and she has five sons, so she must be correct. The only men that my lavender has attracted are the electricians. One was so attracted by the lavender that he stepped in the lavender garden.

"You guys didn't step in the lavender garden, did you?" I asked one of them.

"That's a lavender garden? Looks like there's a big footprint right there."

The electricians also throw their cigarette butts in my lavender garden. They will be sorry about this, because when the lavender comes, and they are attracted by it, I will send them away.

Oh, the legumes. This is a tragedy. Beautiful and bouncy, already bearing fruit and working right through the soil with a mission to be the most productive plant in the garden, like the straight-A student ready to take on the world, were these bean plants. I say were. Because where our brightest students once pined for more water and sunlight is a piece of plywood. A gift from the electricians.

"Come look at the legumes," our neighbor would say. And we would stand proudly watching the plants, for seconds, minutes even. Those beans bridged a gap of musical, social and constitutional differences for the entire building. And now they're gone.

The okra was also lost. But it's not too late to replant, they say. When the electricians leave, we'll give the beans and the okra another try. This is a democratic back yard. We're about second chances.

The tomato plants are finding their bearings, happy to be next to my potted basil, which, because it was in a pot, the electricians did not step on. Tomato and basil plants live in harmony, like musicians and poets. They detract one another's pests. I learned this on a bus ride in Scotland from a red-haired photographer who studied organic farming. I hope that she is right, and I'm not lying to you.

The pepper plants are handsome and the rest of the herbs are happily filling out. The broccoli is stout and bubbly. We can have fresh oregano next week, I think. The sunflowers are doing sit-ups, ready to spring toward the skies and bring countless birds to our backyard. The birds will undoubtedly find our cars a nice place to relieve themselves after a nice meal of sunflower seeds.

It is sad about the legumes, but later this summer, when the lavender attracts the men, we will have new bean plants. And our backyard will be filled with men eating rhubarb pie and feeling varying levels of discomfort due to flatulence.

I cannot wait.

Clean Karma.

This is a public service announcement from Lost and Found. Tonight is The Grape Event, a charity wine tasting and auction benefiting the families and patients affected by ALS, otherwise known as Lou Gehrig's Disease. I don' t personally know anyone with ALS, but somehow I've become an honored attendee, with my name in the program no less than four times. I know this because I designed the program.

The most interesting part of the program is the list of silent auction contributors, which include the likes of Media Play and Panera Bread, as well as Tim McGraw and John Travolta. Yes, apparently McGraw and Travolta have personally donated items to be auctioned off at this event. I can only assume that the staff member who scored those items is getting an "atta-girl". But how will she top her excellent begging skills next year? Silly girl. She should have stuck with gift baskets and salon packages.

I have affectionately entitled tonight's event "Drink for the Cure."

Because, well, tomorrow morning at 8.00, I will be on campus, as the store's team captain for The Race for the Cure. After tonight's 130 wine samplings, I think that tomorrow I might be doing less racing and more meandering.

Here's the call to action. If you're in Columbus and want to see what it's like to drink 130 samples of wine followed by running 3.1 miles in August-like humidity, then open your checkbook and join me. The Grape Event is at 6.30 tonight at COSI and only costs $70. And our team will be meeting at the corner of Lane and High at 8.15 tomorrow morning. The race is $20 and you get a t-shirt, but no wine.

There *is* a chance you'll get an apple and some Special K cereal samples, however.

Hypothetical Question.

What's the difference between "hanging out" and a date?

Once upon a time, I dated a fine gentleman who would pull me out of work in the middle of a Friday afternoon to see a matinee. We'd do a dinner or two, and found ourselves walking the neighborhood doing Spring Things.

I felt bubbly.

It ended when he announced, via telephone, that while at a bowling event designed to make he and his co-workers bond, he found himself bonding a little too much with one lady in particular.

A year later, he and I are good friends. While pretending to be productive at the coffee shop a few weeks ago, we discussed the idea of dating. (Not the idea of the two of us dating, mind you. Just dating in general.) He told me that he hadn't been on a date for years.

"But what about when we were together?" I asked, "Those weren't dates?" They weren't? He picked me up, paid for everything and maybe got a little action at the end. If those weren't dates, what were they?

"That was hanging out," he explained.

Right. Apparently I'm clueless.

People of all genders, backgrounds, time zones and mindsets, please help me. I challenge you to come together to help me define the word "date".

New York Stories.

I flew to New York City this past weekend to surprise Maya and to remind myself that despite the fact that I’m overly ecstatic about the Public Employee Retirement System that I’m about to be enrolled in due to my new library gig, I am an Exciting And Unpredictable Passionate Soul. Right. So I bought the ticket on Thursday and flew out on Saturday, for a weekend so Woody Allen that it felt incomplete without a clarinet-infused soundtrack. Well, not exactly Woody Allen. My weekend lacked considerable amounts of Orgasmatrons, Diane Keaton and jewel thefts. But it was film-like. From the carousel in Prospect Park on Mother’s Day, to a four-course meal consisting solely of mimosas, to the singing crowd control attendant in Newark Airport, it was a quaint and funny two days.

Two of my favorite exchanges from the weekend are below.

1. When Jill Gets Really Really Worried For A Second.

I’m at a Mexican-themed birthday party for José who is as Mexican as I am sophisticated. I am talking to a guy who looks vaguely familiar. I introduce myself and he says, “You’re Jill. Ooohhhh.” Ooohhh. As in ‘Ooohhh, I’ve heard about you. You’re the one douses puppies with gasoline and lights them on fire in your spare time.’ Or, ‘Ooohhh, you’re the one who told Mr. Andrews that C.J. Miller had copies of our biology midterm.'

Turns out that he’s happened upon the blog. The “Ooohhh” was a verbal expression of his confusion about the Columbus Ohio girl being in Brooklyn. Not too scary.

2. When Jill and Maya and Sarah Get Really Really Tipsy For A Few Hours.

We’ve just ordered our first round of mimosas at an outdoor café in Park Slope. The waiter comes back out and says to us, “Too much orange juice. Not enough Champagne” before topping off our glasses.

Not too bad.

Thanks, Mom.

In honor of Mother's Day, one of the holidays I refuse to recognize in my marketing, I have compiled a list of things that I've inherited from my wonderful mother.

1. Poor eyesight
2. My gregarious nature.
3. Blue eyes.
4. An appreciation for literature, though not so much in the romance novel genre.
5. Creativity.
6. An under-chin severely affected by gravity.
7. An addiction to nicotine.
8. The ability to laugh at myself.
9. My height.
10. An allegiance to Coca-Cola Products.
11. Food allergies.
12. An affinity for medium-rare steak.

So, Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Consider this a card. And although I love you to pieces, I stand strong in announcing that I did not inherit the gene that allows me to enjoy the music of Josh Groban. Neil Diamond, I'll give you, but not Josh Groban.

Are You an Organ Donor?

Going to the BMV is not unlike attending health class in high school. You're surrounded by people you don't see in your everyday routine. These aren't the waspy honors kids you sit next to in British Literature, AP Biology or the school newspaper. Instead, it's a stew of people from varying socioeconomic backgrounds and cultures who are required to be there and generally think it sucks.

I stood in line yesterday afternoon listening to stories. Everyone at the BMV has a story. The college student keeps getting tickets because her California car has expired tags. She tells this to the Hispanic couple in front of me who need to register their new Buick. The man behind me is applying for a fishing license. I need to renew my tags and drivers license.

The line moves quickly, once again solidifying my theory that public employees are more chipper these days. I felt like I was buying beer for an after-hours party.

"I have sixty dollars," I say, "What can I get?"

I can afford either the tags or the license. My teller informs me that you can get in more trouble for an expired license, but expired tags generally instigate getting pulled over. I choose the tags.

Sometime in the near future, I'll go back and do the license routine. Eye check. Photograph. Height. Weight. Until then, I'll continue to use my passport as an ID. At least it's getting use; I haven't used it to leave the country in a few years. But I'm beginning to realize that I can witness multiple cultures without leaving the country. I'll just return to the BMV.

Food and Feet Trends.

In my frenzy to pack for Chicago and still have time to stop by my NPR yard sale on Saturday morning, I brought only two pairs of shoes: red stilettos and flip flops. The average person walks 7.5 miles a day in a trade show. I wore the flip flops to the show. When I ran into people I knew, I would smile and shrug at my attire, "I'm so professional today."

"At least you're comfortable."

Sunday and Monday were spent grazing on samples of olive oils, brownies, eggs, sausage, pate, salmon and hundreds of other culinary trinkets. By the end of the day, you're not hungry, but you're not stuffed, either. I must have tried fifteen different barbecue sauces, twenty-five jams and forty pieces of cheese on a toothpick. Fantastic.

This year's show had two noticeable additions. The first was the "It's All Organic" Trade Show in the basement. Imagine Wild Oats multiplied seven times. I walked off with samples of Dr. Bronners that will last me two years, as well as propaganda for free-range beef jerky, organic cottage cheese and bottled wheat grass.

And then there were the carb signs. Eighty-five percent of the booths in the Fancy Food Show had large posters declaring that their cheese product, their cookie, their olive tapenades were low-carb. It's disheartening to watch the food industry bend over for such a silly trend. Instead of standing up for their beliefs, food producers and retailers are curbing their products to appease a cult-like population.

It's more socially acceptable to wear flip flops to a professional event than it is to eat a baked potato these days. Unless, of course, you top it with low-carb, organic cottage cheese.

P.S. I am now the proud owner of a WCBE totebag.

Chicago Image.

"They want to go dancing," I tell Kenny, the owner of a Boy's Town bar that I frequented when I lived in Chicago. He looks over at my suburban Ohio compatriots.

"The bar around the corner has fewer hermaphrodites than the rest of the dance clubs around here," he says.

That's how I ended up being in a gay dance club with two homophobic couples on Saturday night.

How there are photographs of me dancing on stage (looking very Amish in a white cardigan, I should add) with a black man wearing nothing but a leather black holster (for his you-know-what) and suspenders is a completely different story.

The Fancy Food Show was memorable, as well.