Yesterday in Chicago, everywhere I looked, people were celebrating veterans.  Today in Chicago, there was a city-wide celebration of ugly babies.  

Or if there wasn't, there should have been.  They were everywhere.  I think I actually saw an infant with a mustache.  I couldn't be sure because I didn't want to stare.  Or I couldn't be sure because I had been staring so long that its mother took it to the other side of the sidewalk.  I say "it" because I'm really not sure.  Dress that thing in some pastels, next time.

Everyone tries to pretend that all babies are cute.  If the mother is someone you know, you find something on the baby to gush over.  "Oh, he has your nose!"  Meanwhile everyone knows that "your nose" is the kind of nose that has recently been celebrated in Dove commercials focused on real beauty; the kind of nose that left scratch marks in the womb.

If the mother is someone you don't know, you smile politely, try not to cringe, and avoid eye-contact of any kind.

People should just face it - some babies are not cute.  Loveable, yes.  Aesthetically pleasing, no.

I'm not judging - in fact, on the contrary, I'm one of them.  I was born premature and spent the first few months of my life living in a plastic box in which I looked a lot like a cornish hen lying under the fluorescent lights of a grocery store.  My grandpa never lets a birthday go by without mentioning how he remembers, the first time he saw me, thinking how much I looked like an Oscar Meyer Hotdog.  

As I grew I adopted an uncanny resemblance to a white Sam Cassel.  In fact, early pictures of my sister and I look like the Gerber toddler has been kidnapped by and then photographed with a small, pale and disoriented looking alien.  

As I grew I left Sam behind and began to look more like I had acted in the Home Alone trilogy, and today when I took my new license picture I noticed I looked a little like Nicholas Cage.  In fact I think I saw a moment of hesitation when the DMV employee had to circle either male or female.  I'll be lucky if my kids remotely resemble humans.

All that to say that I am certainly not judging ugly babies.  I just think we as a culture need to accept the fact that there is such thing as an ugly baby.  Just like there is such a thing as an ugly cat (the hairless kind) an an ugly dog (the Chinese Crested) and an ugly bird (all of them).  

Embrace it.  If your child looks like Mr. Potato Head, dress him up as one.  If you are the mother of the baby I saw today, who had a head shaped exactly like a pear, start carrying her around in a fruit basket instead of a car seat.  Make it a t-shirt that says "My baby has character."  Character is quirky - quirks are cute - people will do the math.

You love your child no matter what it looks like - everyone else will love your child no matter what it looks like - but everyone will love you a little more if you stop pretending he bears more of a resemblance to the Gerber Baby than he does to Dumbo.

I wrote on Monday about wanting to do something new every day this week.

Apparently, yesterday's "something new" included coming remarkably close to being hit by four different cabs.  It wasn't life or death, but it did get me thinking about the what-ifs.  What if the cabs hadn't seen me in time?  What if I hadn't seen them in time?  What if I were of a slighter build, and was thrown by the force of the cab that hit me instead of throwing the cab back in the direction it came, as if it had struck one of the Budweiser Clydesdales?

And most importantly, what if there were things I'd left unsaid?

So, I'm saying them here - things I should have said a long time ago but didn't.

First, I have the most amazing family and friends that anyone could ask for.  Your encouragement, love, support and humor is what gets me from day to day.  You'll all end up in my acknowledgements. :)

Second, there have been times in the last few years that several of these friends and myself have found ourselves in very similar situations.  At one point or another we've all been called "too nice" - in regards to how we respond to the people who hurt us.  Whether or not this is true is up for debate, but there certainly have been times where I have felt like a doormat - and to the people who have made me, or those I love, feel that way, I have a few things to say to you, too.  Starting with stating the fact that you've all found your way into my novels in some way or another, too ...  

1) When you've spent the better part of a summer texting a girl every 10 minutes, calling her, meeting her family, taking her out, for all intents and purposes dating the girl - and she tells you she has feelings for you - answer her.  For Gods sake, say something.  Anything.  Believe me it took courage for her to say those words to you - it made her vulnerable - and to hear that you don't feel the same way would have hurt a lot less than to find out that you weren't the person she thought you were - that your character wasn't what she thought it was. 

2) When your girlfriend loans you money, it's because she cares about your well being.  Therefore, don't steal that money from her.  More specifically - do not steal from her and then leave the state and refuse to take her calls.  Really, she only wants one of two things:  her money back, and the knowledge that you are, in fact, still alive.

3) If you've been in a committed relationship for two years, vacationing with your ex is somewhat of a no-no.  Especially when you do it twice.  And when said vacation is kept a secret until after the fact.  This is a situation where the phrase "better to ask for forgiveness than for permission" does not apply. 

4) Don't break up with someone: on their birthday, over the phone, via text, via IM, via email, or on their first day of work.  

5) Don't get up and leave in the middle of a first date.  I once sat through a first date where the guy, after gently tucking my hair behind my ear, sat back down, clasped his hands in front of him, bowed his head and said, "Namaste." If I can stay through that date, you can stay through yours.

That's about it, I think.  Oh, and, to the fourth cab-driver who almost hit me - I saw what you were doing in there that took your eyes off the road in front of you, and I would suggest saving that for the privacy of your own home. 

Electronic Yahtzee has no place in the car.

I've only been to the DMV a few times - once when I first got my license almost a decade ago, and then once in college when I'd left my ID at the airport and needed a new one.

I might say I've been avoiding the DMV because of its rude workers, but the truth is, I've been avoiding the task of getting a new license because, in college, I was at my thinnest and tannest - and, well, the picture makes me look pretty good.  I also don't think I could pass for the 115 listed under weight, anymore, either.  

That Wisco ID was my motivator - every morning as I opened my wallet to make sure it was still empty and thus began brainstorming how I would afford my commute today, it inspired me to walk right past the Cinnamon Toast Crunch in favor of a bowl of oatmeal.  One look at it every night was enough to convince me to take the extra five minutes needed to apply a little Jergens Natural Glow, when all I wanted to do was go to bed and remain pale.

But, after my encounter a few weeks ago with that lovely and kind police officer, this morning I grudgingly went to get an Illinois ID.  

I knew this picture was going to be a pretty significant downgrade from my first one, so I attempted to put a little extra effort into my appearance.  Unfortunately it was one of those mornings where my motor skills were, at best, abysmal.  Therefore, in the few moments that my mascara wand remained in my hand before I dropped it several times in a row, I got more of the black stain on my eyelids than on my eyelashes.  I squirted lip gloss onto my toothbrush and came amazingly close to applying toothpaste directly to my lips - needless to say, by the time I walked out the door, there's not really a word for how I looked.

Wait, no, there is.  Terrible.

Add some of that lovely Chicago wind and the fact that I spent my entire commute smashed into a Red Line train like a sardine, nestled relatively comfortably under the armpit of an Asian man who seemed out to beat some kind of former record of longest time ever without showering, and it would be safe to say that I walked into the DMV bearing a remarkable resemblance to one of the Hanson brothers, circa 1996. 

To my surprise, I was first in line and the place was empty.  Awesome, I thought.  This will go really quickly!

"Hi!" I flashed the man behind the counter a huge grin.

He raised his eyebrows at me.  He was probably wondering if at any moment I'd launch into MmmBop. 

"I'm here for an Illinois license," I said instead.  "Is this where I take the test?"

"Birthdate," he said.

Guess so, I answered my own question. 

"January 10th, 1985."

"Proof." He had yet to make eye contact.

"Excuse me?" 

"Proof."

"Do you want me to get my mom on the phone?"

"Passport."  I started to wonder if this man ever strung two words together.  It became my personal goal of the morning to get him to do so.

"I need to show you my passport?" I leaned onto the counter.

"Yes."

"To prove to you my date of birth."

"Yes."

"Are there any other documents I could show you to prove my date of birth?"  I knew there was, but I wanted to see if I could get two syllables out of this guy.

"Yes."  Guess not.

"Ok.  Anything else?" I made a note to bring my passport.

"Yes." he said.

"What else?" Now it was just getting annoying.

"Social."

"Social what?" I knew exactly what he meant, but the fact that he refused to say more than one word was infuriating.  And piquing my curiosity. 

"Security."

"Security what?"  I looked around, wondering if I'd missed some sort of public notice on the door - Please refrain from speaking in lengthy sentences.  Illinois is now taxing word use ... conserve them.  

No such sign, and when I turned back around he just stared at me blankly.  I think he was onto me, but I decided to try one more angle.

"Tell me about yourself," I said.

Nothing.  

"Ok," I cleared my throat.  "So my passport and my social.  security.  number.  Anything else?"

"Residence," he said.

"Sir, I am not dragging my apartment all the way down here..."

"Proof of residence," his colleague stepped in and told me.  I tried to catch her eye, made a few failed attempts at winking - anything to convey to her that of course I knew that, but couldn't leave this counter until I'd gotten her co-worker to utter a complete sentence.  It was my duty, as a writer.  But, she was ignoring me, probably also afraid of my launching into Mmm Bop if she made eye contact, so I gave up.

"Alright," I sighed.  "Do you have a document or something that describes exactly what I need to bring in, so I can make sure I don't forget anything?"

Silently he pushed a piece of paper towards me.  His eyes still hadn't left his computer screen.

"Have a good day," I told him before walking away.

"Dude," he said to his coworker.  "You've gotta come see this." I turned to see him pointing at his computer screen, having a conversation with this woman like a normal human being.  It could just be that due to my appearance he had no interest in conversing with me any more than was absolutely necessary.

I was in a bad mood for almost the entirety of last week.

It must have showed, because strangers were actually avoiding me on the sidewalk - and one homeless man shouted at me "You look like you're ready to kick some a**, girl!!"  I don't know how to account for it, except for that maybe it had something to do with the fact that up until Saturday, it had been a month in a half since I'd seen the sun.

All I know is that I haven't been in a mood that terrible since spring semester of my Freshman year at Arizona, when I had my first and only encounter with seasonal allergies.  I don't remember much about it except that one morning on the way to class I sneezed 27 times in a row - and by sneeze # 15 was so aggravated that I actually kicked gravel at a passing man after he very kindly said, "Bless You," and then flipped the bird to a woman who asked me if I was alright.  Not my proudest moment, and a state of mind I managed to rise above for almost 6 years, at least up until last week.   

I woke up Sunday morning determined to turn over a new leaf.  The sunshine and warm weather helped - and as part of my resolution to overcome my bad mood, I committed to doing one new thing every day for at least the next week.  Sunday morning, that meant participating in a 5K for world hunger with my cousin.  I figured over the past 24 years I've eaten more than my fair share of the worlds food - and since I plan to keep doing so, I'd do a little something to even it out.

Today, that new thing will be an attempt at re-capturing some of the knowledge I used to have of foreign languages.  At this point I've taken two years of French and over nine years of Spanish, and have managed to retain little more than "Hola," "Bonjour," and "cerveza."  But twice in the last month I've wished I'd retained a little more.

The first was a few weeks ago when I was walking down the street, listening to the Nutcracker on my iPod and running through my Christmas list in my head.  I was all set to avoid a group of women who were trying to get my attention and continue walking, and had assumed my usual "I'm busy looking at my phone please don't bother me" stance when one of them reached out and grabbed my arm.  At that point it would have been rude not to stop, so I took out my earbuds and looked at the women expectantly.  Turns out all they wanted was directions to the John Hancock building.  This I had to guess, because they spoke only French, but kept pointing to a drawing of it on a map they had.  I pointed towards it, but when I turned around I realized that it was out of their line of sight.  So that's how I ended up involved in an impromptu game of charades on the corner of Randolph and Michigan - trying my best to mime them to their destination.  Right about the time I'd contorted myself into what I thought looked a lot like the John Hancock building, I decided I would have killed to remember anything from high school French.

And it happened again today, in line at Subway.  Four people in front of me was a woman arguing with the man working on her sandwich.

"I don't want that bread," she told him.  "It's all torn up already."

The man just stared at her.

"I don't want that bread."

The man stared at her.

"You will get me a new piece of bread."

The man walked away. 

"Excuse me," she yelled after him.  "Come back here.  DO NOT walk away from me."  She then made a move like she was about to jump the counter.

At this point the other patrons and I were looking at each other a little anxiously, wondering if we were going to be part of what would become the famed Subway Shooting of 2009.   

The man walked back, and continued to stare at her, as she continued to try and explain to him that she didn't want that particular piece of bread.  It wasn't clear to me whether the man was couldn't speak at all or simply didn't understand her - but I thought the woman was being ridiculous.  Apparently so did the woman in front of me, because she stepped up and explained to him, in Spanish, what was going on.  

Luckily, though I can't speak it, I still understand enough Spanish to have picked up on and be entertained by all the great names she was calling the customer as she did so.

The man nodded, thanked her, and got the woman a new piece of bread.  I smiled as I watched him tear a piece off of it while the woman was distracted pointing at the toppings she wanted, counting on her fingers exactly how many pickles he should put on it.  And again found myself wishing I could remember more of my high school Spanish so I could have told him I thought that sly move was fantastic.

That's where I'll be tonight - re-learning Spanish ... while also taking some practice drivers-license tests- the new thing I'm doing tomorrow is getting an Illinois license.  I've been putting it off for over a year - not only because it's inconvenient, but because the DMV and its infamously disgruntled employees may have the power to plummet me right back into last week's mood.