Lost and Found

Transplantation from Southwest desert to Midwest tundra requires a wardrobe overhaul. Pros include scarves (previously colorful yet unnecessary accessories), down coats (great at camouflaging post-Thanksgiving blubber), umbrellas (the true window into a city girl's soul) and gloves (the variety is simply staggering). Cons include lost scarves (it was in my coat sleeve when I got to the bar), lost coats (did I hang it up where I was trying on leather jackets in that cozy department store?), lost umbrellas (I lent it to that agent, and they lent it to someone else) and lost gloves (airport, snowdrift, restaurant, sidewalk, etc).

Dealing with the loss of a cold weather wardrobe essential is frustrating. Usually they cost a pretty penny. Even worse, you probably spent a long time looking for the right fit/color/style. Of all the aforementioned items, I definitely feel the worst about losing a glove. Bargain hunter by birth, I never spend a ton on clothing. It's not the money, though. It's the fact that when I lose that one glove, I have a lonely, presently useless glove to remind me of my carelessness. And it's always the really great gloves I lose. I should be thankful, because I've had the same set of gloves since I took up residency in the Windy City. They are ugly, brown, cheap pleather gloves from Target. They literally stink. But for the life of me, they just won't get gone. So I continue to wear them. Sure, I've had other gloves. One a silky set of apple green leather, cashmere-lined beauties from Marshall Field's. Lost the right glove in the snow the second time I wore them. There was also the set of extreme cold weather gloves I wore a total of three times. After a mad dash to the closest restroom upon exiting the airport parking lot, I realized lefty was gone with the wind. Back to the stinky brown pleather.

A few weeks ago, I steeled myself to brave the cold on my bike. Freezing rain is a deterrent, for sure, but I'm taking on the cold air. Marky and I trekked to Dick's Sporting Goods to gear up with under armor. Gore-Tex shoes, facemask, and the perfect gloves. I try to avoid big name brands, but these black Nike ACG gloves were perfect, at the perfect price. Grip on the palm and fingers to shift gears. Washable, waterproof, slim-fitting, and not too long for my sausage fingers. Bring it on, winter!

This morning, the sixth time wearing them, I, well, I, uh... Okay, I didn't just lose a glove. Even though the temperature was low, there was hardly any wind, and the sun was beating down. Halfway through my ride, against my better judgment, I neglected to snap my pockets shut when I removed the gloves and placed them there. My seat was giving me trouble, and I got off the bike at two different intersections to adjust it. I tried to clamp the seat down tighter than usual, and in my rush to take advantage of the green lights, I did a half-assed job. The clamp handle was sticking out, jabbing me in the right thigh every time I pedaled. I was distracted. They must have fallen during my readjustment tango.

It wasn't until my lunch hour that I realized the right glove was gone. Since I changed in the bathroom, dried my hair in the storage room, and applied makeup in the key department, I had quite a few steps to retrace. But it had been hours. I texted Marky, and his unfazed response was, "Oh bummer. That's my Breezy." I went downstairs to check with reception, and when I looked in the lunchroom with no luck, I decided it might be time to look online for a new pair. The only pairs I could find were girly pink and girly turquoise. I'm a badass biker. Pink clashes with camouflage. My pulse raced. I did another quick look around the office. Then decided to find that glove on the street. What's the worst that could happen? I could spend my whole lunch hour riding between work, home, and back.

I rolled up my jeans and grabbed SexyBike. Stairs. If I waited any longer, it would be too dark to see the glove. Broadway. Would I have to go all the way to Wilson, where I first took the gloves off? Halsted. I needed to be careful to keep one eye on the parked cars, and one eye on the opposite side of the road. Clark. People wouldn't just pick up an abandoned glove, would they? Melrose. There's the mini construction site I almost got sideswiped by a pedestrian. Roscoe. And there it was. Laying peacefully on the pavement. The embossed ACG insignia glimmering in the sun. Asking myself aloud, "Is that it?" I pulled over. My glove patiently waited for me all day. And I didn't even have to leave the neighborhood. Ah, Persistance.

Na na na na, hey hey hey...

Just yesterday I heard that Ken Ober passed away. I immediately texted my brother. He shared in my shock, and his memory of Ken is the same as mine. After school, before our parents came home to turn on the 24-hour news channel, we watched our version of the news: MTV. Chris was wrapping newspapers for his route, and I was puffy painting my canvas shoes/jean jacket. There were nonstop music videos all day, all night, but in 1987 MTV tried something new. An original game show called Remote Control. We wanted to be on that show. Either that or Double Dare. The quiz show was set in the basement of host Ken Ober, a pop culture know-it-all. Along with La-Z-Boy recliners, TV trays, a washer machine and a huge television set, we saw for the first time, Colin Quinn, Adam Sandler, Denis Leary, and Kari Wuhrer (if you didn't want to date her, you probably wanted to be her). My intense desire to be a contestant on Remote Control is probably the reason I have such a huge database of rock trivia stashed away in my cranium. I'm still gearing up for my turn in at naming the artist and song in the 9 screens in 30 seconds, or to Sing Along With Colin.

More than just a game, RC also had a ton of zany comedy bits, a keyboardist who musically accentuated every moment with his Casio, audience participation, and a snack break. Gosh, the 80's were just such a colorful, weird time. You might look at his high-waisted Z Cavaricci jeans and L.A. Gear tennies and think Ken Ober an 80's fashion plate. But he was just the everyman, spitting out lightning round questions, restraining Colin, and respectfully dismissing contestants who couldn't keep up.

I have two favorite memories of the show. Once, Ken asked the contestants to finish the line "Way-oh, way-oh, ay-oh, way-oh," à la Bangles singer Susannah Hoffs.

When a contestant answered in a beautiful singing voice, "Walk like an Egyptian," Ken paused, considered the response, and then didn't award her the points because she didn't blink and look around with googly eyes while singing.

My other favorite moment was when Ken broke up a rolling-on-the-ground fistfight between Colin and his little brother (Denis Leary) by saying, "Guys! Guys! Guys! Uh... I got a potato." It was funny then, but I didn't really understand how funny until I married an Irish guy.

Remote Control is certainly one of the reasons MTV started to suck so much in the 90's. But it was such a fun way to spend a half hour as a tween. It's hard to believe that was 22 years ago. I can't say I really kept up on Ken Ober's projects after Remote Control, but he was definitely too young to die. I feel more than a little sad and nostalgic for the hours I spent watching him on MTV.

557 Channels And Nothin' On

We used to have cable. There were 3-4 roommates at the time, and we split the bill. We had a ton of channels and each paid about $10 monthly. When I moved to Chicago, I had a TV, but didn't want to commit to cable, so I got a great antenna and a DVD player. Although I was tragically out of touch with The Sopranos and Six Feet Under, I caught up on some great movies. I forced myself to walk to the movie store (this was before Netflix, obviously), and sometimes Marky and I would get on our cell phones and watch the same movie simultaneously. If Scrubs' reception was bad on a rainy night, it wasn't meant to be. I found something better to do than watch TV. For a person who is this out-of-love with the idea of TV, I suppose I have a very romantic view of the boob tube.

Yes, I believe too many people are too addicted to their shows, and that might make my next statement seem hypocritical. Network television is a right. Even snowy, blurry, network television devoid of vertical hold. True, I get to enjoy the special channels on the treadmill at the gym, but that's only a few hours a week. When we recently made the switch to digital, thankfully Marky and I had the right kind of set. Sadly, what used to be a fuzzy image is now crystal clear about half the time, complete darkness the other. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I know this "upgrade" is the cable companies slowly making TV-viewing impossible without paying the piper.

Today I read an article about NBC being bought by Comcast. Between gaps of black silence, I heard fragments of this story the other night on Conan O'Brien, my favorite host on my favorite network. Surely NBC won't immediately disappear into Cableland. But the insidious crossover is imminent. When I think of the free shows that made a huge impact on my childhood (The Cosby Show, Saturday Night Live, Family Ties), I have to put myself in my parents' and grandparents' shoes. They remember radio shows and first television sets. And that's really where NBC started. Like them, I have no choice except to let broadcasting evolve to meet the needs of its staff and audiences. However, this might just push me further to the left as far as being that audience. Perhaps I will finally have an answer to the oft-queried: "Gosh Bree, where do you find the time to do that?"

An Open-Faced Love Letter to a Deli

What would you do for a living if money were no object? If you say, "Sit on my ass all day," you're disqualified. I posed this question to my coworkers a few weeks ago, and got Lifeguard, Camp Counselor, Professional TV Watcher (that's dangerously close to the aforementioned ass-sitting, but hey, he's my boss, we'll let it slide), and video store manager. What about you? After spending half my lunch hour waiting on a simple "Cuban" from the corner store, it hit me. I would work at a deli. Not some New Yorkian, line-out-the-door thing. And I wouldn't be the owner. I'd just make the sandwiches. The more basic, the better. I had a gastronomic flashback today while enjoying a Turkey Rae from Potbelly's. The thought of this recipe of turkey and swiss topped with coleslaw wouldn't have appealed to me in high school. Nor would it have done anything for me in early college, before dating Marky, the Evel Knievel of sandwich eating. No, until I worked for DG's Telshor Deli in Las Cruces, New Mexico during my last couple years of university study, I was strictly a ham and swiss with lettuce kind of gal.

My friend David worked at DG's, and he got me the coveted interview. Everyone wanted to work there in college, because the hours were easy, the owners were super cool, and you got all the free food you could stomach. DG's was also situated next door to the popular liquor store, and these two establishments were connected by a common refrigerator. Of course, a chain link fence separated our respective areas, but the theories of how to covertly lasso a couple beers kept the brain young.

There was a chart of 31 classic sandwiches. I used to have the numbers memorized, but I only remember the standout recipes now. The most popular were the #17: Turkey and Avocado, #21: Turkey, Bacon, and Avocado, and #9: Ham and Swiss. There were also a handful of specialty sandwiches that had no number, like the GCC: Grilled Chicken and Cheddar (served on sourdough with bacon and red chile honey mustard), GSH: Grilled Smoked Ham (also on sourdough with grilled onions, green chile, and swiss), The Pizza Philly (cheesesteak plus cured meats and spaghetti sauce) was beyond my dietary comprehension, but truly an engineering feat. I dropped one on the ground once, and almost cried. There was a host of beefy, meatbally, sausagey, and equally heart-clogging vegetarian choices. In the kitchen, I learned basic recipes for potato salad, coleslaw (perfect in its simplicity: Just cabbage with a dressing of mayo, vinegar, and sugar), chicken salad, and the best way to slice cheesecake (with dental floss). I got to use an industrial meat slicer, learned to clean a grill with lemon juice and a grill stone, and perfected the art of flipping 8 slices of bacon in one swoop. There was a list for everything--the chores, the sandwiches, the meats and cheeses. An outsider might see this as a dirty job, but it truly appealed to my anal retentive side. No one could screw this job up. Everything made sense. I suppose that in the height of college brain drain, it was nice to spend a few hours in a place where you didn't have to make any decisions. It wasn't like working at Target. We were human beings preparing food that made people happy.

After just a couple weeks of chowing down on the #9, a sandwich of which I thought I could never tire, I simply had to branch out, trying everything except the avocado items. I still have a tough time ordering a restaurant meal that includes avocado. Not because I hate avocado, but because my love runs so deep for this green treat. Avocado often loses all its dignity, once pummeled into a spread with mayo, then abandoned in an iced tub for hours. Poor avocados. On the contrary, my love for restaurant pickles grew immensely, especially after the birth of my secret menu item, the DG's Pick-Up. The Pick-Up was a pickle spear, rolled up in ham then swiss, and was named by my Bible-thumpin', Sweet-And-Lowdown-lovin', Baby-Got-Back-recitin' coworker, Robert.

I was so good at this job. I could make a sandwich so fast it would make Jimmy John freak. And I loved a challenge. Philly steak, cheese, meatballs, sauce, veggies? Jumbo size? Lemme at that grill. I could make two pounds of greasy meat look as gorgeous the Mona Lisa in Albertson's French Loaf. And if you liked it bland, fine. Turkey on white with no condiments? I wasn't there to judge. Did send your eight-year-old kid in with cash in hand twice a week to get your chicken salad with an x-rated amount of mayo? I was there. One of the saddest days in DG's was when our boss decided to give us cutting boards. He was unhappy with the slicemarks that had appeared over the years on his formica counters. The problem was, when he added the cutting boards, we no longer had reference marks for mini, regular, large, etc. It slowed production significantly, and covered up the proud wrinkles in the face of the veteran deli.

My last day at the deli, I worked as hard as if it was my first. I mopped, scrubbed that grill until it shined, I made my fair share of subs, and I... I... Okay, I pocketed a pair of tongs. I loved those tongs, and I needed a memento of my favorite job. When I walk into a deli, I want to jump back into the kitchen and help. When people ask me what I would do for a living if money were no object, this is my answer.