Introducing Ellie

Why do I call Monica "Ellie"?  First of all, it rhymes with "smelly" and who can argue with that in middle school?  Of course, my name rhymes with the unfortunate "queasy", "cheesy", "easy", and "sleazy", so don't feel too bad for her.  Seriously though, in the adolescent quest for cute, my friends Alicia and Monica Elaine picked the nicknames Allie and Ellie.  Oh, how I wished my middle name was Olivia or Iliana!  I don't know where Allie is these days, but I think it is fitting that Ellie gets the final blog, seeing as she is my oldest friend. 

Ellie played violin in orchestra and danced in ballet.  We were in all the same gifted classes.  We both liked jean jackets, perms, swimming, and boys.  Many a foot fell asleep sitting cross-legged under her Ouija board.  Her mom called me "hija".  Ellie and I did a lot of laughing and crying together.  Our era of sleepovers is the last time I remember carefree childhood.  We always had someone to eat lunch with.  We had great secrets and inside jokes.  We had major crushes that we discussed endlessly.  We could have fun doing anything. 

A typical sleepover at Ellie's consisted of an afternoon of bike riding, nail painting, hair-doing, gossip, a movie rental/Saturday Night Live, and surrender to sleep.  The next day, we would start with potatoes and eggs in a tortilla with garlic salt, salt, and pepper (I am salivating, currently).  We would then walk to the Ladera Theater to see a movie or go swimming at the Y or loiter at the nearest Walgreens.  I liked Days and Ellie liked All My Children (both of which aired at 11am on rival networks), and unable to compromise, mid-morning TV was really out of the question. The only thing I don't remember is a single quiet moment.  We could analyze, deliberate, and pontificate upon any subject ad infinitum. 

The start of high school marked the end of our era.  Ellie went to West Mesa, and I went to Highland.  They were just so darn far away.  We still made time to see each other, but it wasn't the same.  Then college rolled around, and we simply lost touch.  No hard feelings, it was just kinda over.  My whole life, I have been guilty of this out-of-sight-out-of-mind projection thing.  When people are out of my sight, I figure I am out of their mind.  I got a wedding invite from Ellie when I was working for my mom one summer, at the end of my college stint.  Feeling responsible for our distance, I resisted attending.  Besides, after all the years and miles, I assumed she wouldn't recognize me anyway.  My social anxiety convinced me that attending the wedding would only lead to awkwardness--she invited me because she had to.  My mom pushed me to go, though.  Remembering all the daydreams Ellie and I had about falling in love with with the perfect man, what our weddings would be like, having our kids grow up like cousins, I relented. 

I didn't RSVP, and I made mom sit with me in the back.  The church was packed with hundreds of relatives and friends.  The happiness of this wonderful ceremony was buzzing.  Before the happy couple entered the room, the priest got everyone's attention.  He welcomed us and asked that we turn to our left and our right, and greet the people sitting next to us.  Mom was on my right, thankfully, then I turned left.  A vaguely familiar woman lit up when I turned to her.  She introduced herself as the aunt of the bride, and I stammered, "I'm Ell--Monica's friend from middle school."

The woman nodded, told me she remembered what good friends we were, and expressed how happy Ellie would be that I was there.  She even remembered my name.  I thought it was a fluke.  Then the mariachis started.  The congregation stood up.  Ellie, led by her mom and dad, began walking down the aisle.  She looked beautiful and composed as she entered the church.  It may have been my imagination, but it seemed her eyes found me before anyone else.  I felt a flood of emotion, and we both burst into tears.  There was Ellie, my dear friend, like no time had lapsed.  She looked just the same.  Some bonds you can never break. 

Introducing Janet

I am pretty picky about friends.  My close friends are good, solid people.  That being said, I am not the type of person who can say, "Any friend of Joe's is a friend of mine."  It doesn't usually work that way.  As much as I like my friends, they are drawn to people like me, and I don't get along with other Sagittarians.  Ok, that's not always the case, but I am guarded when meeting a close friend of a close friend.  Then there's Janet.

Janet is nacho average friend.

The first time I met her, Sheppy and I had just worked through Gay Pride.  We took a cab to the Sullivan's and Janet made sure we ate and drank to our hearts' content.  She then asked us a favor, "I'm going to ask that you don't give me any money, because this isn't a big deal.  Just keep your money."  The next time I saw Janet, she came to The Back Room, exhausted after a long shift at Carmine's.  Fully expecting her to poop out after an hour, she not only stayed with us to the end of the set, but then went out with a group of us until something like 4am.  It was a really fun night that I won't forget. 

Janet and Sheppy are quite a team, having been roommates for years, and sharing a similar sense of humor.  They worked their tails off gathering donations at the Friends of Marky fundraiser.  A couple of times, I offered to relieve them of their duties, seeing that they were stuck at a table in front of a seemingly endless stream of people.  After several offers to take over, Janet explained to me that she actually had the best seat in the house, and she wanted to stay there all night, if that was okay.  She showed the same friendly work ethic when it came to Sheppy's going away party.  For a couple weeks, we schemed via telephone to convince an unwilling participant to go to her own farewell celebration.  Janet booked an awesome venue, brought people, and provided hilarious decor for the Mexican-themed "Nacho Average Going Away Party".  I guess I can take credit for somehow getting Sheppy there, but it was Janet's baby--I never could have planned something like that. 

Then there was the last time we went to Andy's together.  I don't even know how to describe why it was so special.  If it hadn't happened already, that night sealed the deal that Janet and I would be friends--and not just friends because we have a friend in common.  We easily could have been done with each other after the going away party, but, darn it, I just adore her. 

Janet has started a new journey (outside of Chicago) in her life, and I think about her often.  She is always the thoughtful one who remembers to call or text me.  It's too bad it took us so long to hang out, we were right under each other's noses for the longest time.  I know I will see her again. 

Introducing Santino

Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, they both, oh yes, they both, oh yes, they both, reached for, thegunthegunthgunthegun, oh yes, they both reached for the gun, FOR THE GUN!  Pop, six, squish, uh-uh... Cicero, Lipschitz.

The day Tom decided I should move to Chicago, I asked him for some contacts in the Windy City.  The first option, Santino, was the brother of a friend of mine (Marco).  We really didn't know each other well, but since we had been in a couple plays together, we had a short history that made it easier to ask him for help.  According to legend, Santino had to live in a friend's closet when he first moved to Chicago.  Hoping he would extend the same charitable hand to me, I made the phone call.  Santino was very nice and offered to let me stay in his studio while I got on my feet.  The first night Chris and I were there, we hopped on the el and went to Pizza Capri and The Green Mill.  We were nearly shot by in drive-by while walking to the jazz club.  When we heard the gunshots, Chris and I hit the sidewalk, and Santino threw his body on top of us.  Very manly.  Isolated incident.  Not the manliness, of course.  That was the first time Santino saved my life.  For the next couple of weeks, we reviewed our days, ate, and rented movies together.  We were strangely obsessed with memorizing "The Cell Block Tango" and "Both Reached for the Gun".  That studio was tiny, and I am forever thankful that he let me stay as long as I needed. 

I didn't bring much stuff, and tried to cook and clean as much as possible while usurping Santino's A/C.  He accompanied me in finding an apartment, and was supportive while I searched for a job.  Santino was a great influence on me during my early days in Chicago.  He didn't let me get my hopes up for a huge apartment, and told me that it was going to be a struggle to get a job.  He also encouraged me to drive around and get to know the city.  When I asked him if my driving was ok, he suggested, "You could punch it a little more," and I keep that in mind every time I am behind someone turning left at a green light. 

I know Santino's mom hates this story, but I have to tell it.  My first apartment was a shithole studio in Uptown.  I never had any trouble walking to and from the train, I got along with my neighbors, and lived a very peaceful existence... until one night.  About 2 in the morning, I heard commotion in my hallway.  I double-checked to make sure my door was locked, but there were obviously several men trying to break into a room on my floor.  All I could hear were thumping footsteps and men's voices yelling.  It was the scariest moment of my life.  I dialed 911, but my cell phone was not getting service.  I turned off my dial-up internet connection, and waited anxiously as my landline slowly became available.  Once I heard a dial tone, I tried the cops again.  The yelling was becoming increasingly threatening.  I told the operator that someone's life was in danger, and I was terrified.  The operator systematically regurgitated her spiel, "We will send someone out, thank you for your call, blah blah..." 

I whispered, "Wait!  I'm really scared, can't you stay on the phone until they get here?"

"We'll send someone out as soon as possible.  Good-bye." Click. 

 

My mind was a blank.  I wanted to call my boyfriend.  I wanted to call my mom.  But they were both a million miles away in New Mexico.  I wanted to run out of the building, but I lived in a studio on the 8th floor with no back door.  The only route to the fire escape was through the hallway.  There was no exit.  Feeling sure there was at least one gun on the other side of my wall, I decided to lay down in the bathtub.  If a bullet was going to come through a wall, maybe an extra layer of porcelain would slow it down.  My heart was beating out of my chest, and I was starting to hyperventilate.  The yelling was getting more intense, and it was right next door.  Santino!  I could call Santino!  He would know what to do.  I didn't want to move from the shelter of my bathtub, and I wasn't sure if the cell phone would work, but I gave it a try.  I dialed Santino's number and held my breath. 

 

In a sleepy voice, Santino answered, "Mmmhello?"

 

"Some guys broke into the apartment next door to me, and I think they are going to shoot this guy, I don't know what to do, I'm scared..." I blabbered.

 

Suddenly alert, "Just give me a minute to find my car, and I'll be there in a few minutes," Santino hurriedly answered.  He hung up before I could protest his coming out.  I laid in the bathtub and waited. 

 

About 10 minutes passed, and Santino magically appeared at my door.  I don't remember him buzzing my apartment, he just materialized.  He told me that he couldn't remember where he parked his car, so he just ran from Irving Park to Foster.  He let me tell him the whole story again.  When I apoligized for calling so late, he explained that he had been at a party anyway, and had barely closed his eyes when I phoned him.  He reassured me that he would stay all night, and if I wanted to go to sleep, he would be up keeping watch.  Once we started talking, I realized that the voices from next door were gone.  I fell asleep and life went on the next morning. 

 

That was the second time Santino saved my life.

Introducing Ben

This is another one of the toughest blogs to write.  I have sat down several times to attempt it, but I'm just not satisfied with what I have to say.  Well, last night, I had a dream about Ben, and I think it is time to just bite the bullet.   I'm making this sound like it is a chore to write about Ben.  That is not the truth.  Can I just get on with it?  My topics today will be Danger, Music, and Warm Fuzzies. 

Danger.  It is dangerous for me to work with Ben.  Dangerous for my productivity, dangerous for my vocal cords, dangerous for the Kleenex fund, because I had to wipe away so many tears of laughter.  Ben is one of the funniest humans I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  Luckily, he worked an office away from me for the beginning of my employment here.  Then he moved to my office for awhile.  It is best that he left after a few short months.  How I didn't wet myself at some point is beyond me.  I can imitate just about any singer's voice, but I stink at adolescent boy sound effects.  Ben was patient enough to teach me to make a high pitched farting sound with my mouth.  Unfortunately, I didn't have enough time with him to teach me the sleepy dog sound.  Maybe someday we can have a pickup lesson. 

Music.  Ben is one of the best musicians I know.  He is a hell of a front man, singing and playing guitar for his rock band.  His CD is totally enjoyable, and he actually asked me to sing backup for him on a couple gigs in town.  Ben provided me with a feather boa and several very productive rehearsals.  It is really nice to work with someone who is musical, kind, and has a definite vision.  They weren't the easiest gigs in my life, but they were super fun.  Ben also introduced me to "Serenade" (Steve Miller) and "Custard Pie" (Led Zeppelin), which always make me happy when I hear them on my stereo. 

Warm Fuzzies.  The moment I met Ben, he made me feel like I had a big brother in the office.  He made sure I didn't hesititate when there was free pizza in the lunchroom.  He counseled me when I couldn't deal with the taste of green tea, despite its antioxidant powers.  He loaned me a DVD that I still haven't returned to him.  He can elicit laughter with a mere smile.  He is an excellent hugger.  I miss him. 

Introducing Jessica

Looking back, I think Jessica and I made very weird first impressions on each other.  She appeared in Uni Singers as a much younger, much more musical individual than I, and I couldn't help but be intimidated.  And her first impression of me?... Well, you can ask Jessica and see what she admits.  Of course, after letting ourselves get to know each other better, we overcame those impressions. 

Jessica and I only went to school together for two semesters, but that was quite a school year.  That was the era of weekly parties, Corpus Christi, Italy, our short-lived jazz trio, and general mania.  She and Don could often be spotted choreographing the perfect cheer.  No matter how hard we danced, how much we frolicked, Jessica always smelled good and her makeup remained intact.  She was so confident and capable, sometimes I would forget that I was older than her.  When Jessica and Don left for Colorado, I was pretty sure the good times left with them.  However, they visited often, and it really felt like they never left.

On one particular visit home, Jessica brought along 3 other fabulously talented friends from her school.  The presence of my guitar was requested at this evening gathering.  Feeling a little nervous in front of her new friends, I played a quirky folk song or two for the singers, violin guy, and concert pianist.  Then violin guy picked up the guitar and played some much more complicated Dave Matthews and Led Zeppelin songs.  What was classical violin guy doing, knowing how to play hippy dippy music?  My iconoclast hustle wasn't working the way it usually did.  Although I loved what he played, I felt outdone and didn't dare pick up the guitar for the rest of the night. 

The next day, the same group gathered for a sunny afternoon of swimming at Jess's pool, and they wanted me to bring the guitar again.  They asked me to sing Bobby McGee.  Right when I wanted to lock up the guitar forever, Jessica told me that she and her friends decided something the night before.  I was ready for their scholarly advice.  Maybe they thought I should take some classes in flamenco.  Perhaps an etude or two could supplement my standard crappy Joan Baez songs.  Jessica took a deep breath, looked at her friends (who were looking at me intensely), and said, "We have decided that we could listen to you sing the phone book!"  Of course these people were just as nice as Jessica.  She wouldn't waste her time with anything but. 

Luckily, I still have a lifeline to Jessica, since her mom and dad have a home in the burbs.  I hear from her now and then, weddings, trips, milestones, etc.  It's nice to have her in my life--she is a friend who can easily pick up where we left off.  I hope to see her again soon. 

Introducing Zach

Ah, yes, the last of the high school boyfriend blogs has come.  As horrible as I am at staying friends with the horde1 of exes, Zach not only befriended me on the 'Space, but he initiated a follow up phone call, which was pretty amicable.  I mean, after 14 years, if you can't be friendly, then, well...  then you're probably a lot like me.  Needless to say, I have been racking my brain trying to think of the perfect anecdote to share about my first major boyfriend.  On to the blog.

My junior year, Zach was a new student from Georgia.  He played soccer.  He drove a red pickup truck.  He somehow found himself lunching with my crowd rather than the super-cool soccer peeps.  The first time I remember really hanging out with Zach was at my stepdad's 40th birthday party2.  He was dressed as the jock.  After all of my friends left for the night, and the party was winding down, Zach and I found ourselves alone on the back deck, trusted with the task of emptying the keg.  If we had been really boring teenagers, we would have guzzled a ton of suds and let our raging hormones take over, but we didn't.  We just chatted, laughed nervously, and that was that. 

That same month, I was performing in Kiss Me Kate in theater, and I was singing Led Zeppelin's "Going to California" in guitar class.  Zach came to one night of the musical, and I think we went out for coffee afterward.  What I didn't realize until he reminded me later in our relationship, is that he wore a purple shirt because it was my fave color, and he fast forwarded his Led Zeppelin tape to the exact moment Robert Plant sings, "To find a queen without a king, they say she plays guitar and cries and sings," so that when we got in the truck, that is the first thing we would hear.

I was not the typical soccer player's girlfriend, and I was painfully aware of that.  The girls' and boys' teams were on this upper eschelon of cool that I could never achieve with my handpainted guitar case, geeky choir get-up, and inexhaustible mental database of Monkees repertoire.  I fantasized that jocks were born with the psychic ability to predict where the wild parties were held, innate fashion sense, and enough charm to talk their papers up from a B- to a solid A3.  This cool deficiency deemed that our relationship was to be short-lived.  Alas, we had some good times together, and in addition to teaching me some important lessons in life, he was truly kind on many occasions.  I don't know if, to this day, he gives himself enough credit for being a nice guy.  I have seen it, though. 

1. Okay, maybe not a horde, but definitely enough to form a basketball team.2. See "Introducing Aaron"3.I was never privy to a single wild party in high school, wore jean jackets way past their expiration date, and was so fearful of my teachers that I would take whatever grade they gave me, no questions asked.    

Introducing Georgette

Marky and I walked past the produce section this evening when a pro-veggie poster caught our eye.  The sign read, "Sneak A Snack!"  It's the kind of catchphrase you can't help but verbalize. 

We walked to the bread aisle muttering "Sneak A Snack.  Sneakasnack," and I had deja vu. 

"Snicker Snack.  One two, one two, and through and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack!"  I recited. 

"What is that nonsense?!" Marky demanded. 

I'm not much of a poem reciter.  But I know me some Jabberwocky.  It's the heroic nonsense poem from from Alice in Wonderland, and I not only performed an arrangement of it in the Highland Concert Choir, but Turtle (our commando theater director/narcotics agent, who really preferred to be addressed as "John," but for the purpose of this colorful story, he shall remain "Turtle") also inserted this poem throughout a night of one-act plays.  The one acts were sadly forgettable.  I have zero recollection of the plotlines, much less the names of the pieces.  However, Georgette, I, and another actor performed Jabberwocky in various styles between them. 

I opened the night as a hunched over, frail, old woman.  Following Turtle's strict direction, I silently hobbled through the darkness toward center stage at a snail's pace.  Once I finally arrived, I exploded into storytelling, leaping about, and wielding my walking stick as the aforementioned vorpal blade.  Maintaining the hunch, my little old lady was powerful and boisterous.  After the final borogoves and mome raths, the little old lady weakly retreated with the aid of her trusty walking stick. 

Georgette possessed the amazing ability to defy gender onstage.  Don't get me wrong--I say this in the spirit of admiration.  She is really be a lovely flower (I have super girlie pics of us from prom), but she had the theatrical fortune to strip down and pass for a dude.  George stood behind a pulpit and preached her Jabberwocky as a vestment-clad southern preacher man.  It was funny and stirring.  This was the gem of the evening.  She banged her fists, thrust her finger in the air, wiped the sweat from her brow.  Royal purple raglan sleeves danced as she lunged to and fro.  Not a single performance went by without at least one "Amen" or "Hallelujah" from the audience.  Against Turtle's insistance, everyone sneaked out from backstage to watch George in all her Carrollian majesty.  Her performance never got old.  You never knew how the audience would react, so every night was a little different. 

Of all of the plays, choir pieces, guitar etudes, and trigonometric equations I memorized in high school, Jabberwocky is what I took with me.  And it is largely due to Georgette.  I hope she still remembers it, too.   Hopefully she recites it to her baby, who will undoubtedly inherit her mother's wonderful sense of humor.