u s e y o u r h a n d s

Oh my God! I’m in the Grind Cafe on Lincoln in Lincoln Square and I’m watching the cutest thing ever. Two quirky looking people, exchanging numbers, and getting flushed with something that is definintely not the heat. The vehicle for beginning the conversation? She commented on his longboard.

Oh, adorable. The fumbling for a piece of paper, the exchange. !!!!

I want to be a yenta.

Lately, when I’ve been aggravated with or bemused by a co-worker, I’ve taken to imagining them (when I have knowledge sufficient to do so) as children. The tall female executive who exudes a lack of confidence that can’t be unrelated to her time as an adolescent ballet dancer, trying so hard to fly with a body of substance and always, always falling short. Or the young girl who seems so tormented by the possibility of rejection that she’s all artifice, like Magic Shell over melting ice cream.

And this is what I did when I popped in a VHS tape I’d picked up from the local library. “Martha Stewart’s Entertaining: Buffets.” I know Martha’s story: daughter of an alcoholic dad, make-the-best-of-it-mom, sister to, like, six siblings, model, stockbroker, caterer, divorcee, wife, mogul. But watching her on this tape, filmed in 1988, made me see something else in her — an incrediblly scared, very small girl striving for acceptance through excellence.

The video is also — once your overlook Martha’s breathy delivery, twitchy camera contact and “Runaway Bride” eyes — fucking hilarious. Martha advises her viewers to “take your poaching pan with you to the fishmonger’s to ensure you pick a fish of the proper length.” You could do that, MS, or you could just measure the fucking pan. You know, whatevs. Or at the end of the video, when Martha is showing us how to set a festive, fun table. She recommends mixing up linens, flatware, tableware, etc. Which is a great idea, but Marth’ mixes up a set of French Bakelite, vintage linen napkins, a hand-made tablecloth, rose glass, and crystal. For a party on the deck. But nothing is funnier than when the Mar-vel states that “a fun way to serve a dessert buffet is in a cart” which she wheels out, two or three times bigger than a wheelbarrow and filled with hay, statice and roses.

Each little touch, carefully rehearsed and thought through, did indeed present a lovely picture. Yes, adding a little gelatin atop your salmon studded with mandolined cucumber and radish slices does add shine. And thank you, Martha, I appreciate you planting the idea in my head to wrap a porn loin with leek bows. But you poor lady, you never mention what any of the food tastes like, or if your guests will feel relaxed and ready for fun. Like you can will peace, success and love if you just move heaven and earth to create three perfect dinner party hours. The effort is laudable, though the goal is not at all attainable.

And her recipes are boring and bloodless. Her only talent is wrapping paper, spun sugar, fog.

We need to put in a fence and get new windows installed on the porch. Anybody got an in at Andersen or Pella?

I love reading the Sun-Times. It’s the newspaper for the people, compared to the quite Republican Tribune.

I came into work incredibly early today, feeling so nauseated. I picked up the ST in the lobby and sat down in our kltchen, eating my Cosi French Savory sandwich (v. good, btw) with a knife and fork.

There were two articles that struck me deep. And I know I’m extremely sleep-deprived, and as such, sensitive, but here I go:

From Michael Sneed’s column today:

Sue who?

Word the Field Museum’s world famous T. rex named “Sue” might be a boy was minus a response from the dinosaur’s namesake, paleontologist Sue Hendrickson.

So here’s Hendrickson’s response to Sneed.

“When I found her, we assumed it was a male,” said Sue. “A big, robust, heavy-boned macho male, and I told my colleagues they couldn’t name it ‘Sue.’

“They said, ‘Tough! You found it,’ so they sang ‘A Boy Named Sue,’ while they were collecting her.

“Two years later, a potential theory developed that she might be female . . . and I really liked the fact that the biggest, baddest, carnivorous beast ever found that roamed the face of the earth was female.

“There are bigger mammals in the ocean, but no bigger meat eaters. I’m not a feminist, but I like the fact she could stomp all the males. Seriously, I hope before I die they find out whether she’s a female or not.”

Tell us how you really feel, Sue.

Really, Sue? Because I would think that a prominent lady archeologist should feel pround to call herself a feminist. Feminists aren’t crazy man-haters. They’re you.

And then this article:

RALEIGH, N.C. — A college student whose younger sister was murdered more than a decade ago was presented Tuesday with a scholarship from an unlikely source — Death Row inmates from around the country.

Zach Osborne was only 6 years old, and his sister, Natalie, was 4 when she was raped and murdered in 1992. Their mother’s boyfriend, Jeff Kandies, is on North Carolina’s Death Row for the crime.

On Tuesday, Osborne, 19, received a $5,000 college scholarship from the group of inmates who solicited money through their bimonthly publication “Compassion.” Including Osborne’s grant, they have given out seven scholarships worth about $27,000.

“We would like to support him in realizing his dream of becoming an officer of the law and finding a way to prevent future violence,” wrote Dennis Skillicorn, a Death Row inmate in Missouri who is the newsletter’s editor, in the May issue. “Our intent is genuine.”

I think this is a very wise way to use a lifetime wasted in jail, to try to make up, even just slightly, for the fucking incredible agony Death Row inmates put their victims’ families through. There was something about the last line of this article that I very much appreciated.

In other happenings, Alicia Frantz’ visitation was last night. And I couldn’t go because I had to work. I always have to work. Yesterday, I was sitting in our lunchroom thinking and crying about AudibleFrequency. I appreciated Alicia’s talend, dedication and ear. And I felt awful that I don’t have the same loveliness to show for my life.

Alicia’s friends and family have asked that donations be made in her name to the Chicago Anti-Cruelty Society.

For the second time in the past year, a person who I’ve been very proud to have met (and who I’ve been very excited to have link to me) has died.

First, there was Aaron over at Uppity Negro, who killed himself in the lake, a Lady of Shallott, full of pain and promise. I met him a few times, and was glad to have hm cheer me on at the burlesque show.

And now Alicia Frantz of AudibleFrequency.net, who was killed on her birthday in a bike accident. I can only hope she died, flying fast with the wind in her ears, thinking about the next piece she’d put together, the smell of the Chicago June warmth. I think about her final crush, and feel awful that I selfishly realize I’m entering into the age when I begin to lose friends and acquantainces way too fucking early.

I’ve read what her friends have said about her (like Jes Davis of fuckcorporategroceries.net, Ellen, and Atomly) and hope/wish people will also miss me when I go. And at tomorrow’s memorial at Rodan, I’ll celebrate what I knew of Alicia, that seh was nice, that she took her car to Omar on Devon and suggested I do the same, that she was a good friend, and that she was tuned to the aural world in a way that this half-deaf girll can only hope to be.

Alicia, carry on. And her friends, do the same. Blow a dandelion and watch how far the wind carries the spores.

Please attend Alicia’s memorial/fundraiser this Sunday at Rodan in Wicker Park. Celebrate a life very well lived.