Sometimes in the morning I like to go for a jog along the lake.

Well, I don't really like it, but after eating like I did yesterday: corndog(s) a funnel cake AND a cheeseburger, I feel like I need to jog along the lake.

But, while there, I do like to people watch.  Chicago has a beautiful lakefront, and it attracts all sorts of people.  Joggers, bikers, yogis - though here I should say that while I'm all for yoga on the beach, if you're a middle-aged man in a speedo, you're practicing yoga alone, and you spend most of your time in downward facing dog, you look more like a sex predator than a yogi.  Just an FYI for the guy I saw doing that this morning.

Yep, the lake attracts all sorts of exercisers, (if that's not a word I just coined it) and then it attracts the non-exercisers, who as a general rule, are only there to creep out the women.  Many times I've passed the men who sit on trail-side benches with video cameras.  That doesn't need much explanation - what I would like explained, though, is the new form of creeper I found this morning.

I was jogging along at a pretty good pace when heard a loud buzzing behind me.  In fear of a giant mosquito, I started running faster - but the buzzing persisted.  Before I could even turn around to see its source, it was skirting around me - a very friendly man in a motorized wheelchair, who smiled at me before settling himself into a very convenient position directly behind the supermodel who was jogging in front of me, where he stayed and carefully observed the rest of her work out.

If I was her, I would have jumped in the lake in hopes that he'd follow, then pull myself out of the water and casually finish my jog in peace.

I tried to convince myself he was her trainer, so that I could focus on something else - but this next sighting made that pretty easy.

A family of 5 made their way to the beach, and I watched them while I was stretching.  (This probably looked suspicious to them, now that I think about it...)

The parents stood on the sand drinking Frapuccino's with whipped cream and splitting a scone, while they made their kids to calisthenics on the beach.  Seriously I've never seen anything like it - first was sand sprints, then jumping jacks, push-ups, more sand sprints ... all with no breaks in between.  The dad was barking out orders like a German soldier.  These kids looked like they were about to die.  I actually don't think I've ever seen a seven year old sweat.

I'm a big proponent of family fitness, but if my parents made me run around the beach to the point of exhaustion while they stood there eating a Big Mac, I'd emanicpate myself.

{rokintensedebate} 

This morning I wandered down to the Old Town Arts Festival.  There are three things I like to do at an event like this:

1) Look at all the things I can't afford.  Usual favorites are photos/paintings of rainy days in the city or of storm clouds gathering over old barns. Today's favorite was a huge painting of a woman walking a Canadian Goose (on a leash) down what appeared to be 5th Avenue.

2) Discovering that if my good friend Gretchen Christofferson would open a booth here one of these years, she could make a killing.  Faith Photography - check it out!

3) Casually eavesdropping on the conversations of passerby's.   Today's best:

-The woman who, upon walking past the food tent where I was happily washing my corn dog down with a funnel cake, inquired of her husband, "What are fried green beans?" 

Really, I don't know how they could get any more descriptive on that...

- The man complementing an artist's sketches by comparing her work to that of Degas.  I'm all for a famous comparison, but does it still hold any clout when the man making the comparison is pronouncing it like Vegas with a D?

- The little girl who, when her mother handed her a bratwurst for lunch, shouted "Mom!! Mom!! Just like Daddy!" It could be that her father was nearby and also eating a bratwurst, but I didn't see him, so I took that elsewhere, and thus was prompted to make the following decision:  If and when I have kids, to avoid public embarrassment, they will be showering with blindfolds or prescription snorkel masks that are too strong for their little eyes.

What I did not appreciate today at the art show was the small Chinese boy, who on each of the three occasions that I passed him, pointed and shouted "Pooping dog!  Pooping dog!"  I stalked him angrily for long enough for it to become clear to me that he is new to our fine country, and that these are the only two words he knows.  My question is:  Who's decision was it, when it came time to begin teaching this little guy English, that pooping dog was the clear choice for a starting point??

Now I'm off to pawn something of value (if I have anything of value) so I can go back and buy that antique fire extinguisher that I absolutely NEED. 

{rokintensedebate} 

It's generally acknowledged that, of ALL the 24 year-olds alive today, I am the one who holds the title for worst taste in music.

In a nutshell, my musical tastes haven't evolved much past whatever I was listening to in 1st grade.  I'm all about the power ballad.  If it's not that, it's Riverdance, if not Riverdance, it's the soundtrack to some musical or another.  My friends used to complain about it - now they've just come to accept it.  Some even have adopted the "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" mantra and sing along.  Most boyfriends have patted my hand and called me an "old soul" in a tone that falls somewhere between insulting and endearing.

Inevitably, I have been waiting for that moment straight out of an after-school-special when I pull up next to another car at a red light:  We both roll down our windows, look at each other, and wouldn't you know it, we're both tuned into the only radio station in the world that still plays "After All" by Cher and Peter Cetera. He'd smile, I'd smile, and we'd just know.  Destiny.

Well, today it finally happened.

I was driving back downtown after running an errand, rocking out to Stephen Bishop's "It Might Be You." That's right, the theme from "Tootsie."  I'm awesome.

The light in front of me turns yellow, and I consider gunning it, but instead I stop, pulling up next to a mostly-maroon 1988 Buick LeSabre in all its glory.  It's covered in rust and dents, missing a hub-cap, and is at least 3 different colors.  I've just about decided to ignore it and roll up my window when I hear a familiar chorus coming from it.  I turn down the volume and listen - sure enough!!  The theme from Tootsie, blaring from the Buick.  

This is it!  I turn to catch the eye of my soon-to-be soulmate: and wouldn't you know it, they are the most beautiful, kindest eyes I've ever seen.

They're also those of a woman who, from the looks of it, should have had her license revoked before World War II.   I've seriously never seen an older woman in my life, much less behind the wheel.  She was sitting so close to it, in fact, that I'm not sure how she got in and out of that car.  I'd be surprised if she could even hear the song she was listening to.  So I smiled, rolled up my window, and decided now would be a good time to drown my sorrows in a Tom Collins (another "senior" taste of mine, apparently.)

Now, as I write this, I realize I'm enjoying another senior activity.  Sitting in my apartment with a cup of tea and reading.  My saving grace could be that I'm reading My Horizontal Life by Chelsea Handler: a book that would give most of my musical peers a heart attack.  

Still, I figure it's time to go out, buy a can or two of Ensure, and check myself into Shady Pines.

{rokintensedebate} 

I got to thinking about perspective today as I climbed into my car on this June day, turned on my seat-warmer and blasted the heat. I realized that what 50 degrees feels like depends completely on when it is you're asking. A day like today, in the middle of January, would feel like a heat wave. My windows would be open, I'd probably have a pair of shorts on; knowing me I'd probably even hastily pack away all my winter clothes in a misguided moment of optimism.

Today, mid-June - it feels ridiculously cold.  I was in pants and a sweatshirt all day - a scarf, hot drink in hand...I may as well have been gearing up for Thanksgiving.  At one point I thought about digging up a pair of mittens.

Now I'm watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall, for probably the 17th time.  It's the first time I'm not laughing out loud though - not because I've seen it so often, but because this time I'm by myself.  Somehow it just seems funnier when I'm in a giddy mood with girlfriends or with a date, glass of wine in hand.

Perspective, perspective, perspective.

How do I account for that as an author?  Someone who reads my book in one scenario may have a completely different take on it than another in a different scenario - and that will change their opinions of it drastically, right?  Can that ever be helped, or am I just going to have to take both praise and criticism with a grain of salt, knowing that a great deal of each is based on perspective?

{rokintensedebate}