Trying To Keep a Low Profile in Paris

The sign read, "Regardez-vous ici!" I looked, but couldn't see anything. So I tried to look even closer.



The gendarmes de L'Hotel des Invalides told me I was the first person to fall for their little trick in a long, long time. One visit from paramedics and one stern warning by the Paris police later, and we were on our way.



The morning after the aforementioned dinner at Georges. The waiter had warned me that the veal might give me gas, but had I known how MUCH, I'd have steered clear. We don't know yet how much the repairs will cost me.



But seriously. Forties, balding, fatting(?). You thought I was kidding?



dassall!

Un Americain dans Paris

This is a shot of one of the many statues "carved" into Notre Dame, near the left-side door as you look at it from my earlier photo. I know it's supposed to be viewed somberly, but it just tickled me. Had to take the shot and share.




Georges Pompidou Center, home of the Musee National d'Art Moderne, and of the restaurant, Georges, where a smaller group of us had dinner Thursday evening. We had a great waiter, Julian, who spoke great English. I know, it sounds very arrogant of me, but the French I've studied to this point has not carried me very far. I had the veal chop. It was okay, but the soup and the chocolate "cake" I had, before and after, respectively, were quite, quite yummy!




A view of the city from the top floor of the Georges Pompidou Center, through a window. Here you can see the Eiffel Tower and, atop it, the huge searchlight the French army uses to find citizens trying to escape the city without their berets and cigarettes. Those who are caught are tied to a post in a public square where they are clubbed with a baguette, and taunted by an Englishman.




This photo, taken at the entrance to Le Chateau Versailles, marks the debut of my image on my blog. I know it looks like I've suffered muscle atrophy in my left hand, but I'm just waving to the camera (not the one in my other hand) while holding on to a handkerchief. As you can see by the photo, the sun was shining brightly and it was very warm outside


elsewhere.


dassall...more later!

Into Paris

We arrived in Paris three hours late thanks to American Airlines’ inability to provide us with an airworthy plane. It took them three tries, and we had already been loaded onto the first one! Not a great confidence builder!

The flight sucked, and for someone who travels on airplanes a lot, it takes quite a bit to earn the description "sucked." The seats were uncomfortable, they showed two movies – October Sky and Ice Princess. I mean, come ON! October Sky is like six years old! And Ice Princess?! It’s a Disney movie. And not even a good one!

Since we were so late, our prearranged shuttles to our hotels were gone. The company with whom transport had been arranged sent a bus to take us all and drop us at our respective hotels. My wife and I and two of my co-workes are at au Manoir Saint Germain des Pres. I would post a photo, but you can Google their website and see much better photos than I could provide. It’s a decent place, certainly not a luxury hotel, but the rats aren’t so big as to be of concern.

I’M KIDDING! They’re HUGE!

Our first organized event was dinner at Altitude 95 on the Eiffel Tower. It was fairly standard fare, but “fairly standard” by Paris terms is pretty good. We had an appetizer of gravlax. I love salmon, but I’m not a huge fan of smoked salmon. This smoked salmon, however, was outstanding! The best description I can formulate is “creamy.” It melted in my mouth. The main course was beef tenderloin with haricots vertes. The filet was pretty good; I’ve had better. The green beans tasted like they were sautéed in a pound of butter…and that means they were fantastic! Dessert was an upside-down apple pie with ice cream (French vanilla, of course!) It was okay.

The owner of our company then invited us all up to the top of the Tower for an after dinner sojourn. We made it to the second level, froze our nipples off, and decided that we had enough.

Today, Wednesday, my wife and I scoped out tonight’s activity and restaurant location, and then took a leisurely stroll – well, as leisurely a stroll as one can take when one’s nipples, frostbitten from the previous evening, are freezing once again – to Notre Dame. I had been there in 2002 on a work trip and had only seen the outside. Today my wife and I went inside to look around and take photos. They caught us and made us put the photos back. I am atheist, but for some reason I love cathedrals. There must be an architect’s blood mixed in the soup running through my veins.

This evening’s event was a Seine river tour on Les Bateaux Vedettes, where we chugged past the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, to mention but a couple, and dinner was at Ze Kitchen Galaries. I had roast piglet. Cooked baby bovine has the name “veal,” but I don’t know what baby pig is. The menu read “porcelet.” It was good, but the taste of the fish my wife had made me sorry I ate off the land.

That’s the first two days of our trip. I hope to send more. Time has been an issue, and I’m only able to post now because I couldn’t sleep tonight.


dassall!

And we're off!

Leaving the house in minutes for the airport and to Paris. I will try to post a journal -- hopefully with photos, even -- as we go along!

Au revoir!

The Feast

I am not a cook. I can grill a mean salmon filet. I can rotisserie the spit out of a chicken. If it's nuke-able, I can nuke it. But when it comes to the skill to actually blend flavors and make sauces and do French things like sauteé and flambé...WITHOUT destroying the kitchen in a violent fireball, that ain't me.

So, when I said to my wife as this holiday season approached that I wished to honor the invitation to my sister's home on Christmas day, she said she wanted to be able to see her family this holiday season, too. It was agreed that we would gather with her family on Christmas Eve. At our house. Since her brother was making ham for his family on The Day, we had to come up with something other than ham, and since we all had Thanksgiving leftovers that lasted until a week ago, nobody wanted turkey. A thought swam up into my head and I suggested Cornish hens.

"Hey! Great idea!" she said. "Haven't had that in a long time," she said. "You cook," she said.

The local grocery mega-chain, to my good fortune, had them on sale. Using my fingers I determined how many mouths we had to feed, so I bought ten birds, which, if every person ate one, would leave one for sandwi... ehrm, for a sandwich ...later.

I consulted our copy of The Joy of Cooking for some idea as to how I was going to do this. My wife has the knack, has the experience to grab a handful of spices, fling them into the pan, and ZOOT! whatever was in the pan with the spices comes out tasting like the grand prize winner at a cooking contest! Me, I have to read the ingredients list intently and measure to the letter. Or number, I guess, in this case.

On top of choosing an entree I had never tried to cook before, I had decided I wanted a basic bread stuffing with it. Again, the wife said, "Good idea...you do it."

So, on Christmas Eve morning I began preparations for creating this meal I call havoc. Of course the first event was the scavenger hunt for the spices. My wife squirrels them away in three different places. Parsely, sage, thyme. No, no rosemary, but you're humming that tune, now, aren't you? So was I. Cut up the loaf of Italian bread. Throw the chunks into the oven to toast. Chop up the onion and the celery. I couldn't find any ground black pepper, so when she came down from her sprucing, my wife told me she usually grinds pepper fresh with our dinner table pepper mill. She ground up the 1/4 teaspoon I needed and afforded me the opportunity to sample how much fresher it smelled freshly ground.

Imagine this. You've just finished chopping up a whole onion, your eyes are burning and watering like crazy, and your beloved spouse sticks a teaspoon of pepper under your nose and says, "Smell how fresh?"

Cook up the onion and celery in butter. Mix cooked savories into the toasted bread in a bowl. Add chicken stock. Okay, we had broth. My wife has explained the difference to me on several occasions. It's like learning a language with no verbs. Apparently the difference makes no difference, at least in this recipe. According to my wife.

Prepare a rub for the birds. Salt and pepper thyme. Salt, pepper and thyme, that is. Scoop the stuffing into the birds. Tie their little legs over the hole. I had never done this, and, after a few unsuccessful tries at getting the string to hold, I developed a neat method that works pretty easily. Of course, after I proudly showed my wife how clever I am, she showed me the section in The Joy of Cooking that explains how to properly truss a bird. Well, their legs stayed shut all the same. Baste the birds with melted butter. I am still amazed at how quickly butter melts in a microwave!

Then came the dilemma. Well, two. Two dilemmas. Dilemmae? Ten birds. One oven. Three baking pans, one of three-bird capacity, the others of two each. My wife boldly announced to her family that we would be eating in shifts.

We had put in the first two without stuffing - we didn't think we had enough - while we worked on stuffing and trussing the rest. They came out with the proper temperature and clear fluids, but one of them still had some pink when it was cut open. This went on for most of the afternoon, these damn birds lying to us with their selectively clear fluids running from where we pierced them, but then trying to inflict serious gastric difficulties on my in-laws at table. I began to fear they thought it was my intent!

Otherwise all went well. The kitchen had no blast traces. Wife and I ate in the last shift, which, it turns out, was actually a relaxing way to do it. The pressure to get everything on the table, cooked and ready, all at once, was off of us. The responsibility to leave our plates to retrieve forgotten items or guests' drink requests was gone. We were first servants who then were allowed to dine with the guests. And we had the added treat of extra stuffing left over, enough to have filled two of the little birds!

When it was over, when our guests had gone home, I could not believe how tired I was. At the same time, there was this great, relaxing sense of accomplishment. Of course, I don't know if it was because of a dinner well served, or because of the diamond earrings with which I surprised my wife and the knowledge that, no matter what time we turned in for the night, we wouldn't be going to sleep any time soon!!

And I think I have the distinct pleasure today of knowing that I am the only of my currently small circle of blogging friends to have blogged on christmas day. What does that mean? Everybody else has better things to do today!


dassall!

NastyGram

At the request of Mr. Schprock, and for little more reason than I have not thought of anything to blog about since last week, I post this slightly altered version of my first draft of the letter I will send to the dealership who didn't fix my SUV in my moment of need. As I warned Mr. Schprock, it's probably anti-climactic, and, in any regard, I will edit it further before I send it, so it may arrive at the dealership completely different from what you see below. The names have been changed to protect my ass:




Farrago T. Farragi
123 Notyer Street
Chicago, Illinois 60600




Mr. Bill N. Scruhum
Parts and Service Director
Dumschitz Nissan
4444 West Irving Park Road
Chicago, Illinois 60641

December 12, 2005


Dear Mr. Scruhum,

On Thursday evening, December 8, 2005, I suffered a minor mishap, resulting in a broken tail-light on my 2002 Nissan Xterra, which my wife and I purchased at Dumschitz Nissan in December, 2001. As I had to work the next day, I did not wish to risk incurring a traffic citation by driving the vehicle in its damaged and illegal condition.

On Friday December 9, 2005, at approximately 8:40 a.m. I called our usual auto repair establishment, Reliable Auto Repair Center, hopeful that they could get my vehicle in that morning. I was, however, informed that they were too busy to fit me in. As this was a minor emergency, I then called the Service Department at Dumschitz Nissan at approximately 8:45 a.m. I had hoped to salvage at least half the day and be in to work by early afternoon. I inquired of the young man on the other end of the phone line, whom I know only as Stosh, if your service department could get my vehicle in the same day for the repair. Stosh consulted a schedule and confirmed that Dumschitz’s Service Department could indeed get me in that same morning. He asked me when I could get the vehicle to your location, and I told him I could have it there by 9:30.

After I arrived at Dumschitz Nissan, and my Xterra was being processed into your system, I noticed the sign on the wall that informed customers of your “inspection fee” of $95. I understood what the sign meant and, as this was an emergency for me, I accepted it. Since I had the vehicle there, I also asked Stosh to have someone take a look at the driver’s door switch, as it no longer indicates when the headlights have been left on or when the keys are in left in the ignition. I was explicit with him that I wanted only an estimate where the door switch was concerned.

When Stosh completed the inspection order, I asked him if I should wait in the Dumschitz Nissan customer lounge, or if it would be a wait substantial enough that I should go home. He indicated that it could be quite a long wait, so I decided to take public transportation home.

At approximately 11:30 a.m. Stosh called and informed me that the part needed to repair my Xterra, a right side tail-light assembly, was not in stock at your location, nor was it in stock anywhere in the vicinity of Dumschitz Nissan, and that, due to the recent heavy snow of December 8, getting the part delivered to Dumschitz Nissan would take until Tuesday of the following week at the earliest.

Stosh’s news troubled me deeply. That I would not make it in to work at all that day, there was no doubt. But there were responsibilities and obligations that I could not miss on Monday and Tuesday. I asked Stosh if there was absolutely no way around this, and he told me that indeed there was not.

Feeling on the verge of panic, I once again called Reliable Auto Repair Center and, hoping against hope, I asked them if they could possibly get their hands the part I needed for my Xterra. After a few moments on hold, Andy, the owner, came back to me and said that he could get the part, “No problem.”

Thinking he had some secret supply system, I told him that I was amazed, for I had just been told by Dumschitz Nissan that there was no such part within easy reach until Tuesday or Wednesday of the next week.

Andy laughed out loud and told me that when he had put me on hold, he had called Dumschitz Nissan to inquire about the part, and Dumschitz had told him they had it in stock. He told me that he would have the part delivered on Saturday morning, and he could get me in then to install it.

I returned to Dumschitz Nissan where I was charged $105 for the inspection of the faulty “smart entrance control unit”: the $95 inspection fee plus $7.60 for “shop supplies” and $1.87 for “EPA waste removal.” I understand and accept the charge of $95 to pay for your technicians’ time, but SHOP SUPPLIES? WASTE REMOVAL? What consumable supplies are required to determine that a switch or a circuit is operating improperly? What waste that would concern the Environmental Protection Agency is generated by determining that a switch or circuit is operating improperly? Did you charge me for a technician’s bathroom break? Were it not for my emergency, and Stosh’s promise that he could get me in that morning, I would not have bothered with getting the “smart entrance control unit” checked. I spent the better part of the day confident that my more immediate problem was being solved, but instead it was wasted waiting for you to tell me that you didn’t have a part that it turns out you had all along.

The next day, Saturday December 10, 2005, I took my Xterra to Reliable Auto Repair Center where Andy, who had received the right rear tail lamp assembly from Dumschitz Nissan earlier that morning, replaced my damaged tail lamp within two minutes of my arrival.

I notice on the tail lamp replacement estimate from Dumschitz Nissan that the price you charge for the part is $161, and the labor to replace it is $48. Reliable Auto Repair Center charged me only $122.68 for the same part, and $10 labor to install it. It appears not only that you charge mysterious and unnecessary shop fees, but you apply at least a 30% surcharge to your service customers for items from your own parts store, and your labor charges are extortive.

Mr. Scruhum, when my wife and I bought our Xterra at Dumschitz Nissan, it was the most pleasant car buying experience either of us has ever been through. But this most recent “service” has soured our opinion of the entire operation at 4444 West Irving Park Road. You missed your “#1 Goal” by 100%. Unless you can give me a coherent, viable explanation of why your service department wasted my time by telling me that the replacement part my vehicle needed was unavailable when, the very next day, my preferred -- that's PREFERRED -- mechanic was able to have it delivered FROM DUMSCHITZ NISSAN'S PARTS STORE, then you can look upon the $9.47 of frivolous fees you charged me as the last Dumschitz Nissan will ever get from us, and you can count on my recommendation to others to steer clear of your operation.

Sincerely,
Farrago T. Farragi



dassall

The (Lack of) Service Department

So, after my Thursday evening garage mishap, I called Friday morning to my local, favorite auto repair place to see if they could get me in to repair the tail light. The owner of the place said that they were too busy to get me in. Try Saturday. I should have just waited and taken it to him on Saturday.

Instead, I called the dealer from where we bought the vehicle. I asked if they could get it in the same day, and the young man in the service department on the other end of the line consulted his schedule and determined that, yes, he could indeed get me in. When could I bring it in? I looked at the clock on the microwave. 8:47am. "I can have it there by 9:30." Nine-thirty it is, then, he said. See you then.

I drove over to... for fear of potential legal repercussions, let's call them Dumschitz Nissan (but I will tell that they're the only Nissan dealer in Chicago on Irving Park Road between N. Kenneth Ave. and N. Kilbourn Ave). As they were processing my car -- writing down the VIN, license plate number, counting the tires -- I noticed this sign above the service desk that reads, in essence, that, no matter what they do to my car, there will be a minimum "inspection fee" charge of half the flat labor rate of $95. Okay, well, this IS an emergency. I needed the car back on the road by Monday. I also asked them to take a look at a little annoyance with the driver's side front door dome-light button. Seems the car won't tell me when I still have the keys in the ignition when I open the driver's door. They said they'd take a look at it.

About two hours went by before the service dude at Dumschitz called me. But since I'd taken the day off, I'd gotten back into my jammy pants at home, so my phone rang unnoticed on the belt of my jeans upstairs. About two hours after he called I noticed, so I called him back. "Yes, sir, we don't have that part in stock right now, and nobody in the area has one. Even if they did, the roads as they are (we just had a big snowstorm) makes it really tough. We won't be able to get it in until next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. Would you like me to order the part for you and schedule you for service next week, sir?"

I told him to wait. I called my favorite place and asked the question I SHOULD have asked when I called him the first time (but I had thoughts that I could make it in to work by noon), "Can you get me in tomorrow?" I've known they have Saturday hours since I started bringing our cars there. I also asked him, "Can you get your hands on an '02 Xterra right side tail light?" He said to hold on a minute. When he came back on the line he said that, yeah, he could get the part no problem. So I said, "That's funny. The guy at Dumschitz Nissan said nobody in the area had it." Then he laughed. He told me that Dumschitz is the place he just called, and they said they have it!

He told me to come in Saturday morning and he would take care of it. I took public transportation back to Dumschitz Nissan, paid $105 for them to tell me they didn't have the part and that the problem with the door switch is the most expensive of the potential problems. Then this morning I went to the reliable guy who had the part from Dumschitz Nissan, and, embarrassingly, he replaced the tail light housing outside in the freezing cold, in full view of everyone in the lobby, in approximately one minute.

Tomorrow I will spend part of the day crafting my nasty letter of complaint to the service manager at Dumschitz Nissan. It's a shame, too, because they were the best new car dealer experience my wife and I have ever ...um... experienced.

Random Thoughts

Screaming Fuck
I did this to our SUV last night. After driving 25 miles in heavy snow over mostly unplowed roads, and avoiding contact with the hundreds of cars sharing the roads with me, I finally got home, safe and sound, only to back into the garage -- quite literally! The SUV is an '02 model with almost no dings or scratches otherwise, so you can imagine how loudly I was screaming "FUCK!"

So I had to take a sick day off from work so I could get the damn taillight replaced so I don't get pulled over and ticketed. In a world where other people drive with one
headlight missing and the other dangling out of its socket, with red saran wrap stretched over the brake lights, and they seem never to be seen by the cops, I know damn well that if I put this off for one minute, the next time I'm on the road I'll get pulled over.

And of course, there's the damage to the garage. It's minor -- very minor -- but it still means calling a handyman out to fix it, and then paying the guy. I could try to do it myself, but those in the world who have ever seen me use a saw and hammer and nails know that the finished job in my hands could come out looking worse than the original damage!

I should consider myself lucky that it wasn't worse, as it could have been. I could have hit our other car, the "little" car. Or I could have been squashed by a plane sliding onto the roadway outside the perimeter of an airport. Or I could have had a fatal heart attack as the car burst into flames around me, igniting the garage, burning it and the other car and me to cinders and molten metal. So, yeah. I know it could have been worse.

Scary World
This morning, as I walked toward public transportation after dropping my car off at the dealer from whom we bought it to get the taillight replaced (which I have since discovered they can't do until next week!), I happened upon a restaurant and, having had no breakfast, I decided to pop in for a bite. I ordered corned beef hash and eggs, but they didn't measure up. As I sat there, however, I looked out the window and noticed a black man outside on the sidewalk wearing a backpack on his back. It was a large pack, seemingly quite full of whatever. He entered the restaurant and made his way toward the back of the place to a table there, I presume, though he may have headed for the bathroom. No one in the place aside from me, as I am aware, took notice of him. By itself, it was a non-incident. But, taken in the context of today's news headlines, specifically a recent one from the island paradise of Bali, it makes one realize how truly vulnerable we are to the actions of even just one crazed, determined individual. The sort of suicide bombing of the likes of those in Bali and daily in Iraq have not occurred here, but I fear it is just a matter of time. It is enough, it is too much, that attacks the likes of 9/11 DID happen here, but I don't think we've seen the last of terror within our borders.


dassall

The Call of the Road

As my faithful readers, you know that my job calls for a lot of travel. In some senses it’s my dream job. When I didn’t have a job that required travel, and I encountered someone – my brother, for instance – who did, I was deeply envious of that person. Whenever I applied for a job that promised or threatened “some” or “frequent” travel, my mouth watered and my palms got sweaty. It must be borne of my youth when, as one of a poor, large family, we traveled only rarely, and then only by car. I thoroughly enjoyed sitting in the back seat looking out the window at the world surrounding the interstate, and I thought about how fantastic it must be to work as a truck driver, to be able to see the country as a by-product of your profession. It was one of the jobs I wanted to have as a little boy dreaming of when I’d be a grown-up.

The emotional zenith of my teenage years is the day I earned my driver’s license. I had spent my youth in the passenger seat of my father’s pickup truck watching as he manipulated the stick-shift, the “three-on-the-tree,” as the steering column-mounted manual gear-shift was known. By the age of ten I knew how to drive a stick-shift. I never drove a car until I was 16, but I played make-believe enough in my father’s truck to know I had the rhythm down. When I received my license I couldn’t wait to drive a car with a manual transmission. I couldn’t wait to make a road trip on my own. I always volunteered my (parents’) car and to drive when my high school friends were gathering, and we’d pile eight or nine of us into it to get to a cast party or our favorite pizza place.

In the military I couldn’t volunteer fast enough to train on the “deuce‘n a half,” the workhorse two-and-a-half ton truck, the 44-passenger bus (think typical school bus) and later, the M-925 five-ton truck, even though it has an automatic transmission. The opportunities to drive were few, but the desire was strong

During the down-time I would decompress on the road. I’d hop into my car and drive for hours, just seeing the environs, willingly getting lost on my way to finding my way back to where I started.

After a few episodes of real-world driving, the luster of a truck driving career wore off a little when I learned first-hand that maneuvering one of those lumbering beasts through narrow German streets and heavy traffic was a certain sweat-inducer, that backing into a narrow spot was mentally akin to an unpleasant dental procedure, and I grew a new respect and awe for the guys who drive trucks every day.

As things go, my interests evolved into the realm of the creative. I grew more comfortable surrounded by things electronic rather than things mechanic. I was consumed by the visual arts and was determined to make my mark on the world in that manner.

My post-military strategy broke down into an hierarchy of plans, each subsequent one contingent upon the failure of the antecedent: Plan A - to be discharged honorably from the military and then enroll at a university and earn my degree, and then embark on a career in television. Plan B: embark on a career in television, degree be damned! Plan C: become a police officer. Plan D: truck driver. So the itch never fully left me. Plan A would suffice provided I could drive to work every day.

As I lived Plan A I slowly drifted from any interest in driving a truck for a living, even if the bottom were to fall out of my life. Then, when I started my current job, there was stated a requirement that I study, test for, and earn my commercial driver’s license for the purpose of driving the company’s large box-truck (think the biggest furniture store delivery truck you’ve seen, and then add six feet of length). I was all for it until I had a glimpse of the future in which the job for which I was hired was subjugated to the company’s need for their truck and its contents to be two time zones away in a matter of days. I didn’t take the job so I could drive a truck, so I reneged on the truck part of the deal, and dragged my feet on getting the permit until they dropped the idea.

That was four years ago.

Today, in a fluke series of events, I wound up riding shotgun on a local errand in the very truck in which I was supposed to train lo, those many years ago. The man driving is new to the task, so I gave him as much advice as I could remember from my few moments of driving in the military and of my stunted training with this company. I looked out the windscreen, and it was as though that gray strip of asphalt before us had reached up into my gut and beckoned me forward, teasing me into the desire to grip that steering wheel, feather that clutch, and head for the wind-blown tundra for exploits untold. The reality would be ugly, but the dream is all about the moment, the thrill of being, the joy of driving, the innocence of a young boy’s vision of the world around him as every experience is new and every turn of the wheel brings a fresh adventure.

The Ache

I was blog surfing and came across this blog, and the entry for 12/5/05 got me to thinking.

Her name was Linda. She was in the year behind mine in high school. She had kind of a big nose and straight, flat, blond hair. Pretty, but I guess not the most attractive girl in her class. I don't know what she had or what she did, but she had me hooked. Of course, she wasn't trying to hook me...as a matter of fact, she didn't WANT to hook me. But there I was, drooling over her like a puppy hoping for a treat.

It went on like that for two and a half years. I had even gotten up the courage to ask her out at the end of my sophomore year, but she said no. Still, I couldn't shake the feelings. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. As a hormone-soaked teenage boy, I couldn't even fantasize about her, so pure was my love for her. I reserved those fantasies for a girl named Jane who, believe it or not, was pretty plain. Jane hated me, so I did really nasty things with her and to her...in my fantasies. But Linda was always kind to me, laughing at my jokes and my silliness, stoking that flame that burned for her deep inside my aching chest.

During my senior year she started dating a boy from her own class, someone who participated in the same extra-curricular activity that Linda and I and all my closest friends did. He was already near the bottom of the list of people I liked, so when they started dating he was easily transferred to my list of enemies.

Midway through the second semester they broke up. I had started seeing a girl, but the feelings just weren't there for me. When Linda became free again (I like that... free "again" at 16) I was that drooling puppy all over again. But it was different. I was different. I had become the image of my pain: brooding, sullen, withdrawn. One day Linda asked me "What's the matter?"

My answer really threw her: "You."

That touched off a long conversation about how I felt about her and, a few days later, while driving her home after an activity, she grabbed my hand on the car seat. And the ensuing five months were a daily reminder of how mismatched we really were. I was jealous, suspicious. She was still pining for her previous boyfriend. No, really, she was. That's the only part I was right about. We went to the Prom together. We made out a few times, a couple of frantic gropes, and then we barely saw each other the entire summer after I graduated.

I had begun the unfortunate habit of driving past her house -- or worse, sitting in front of her house -- every night as a result of my waiting for her to call me, which she never did, until one evening when I saw her get into the car of her previous boyfriend. This prompted a call to her the next day -- my birthday -- during which I confronted her about it, and she admitted it, and we broke up.

So the wall went up around my heart. And it stayed there for a solid year before I tried to let anyone in. And then I trusted no one, expected everyone to abandon me, and this way affected every relationship I hoped would become intimate until one day, sixteen years later, I destroyed a relationship -- hell, it was barely a friendship yet -- in fantastic fashion simply through suspicion and mistrust. The wall had a gate, and the gate finally closed. It was settled. I was meant for no one, and no one was meant for me. I had given up.

And that's precisely why I'm married today. The internet re-acquaintance with someone I had known since the eighth grade was something which, in the past, I would have tried to cultivate, develop, and then, because it wasn't going the way I thought it should, would foster suspicion and jealousy, and then I would destroy and think it wasn't my fault. This time I kept my distance. But in staying back I was able to relax and be myself, which won HER heart.

But this isn't about my wife. I love her dearly, trust her deeply, and I'm not the least bit worried about her straying. It's a wonderfully nice feeling to be secure. But secure isn't that heady, first hill on a roller-coaster sensation that makes you think you'll scream, cry, or wet your pants.

What this is about is first loves. I'm in my 40s now and, as you could probably tell by my telling (?!), the events with Linda are to me as though they occurred yesterday. The pain and the heartache, the anger and despair I felt as a kid then still bubble up when I recall the image of her getting into that car. I should hate her for what she did to me, but I don't.

I often find myself wondering what she's doing today. What became of her? Who did she marry? How many kids? I wonder if she ever thinks about me, if she allows herself not to think of me as a stalker, as the term applies today, but rather that sweet, sad, dumb kid who didn't know anything about how to make her happy. The kind of happy I hope she is now.

What this reminiscence about first love does for me, however, is make me realize that, though Linda was the first girl I loved, my wife is the first (and only!) girl that ever loved me. After Linda and about a half dozen girls on whom I blamed my faults, I never thought I'd find someone who fills me, who completes me, who makes me feel right.

But here I am.

Indie Flick

Okay, so my favorite blogger posted one of these on her blog, and I was compelled by envy to do the same.

The Movie Of Your Life Is An Indie Flick

You do things your own way - and it's made for colorful times. Your life hasn't turned out how anyone expected, thank goodness! Your best movie matches: Clerks, Garden State, Napoleon Dynamite

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

At least I'm not a horror flick. Or gay porn.


dassall!

Paris inattendu

I work at a small company. The owner of this company is fairly aloof and secretive, especially around the topic of the other companies he owns or owns parts of. He's a very focused man. If what you have to say doesn't apply directly to the situation of the moment, he doesn't listen to you. He doesn't even hear you. It is difficult at times to work with him or for him. But he owns the company, on payday he moves the money from his account to ours, and the checks have never bounced. And, in the 5 years that I've been here I've discovered that he bonuses us in our 401(k) plans when times are good (and they've been good), and he's given us life insurance policies on his dime. But still, it's difficult to like the man.

He has owned this company for over 25 years, starting as a very young man. Yet he made very little mention of his longevity in an industry that has largely dried up in Chicago. Then one day in early November of 2004 he acted strangely. It was a Friday, and I had been asked to drop off a package to one of our clients whose offices were sort of on my way home. They closed their doors a half hour before we close ours, so I had to leave the office early, and my supervisor had given the okay for me to just head home after the delivery. I walked past the owner's office and, rare as it was, his door was open. I poked my head in and said an obligatory, "Good-bye," and "Have a nice weekend," and he became very animated.

"Are you leaving now?" he asked.

He's a bit of a stickler for putting in your time. He hates clock-watchers, those who come in right on the dot at 8:30 and leave on the dot at 5:30, so, as it was 4:30, I felt compelled to tell him I was dropping off something for a client.

He brushed that off. "Don't leave, yet. I have something for you to take home. I'll meet you at your car."

When you have no history of personal interaction with somebody, and then suddenly he's arranging private time with you, you might get a little nervous, like I did. I went out to the car, but then realized I had forgotten something at my desk, so I went inside. He saw me and thought I was being impatient, and he repeated that he would meet me out in the parking lot.

It was an unseasonably warm day for November, so I sat in the car with the windows open, wondering if he had devised a really new, different, exceptionally cruel way of firing me. He walked up, placed a small, green, lunch-sized bag on the passenger seat, and said "Don't open this until you get home. Then, when you open it, call me."

WTF?! He's going to fire me by bag? I drove to the client's office building, walked the half-mile from the parking garage to their office, dropped off the package, and finished the mile round trip back to the car. I got in and stared for a few moments at the bag and thought to hell with it! I opened the bag and inside was an envelope and a book about Maui. We had been to Maui on the job earlier in the year, so I thought nothing of it, perhaps something from the client as a thank you. I opened the envelope to find a card inside. The first printed paragraph read something to the effect that in order for a company to survive for 25 years, it takes good, loyal, hard-working people. The second paragraph read "You are invited to join [my wife] and me in Maui December 27th to January 1...."

As noted earlier, it was an unusually warm day for November, so when I got back in the car I had rolled the windows down again, which allowed my exclamation of "HOLY FUCK!" to echo and reverberate throughout the entire parking garage! It was awfully close to quitting time, so someone must have heard me. My hands flew up to my mouth when I heard my voice coming back to me. I reread and reread the card to make sure I understood it clearly, that it wasn't referring to "The Maui Gardens" restaurant in some hokey northern Illinois town.

I arrived home and showed my wife the bag, which I had repacked as original, save for the opened envelope. Her reaction was quiet disbelief. She was waiting to hear the "but," the punchline to the joke. The only "but" was that there wasn't one. He was taking all of his employees and their immediate families to Maui for a week at New Year's!

I called him, as instructed, and he told me that he felt he had the best staff now than he ever had since he started the business. This was a one time deal to celebrate 25 years of success, a huge thank you to the people who worked hard, kept the company together, and who happened to be here on its 25th birthday.

The trip was cool. There were company-hosted dinners, but activities were on our dime. My wife and I got his 'n hers mani- & pedicures, caught an awesome, if distant, shot of a whale breaching, and took a stupid, crazy, funny, COLD drive up to Haleakala Crater. My wife, who had never been there prior to the trip, definitely wants to go back in the future.

Sooner than we wanted, the trip was over, and we went back to our regular lives.

This year I was looking forward to our usual holiday dinner, hosted by my boss and his wife, usually at some nice, out of the way place, where we're free to order anything on the menu, and drink just about as much as we dare. Then one day this past October, after one of our work trips, I took a Monday off. Something occurred at the office that required me to come in briefly to take care of it. I stopped at my desk and found resting atop it a colorful box, the kind that folds closed at the top to form a little handle. I opened it and discovered inside little chocolates and cookies wrapped in packages with designer-type names on them. And a card.

I opened the card only to discover two messages, each printed on paper and pasted onto the inside of the card, facing each other, each in French. The others in the office had already gotten theirs, and someone had already run the text through an online translation site, and handed me the transcript. One was a poem, the other was the message of import. It basically read, "Thank you for another tremendous year. Without the hard work and dedication of our staff, we couldn't do it. Please come with us for a week in Paris December 26th to January 2...."

I looked at my co-worker and said, "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me! What happened to the 'one-time deal?'" My worry is that the boss will establish a precedent, and next year, when we just go back to the holiday dinner, people will be pissed off that we're not going someplace exotic or romantic or cool. But, in the meantime, we're going to Paris! (and yes, the one in France, not Illinois). In a job that requires a heavy travel schedule, one might think the gift of travel would be hard to swallow.

It's getting difficult not to like the man.



dassall