Snappy Holidays

Oh, devoted blog readers, friends and countrymen, have a great holiday wherever you may roam. My honey and I will soon be on the slopes of Tahoe, racing to the finish line (I'd put your money on me because I don't smoke).

I would not put your money on me at the blackjack table, however.

Hope all is merry and bright!

First Edition

For those of you undecided on stocking stuffers (my presents have all been wrapped for weeks), you can always buy the history of Bose McKinney & Evans. It's available in both hard cover and paperback online, and let me tell you, it's enthralling, because I wrote it, and it's about a law firm. I spent two years interviewing attorneys (attorneys and I, we have this thing) and...here it is. Learn about Unigov, The Duke Connection, school consolidations: it's all in here. While supplies last, it's the perfect gift for the holidays!

Fa la la la la la la la la.

Limpy

I’m having one of those “I need a vacation” days, full of consistent chaos. For starters, I’m walking around on a swollen big toe, and it’s Monday.

Thankfully, I’ll soon be embarking on a vacation, toe and all. Matt and I are going skiing next week with his family; ironically, as I gathered ski pants and mittens from high places around the apartment last night, I somehow managed to break a blood vessel in my big (now huge) toe. Yeah, that’s exactly one week before I’ll be riding the mountains. Egad.

I’m wearing my running shoes today (not with a skirt and pantyhose, like so many fashionably-challenged women do), and as I limped outside to start my vehicle this morning, I discovered that I’d left the dome light on and my battery was dead.

Matt said, “To the rescue!” but we couldn’t find his jumper cables (probably packed with my long underwear), so I called my old friends at AAA. Matt felt badly leaving me to fend for myself, but I’m a big girl, and a master at problem solving. Still, it’s nice being worried about, even if your mantra retains an “independent streak.”

My friend Darryn says, “You’re independent to a fault,” but is there such a thing? I have no desire to ever be tied to a railroad track waiting for someone to rescue me, and if my nail breaks it stays broken until it grows back.

I was raised to be independent and I very much like alone time. I grew up swimming until my hair turned green; taking all kinds of dance/gymnastic lessons; reading for hours on my bed; writing in journals; riding horses; taking long walks in the woods where I would 1). Hunt for mushrooms, or 2). Stare at trees; drowning Barbie in her pool (kidding, I never held her under that long); and I started making my own doctor's appointments circa 7th grade.

And what do I have to show for it? Apparently, a puffy, purple toe.

Happy Monday.

Horton Hears The Who

Gord e-mailed me today telling me that the Hip will be in Indy at the beginning of March…opening for the Who. Humbly, he asked if I’d like to be on the guest list. These guys are always first class, treating me as the VIP, and I cannot say enough great things about their friendship, their nurturing, their intellect.

I’d rather sit in a corner and drool on myself than watch television (although, I must say, we’ve become rather fond of occasional Everybody Loves Raymond repeats), and I’m constantly drawn to challenging brains. Feed me, make me work for it, make my heart flutter and ponder, alight with knowledge.

Even Matt, who reads (mostly contracts and business briefs, but reads he does) all day, comes home and browses my bookshelves for a lofty gem. I push Chabon; Steinbeck; Foer; Eugenides; Bellow. I too love nurturing, feeding the soul. Life is too short for sitcoms.

I’ve lately been wandering along the musical paths of My Morning Jacket (my brother’s friend, Carl, is a native-Indy boy and lead guitarist) and Ray Lamontagne, my head and heart tangled in analogy and foreboding of joy and despair.

Thank God I’m not a business person!

I visited my ninety-one-year-old grandmother recently, who had a pile of books sitting by her side. “I’ll read these this week—the library delivers as many as I can consume.”

Behold the power of genes.

I feel creative late at night when I’m just about to fall asleep. I nudge Matt and say, “They’re back – the thoughts are coming rapidly.” He says, “Get up! Write! Write them all down!”

I usually smile and fall asleep.

I’ve kept a journal since the 7th grade, and I’ve kept a notepad next to my bed for many moons. The coiling weave of thoughts - it hovers. I plait the sentences and the grammar falls into place.

And can you tell that I’m currently drinking Pinot Noir? It doesn’t hurt, either.

The Christmas spirit has hit. We’ve already watched the Grinch, Charlie Brown Christmas, and Matt watched Miracle on 34th Street with me the other night…for the first time ever. I witnessed a festive little tear in his eye when Natalie Wood discovered her new house.

Actually, Matt said, unimpressed, “That’s how it ends?”

Men.

We decorated our tree then lay partially beneath it (a Brooks’ tradition), quietly staring at the lights and listening to Vince Guaraldi.

No eggnog, yuck.

All this cheer is ostensible to realizing we no longer live close to much of anything, that our place is cold most of the time, and that we’re still in Indiana…for now.

Last night, around 9:30, I said, “I either want to take a bath or go to bed – they’re the only warm choices.”

He poured my water.

Wine Bar

Somewhere amid three bottles of wine and countless beers...part of the Brooks bunch & Matt. We listened to 45 bluegrass songs and were about to take it outside with our hard-edged waitress. My sister-in-law and I were dubbed the "Can Girls" as we swayed and flirted deeply into the wallets of disarmed men, helping collect monies for the band.

Did I have a hangover the next morning? You bet!

Thanksgiving

It has been said that I’m a neat freak; couple that with a shard of OCD (I select one green bean at a time at the grocery), and you have me mopping the kitchen floor around 11pm, like I was last night.

Matt and I are in our new place, and although it’s a mite more snug, we love it. There are dark, hardwood floors (a Swiffer…I get to use a Swiffer!), crown molding, and any quirk one would expect to find in a place built in 1914. Each night we unpack boxes, and we’re slowly making our way to finding the box that holds the remote control (Matt’s OCD begins here – he’s a man, after all).

Sure, there was a gas leak that Matt and his mom detected, but it’s charming, I think.

The best part about moving is the joy of purging. I think we’re now on the Salvation Army’s Christmas card list. It’s a time to ask oneself: Do I really need my album collection anymore? (mostly hand-me-downs from my sister, but there are some good oldschool Fleetwood Mac recordings in there).

Between computers, scanners, TVs, printers, iPods, Mp3 players, speakers, wires, cords and my very-expensive-and-I-can’t-wait-to-get-rid-of-it stereo, there is little room left for the couch.

The first night there I made macaroni and cheese; it was all I could find in the wreckage. I felt very “Barefoot in the Park” when I said, “Come and get your hot meal!”

Last night we ate in the dining room, and this weekend we’re shopping for a Christmas tree…the Charlie Brown kind that we can squeeze into a corner.

I’m blessed; on that note, Happy Thanksgiving!

Ding Dong: The Witch Is Dead

The house is FINALLY *selling* and we're heading downtown. We will miss the trees...but not the long commutes! So long, Geist.

Call me for our new whereabouts. :)

Voter Appreciation 101

Buh-bye crazy people of the world! Let us begin with Rumsfeld...

Massage Therapy

I ran yesterday for the first time in 3 weeks…ah, it felt so good. Matt treated me to a massage on Friday at a day spa, and it made all the frou frou difference. I consider “pampering myself” a run in the woods instead of the neighborhood, but my back’s been killing me, and I know he’s just trying to get me healthy so I can help lift boxes. I’m on to him.

The atmosphere of a massage makes me giggle. The rooms are dimly lit with soft George Winston-esque music playing and scented candles burning. Hold a crystal if you want, but I think it's silly. It’s a tranquil, romantic setting…and then the chubby girl enters the room.

My massage therapist was very kind and soft spoken, like a good massage therapist should be. She whispered everything. With great acuity, I took pleasure in throwing her off by answering in a normal tone, and asking her lots of questions.

I was congested because I caught Matt’s cold (clearly, he owed me this massage), and the room was freezing. She’d put hot, wet towels on me, which was great at first, but while she was busy rubbing my neck and getting gooey oil in my hair (it’d been a perfect hair day until then), they’d cool and I’d be left shivering.

I told that her my lower back needed special attention, but these people are systematic and must go in order: head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, so I took it in stride. I was half-naked, after all, so who was I to complain? After a while, however, I thought, “Stop fiddling with my ears and rub my damned back!” She rubbed a stone around on my stomach, the final straw, and finally she told me that I could turn over.

Lying on my back wasn’t problematic because I was still breathing through both nostrils, but when she had me turn on my stomach and plant my face in the head cubby, my body became tense with the fear that my nose would run. I couldn’t relax. Oh, gentle irony, you’re never lost on me.

The more I lay there, the more the pressure built in my sinuses, until finally I had to breathe with my mouth open, thus creating more tension from the angst of possibly drooling. This really sucked.

My back is better, though, and I have the sweet caress of a girl I never knew to thank for it (and Matt, of course). For a small price (actually, these appointments are quite expensive), Matt got his running partner and heavy lifter back.

My Sister Is Published!

First-day jitters
Southwest Florida Parent & Child Magazine
By Angie Brooks

I KNEW IT WAS TIME for my daughter to go to preschool when she emphatically said to me, "Mom, when I go to school, you can’t come. I am going by myself!" WOW. That got my attention and felt like a hard prelude to the teenage years of parental rejection, although she was barely 3.

I realized I had been dragging my feet. We had been "interviewing" schools for more than a year, comparing ABCs and 123s, but none ever seemed to be good enough for Mommy. Each time we would check out a school together, she would excitedly think this is it — and I would have to drag her away, as Eva protested, "NO! I want to go to school!" After collecting pamphlets from every preschool in all the local counties (and some other states and countries), I looked at the mound of information clutter on my dining room table and made one last call. Yea! They offered diversity, a bilingual program, gardening, art, yoga, music, cooking … (I wanted to go, too).

I finally signed the dotted line, got her a physical, and two days later, we drove up to the new preschool, back pack and lunch box in tow. We were greeted at the door, "Buenos Dias." She was shown her own cubby, and then she led me into the classroom. I showed her where the bathroom was and gave her a quick refresher on manners and hygiene (yes, overprotective mom). Her eyes were everywhere, she was absorbing the environment, touching the puzzles, and this new exotic foreign land. She said, "The teacher wants us to go outside in two minutes." Eva pecked me and eagerly headed to join the other kids in line. No drama.

I suddenly realized I was the only parent left in the room and I headed for the door. I looked her teacher in the eye and said, "I am the one who is afraid to go." She patted my arm reassuringly and responded, "It’s normal." I walked out the door, giant tears running down my face, walked to my car, got in and cried a tsunami. Somehow, I managed to drive home, and felt the empty car seat staring at me. There I was greeted by an unremembered heavy silence. I drank my coffee alone, no noise, no questions to be answered, no needs to fill. I walked in the yard; my shadow was not following me. It was the longest day of my life, waiting and watching the clock.

When I picked her up she came bouncing around the corner, beaming, and gave me a big knowing hug as she rattled on about her fun day at preschool.

On the way home, I glanced back at the car seat where my preschooler sat singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" to herself in Spanish. I smiled. We had survived the first day.

— Angie Brooks is an artist living in Southwest Florida.

Happy Halloween

A Year In Time

Last year on this day I arrived home from Europe. I’d been in Ireland and Scotland for 10 days, and had had enough of my ugly American travel partners. When our plane left Edinburgh, I already knew I’d be flying home two days early…alone.

Traveling together can ruin a friendship, and I’d been miserable since we left Indiana. I’d sneak to computers late at night and email Matt and my family. My favorite memory of the entire trip was sitting at an antique desk on the third story of an old mansion in Cork, Ireland. The wind blew the curtains next to me as the rain pounded the shutter roof. I sat and wrote to Matt; he replied in 30 seconds.

I am smitten with Europe, but at that moment I knew there could be something better than architecture, cobblestone streets and tea with milk.

On our plane to Amsterdam, the last leg of the trip, I sat in the middle seat; my travel partner listened to music blaring from his iPod. I whispered to the stranger sitting next to me on the other side: I need help getting away from this person.

I was trying to be discreet, but I freaked the guy out and he loudly asked, “WHAT?” I shushed him and said, “This person I’m with is crazy; we’re in a huge fight and I’m leaving for the States the minute I get to Amsterdam; can you just make sure he doesn’t, you know, kill me?”

I felt like I was escaping from an abductor. The stranger quickly became my ally and mentioned that he had four other friends on the flight and that they’d all keep an eye on me.

When we landed, I explained to my co-traveler that not everyone was meant for seeing the world together and that I was leaving...on a jet plane.

He screamed at me in the middle of the airport, but my eyes were on my new Dutch friends, who were lurking near us and gesturing in an “are you ok?” way. I nodded. I was fearless and I wanted out.

My now ex-friend and I parted ways, after he refused to give me any information regarding our flight home. Credit card in hand, I walked to a help desk and explained that I had no ticket, no idea of when my flight left, but that I needed to get the hell out of Amsterdam immediately.

The attendant told me this was the worst travel debacle he’d ever seen, and so took pity on me; thank God for e-tickets or it would have cost me $3,000. He booked me a first class flight for the following morning, so I stayed alone in Amsterdam for one night. I drank a couple of glasses of wine and emailed Matt: I’m free! I’m coming home!

The flight home was one of the best experiences of my life. I’d flown first class before…but alone?! Never. The crew did everything except give me a sponge bath, which I’m sure I could have requested.

When I took my seat I was offered champagne. I said, “Keep it coming – I really deserve it,” and they did. I ate one of each of everything and drank a few glasses of wine too (longer flight returning to the States, darn that air stream). I slept a lot too: the seats reclined completely! I may be the first person in history who departed a flight refreshed and satiated…and 5 pounds heavier.

Matt picked me up at the airport; I haven’t left him alone since.

Aunt Roadie

I had my first banjo lesson this weekend given by…my dad. I played “Go Tell Aunt Roadie” and learned to “pinch” and “roll.” I love it! I went looking to buy my own banjo…but ended up buying new dining room chairs instead. So, I’m a sucker for home furnishings. The banjo will be my Christmas present to myself.

Matt and I went to see a bluegrass band Saturday night; the banjo player let me sit in his seat and hold his “sweet bluegrass edition.” I begged him not to make me embarrass myself by playing Aunt Roadie in front of the audience. I tipped him $10 and he let me off the hook.

We went to see the Hotel Café tour at the Music Mill Sunday night. Matt went to the Colts game first (snooze) so I went to the venue early to hang with my L.A. friends Tim Jones, Jim Bianco & Brad Gordon (current owner of my childhood clarinet). The tour is going strong and features many L.A. bands, such as Cary Brothers (Garden State soundtrack, and it’s not “The Cary Brothers.” His name is Cary), the Weepies (I renamed them Simon & Girlfunkel), Josh Radin, Matt Costa, etc. Everyone was very cool and gave me the VIP treatment of FREE BEER. The show was superb, ending with Bianco’s “Goodness Gracious,” which made all the girls swoon.

Matt and I were both hung over all day Monday. I’m happy, although the sleeveless Indiana nights have well passed.

I'm Just Waitin' On A Date

Matt and I met at Ambrosia last night for dinner. I sat at the bar waiting for him as he’d gotten lost driving from his new office in Plainfield. The Plainfield drive is the best motivation for returning to California, and I’m all for it.

I once had a few dates with a guy from Plainfield, and when I told my sister, who was living in L.A. or New York or Florence, Italy at the time, she said, “Jill: Plain…field? Get out of that relationship immediately!”

I would never be so shallow as to break up with someone because of where they live, but when he had me over for dinner and served green bean casserole layered with creamy off-brand mushroom soup, I knew we needed to go our separate ways.

While sitting at the bar last night, a guy approached me with a big smile and asked, “Julie?” I chuckled and answered, “Close, but no.” Embarrassed, he apologized and returned to his table. Julie arrived a few minutes later and I eavesdropped on their blind date. When I heard her talking about her Easy Bake Oven, I felt kind of sorry for him.

Matt called several times apologizing for being late. I told him to stay on the phone and read me the names of the streets as he passed them: Guion Road; Georgetown Road; Lafayette Road. Politely, I said, “Honey, you need to turn the car around; you’re heading west; I am to the east.” People who aren’t from Indy have a difficult time with the fact that Kessler runs in all directions.

Matt’s loud, impatient moan filled the line, followed by a couple of expletives. I told him I was fine enjoying my wine and listening to the train wreck date, and to take his time. It took him an hour to find me.

We went to the Vogue after dinner to see Broken Social Scene. They have a Feist substitute now since her solo career took off, but they were still good (and Canucks!). I keep introducing him to good music and he keeps asking for more.

The average age at the Vogue last night? I’d say about 22. Life is good.

Laffy Taffy

I pulled my lower back over two weeks ago and I’m abiding inertia with a great degree of obstinacy. I have two large, painful knots on my back, which I call my buttons. Each night I ask Matt if he’ll push them. I’ve become the poster child for Aleve.

I found a pond near the house and Matt and I ran there all summer, but I pushed myself past one too many whistling illegal fishermen and I’m now paying the price. I’ve cut out weekday drinking and snacking (except for that delicious cherry Laffy Taffy Matt bought over the weekend, damn him) because I refuse to watch the summer 4 turn into a winter 6. I’m fattening Matt up by cooking a lot (bless thee, Cooking Network) but we both need to get in shape for skiing.

He just emailed me this: I’m eating donuts…I give up.

Thank God for high metabolism.

Last weekend we ate at Santorini’s in Fountain Square. I kind of left out the part about how I once got violently ill after eating there, but that was two boyfriends ago, so I figured it was safe now. We had a great bottle of Greek wine called—wait, I still have the cork in my purse—Domaine Harlaftis. No food poisoning.

We went to Deano’s Vinos afterward and I ordered a French varietal while simultaneously saying, “Watch, they won’t have it,” which they didn’t. We settled for a bottle of Cline old vine zin and Deano, the owner, came rushing over to our table to exclaim his unwavering adoration for my selection.

We buy the same bottle for $15 at Trader Joe’s all the time; he, of course, charged us $30. If you’re going to own a place with “Vino” on the sign, I suggest you take some wine lessons. (They do have a very cool table top made from the tops of foil wine labels, featured here. The only great one is Chalk Hill.)

We were on the cusp of considering ever returning there again, when suddenly the band nailed our cut-throat decision into the coffin: a trio was playing Karma Chameleon in the next room…on mandolin. I suggested we run for our lives.

We high-tailed it to Radio Radio where I proceeded to get more intoxicated, and then I drove home. This is where the Laffy Taffy came into play and, I have to say, it saved me.

But no more snacks until I can run again. I can’t speak for Matt.

Eva got her ears pierced and she's practically running her first grade class. I miss when she fit on my lap.

It’s official: I’m adding the banjo to my musical instrument repertoire. I no longer own a piano; I gave my clarinet to a musician in Los Angeles (he’s recorded with it twice already); so it’s time for something new. Plus, I need a winter project. I asked my dad if I could borrow his banjo and he said, all in the same breath, that of course I could and to get my own damned banjo, instead. He’s excited that I’m taking it up and said I’ll really stand out now at parties.

Matt and I went to see Tim O’Reagan from the Jayhawks open for Mojave 3 Friday night, and it was there that I made my decision. He can’t wait to make fun of me practicing, like I do when he sings in the shower.

Ah, music and writing: I love combining the two. I’m going to post some archived concert reviews from my bygone days of partying like (often with) and writing about rock stars.

Nuvo Newsweekly
Cake/Beulah Preview
Murat
November 6, 2001

The sardonic consciousness and irreverent spin on modern day banality is a theme best conveyed by the band Cake: presumably why they chose not to name the band Meat and Potatoes. Their practically patented raw and reputable irony, and the keen ability to shoot it straight (while straight-faced), led this unique act to their fourth album, Comfort Eagle. As the late 1990s airwaves were clogged with “alternative” bands, the term lost its niche, and the scene deeply needed an alternative to the alternative. Many bands tried. Cake’s 1995 debut, Motorcade of Generosity (originally released on cassette) began the course for what would later become deep-seated, funky, hill-jack rock, offering audiences a reprieve from many commiserating, bonny-lad whiners. Since the humorously smarmy single “The Distance,” off of the 1996 second release and first platinum album, Fashion Nugget, Cake has been contributing wry, intelligent songs with a prolific fervor of “post-alternative” expression. A deadpan, sleepy version of the Gloria Gaynor disco wonder, “I Will Survive,” and pert “Frank Sinatra,” also on Fashion Nugget, sealed their fate as hep, goofy funk lords, with a flair for the bentrovato. The success of this album launched their third album, Prolonging the Magic, into its platinum best with the songs “Satan Is My Motor,” “Never There,” and “Sheep Go To Heaven.” Frontman and principle wordsmith, John McCrea, sings with a voice that may not have been chosen for choir or school plays, but since his incipient, he’s managed to outsmart the lot, delving richly into clever, offhanded witticisms and boon-like yuks. He’s backed by his band, slinky trumpet player Vince di Fiore, bassist Gabe Nelson, guitarist Xan McCurdy, and new drummer, Pete McNeal, son of Claude McNeal—Indy’s American Cabaret Theater director.

Amid Pete’s airport security checkpoints from LAX to Chicago, I was able to speak with him about his new position with Cake, who he says has been “very gracious and supportive of me professionally and personally. They weren’t certain of the fan base in Indy, but knowing that I have family there is one of the reasons we’ll be playing an Indy show.” McNeal, who played with the band Sumack, was a long-time fan of Cake himself. When former drummer Todd Roper left the band, Pete’s name came with a high recommendation from Michael Urband of Smash Mouth. This led to phone interviews, and auditions, which Pete says, “were taxing, and no walk in the park. I had to learn eighteen new songs by the time it was all over, but Cake knew who they were looking for, and thankfully, it was me.” I asked him about being the son of the cabaret master, to which he replied, “Yeah, it all began with a Keystone Cop routine my dad put me in when I was six, and living in Connecticut. I was accidentally thrown off the stage.” Pete professed, “Cake is a hard working band. This is definitely the most exciting and rewarding time of my life.”

Cake will play the Murat November 6, doling out plenty of eighth-note songs from Comfort Eagle, where they recently jumped from Capricorn Records, to the musical magnate -- we’re here to sell alotta records -- Columbia Records. Lyrics crafted from the title track, “Comfort Eagle” lend prophecy to the band’s potential with Columbia: “We are building a religion. We are building it bigger. We are widening the corridors and adding more lanes.” With heralding reviews running amok, the likelihood of their continued success seems a path well cut. The band will perform their latest single, “Love you Madly” on Letterman November 12, and they just completed a new music video for said single--a follow up to their last video for “Short Skirt/Long Jacket.” In the video, passersby were stopped and asked to listen to the song on headphones; the video is an honest account of their reactions. Pete says this next video “will be a cooking contest.” Could it be? Would they dare make…cake?

The San Francisco band Beulah will open for Cake; a good choice for such a transition. Creative and beautifully pop, this layered-alt-rock band brings to mind background music in a That Girl sitcom; a refreshing sound of carefree happiness and serenity, though listen closely to the lyrics—they’re strangely dark: always a fun combination.

Hip Hip

I’m having one hell of a great week. Gord Sinclair, my good friend and bassist for the Tragically Hip, asked if I’d write a fan’s view biography for their upcoming (11th!) album, which of course I did. He sent it off to their management company and to Gord Downie, lead singer and chief decision maker and, dreams coming true, Gord D. emailed me a thank you. EMAILED ME. I just got word that they want to use it in an upcoming press release! I don’t care so much about that; I just keep rereading his email. I love this business.

Tragically Hip Bio – World Container

With the release of their eleventh album, the Tragically Hip continues to suffuse music with a mastery of creative ingenuity and a limitless foray of passion. The Kingston quintet has delivered their unbridled formula of silvery alchemy for over twenty-years. Fusing with acclaimed producer Bob Rock (Metallica) in his studio in Maui, the band entrusted Rock’s ingenious wizardry to command the presence of the album; the result is a surrendering to equal-parts intrinsic, artistic depths.

Rock’s vision and skill, coupled with his own rich belief in the Hip’s sound, commitment and loyalty to one another, helped arrange and amass an unremitting expanse of new, creative styles. Rock, hard-driving and focused, inspired the band to unleash new methods and styles, leaving no sonic or lyrical performance unturned.

The Tragically Hip is a band that endures. Gord Downie’s prose, mixed with the band’s rhythmic movement, wraps around you like a tight vine. Their latest release, World Container, mixes the deeply haunting, quintessential style for which the Hip is revered with a few energetic power-pop explosions, such as “In View” and “Yer Not The Ocean,” throughout. Downie’s embellished “whews” and “ohs” in the buoyant “The Kids Don’t Get It” are his trademark punctuation. The poet laureate of the rock “arena,” Downie maintains an unwavering alliance to world issues. Actively involved in environmental endeavors, including a seat on the board of RFK Jr’s Waterkeeper organization, Downie’s connection to his beliefs permeates throughout the dissertation of his lyrics. This is best reflected in Downie's blusey pleas in “World Container,” a world view of concern and hope.

The friendship and bond—brothers, really—between band members Gord Downie, Rob Baker (lead guitar), Paul Langois (rhythm guitar), Gord Sinclair (bass) and Johnny Fay (drums) is a universal truth of introspection, allegiance and global awareness. Musically, they have good song writing down to an artform. These are guys who “get it,” and no one understands this better than their fans. Hip fans form a race, not a culture. There is a tangible bond connecting the Hip to their fans, the legions of discerning followers who formed the grassroots movement that jumps and throttles passionately around the world hunting and collecting others. As the crowds mosey inside a venue to see the band, the collective chant “Hip Hip Hooray” wields its heralding allegiant theme.

I’d wager that the Hip were voted “Most Likely to Perform the Best Live Show” in high school, a prediction they have long since accomplished. Standing, swaying or jumping before the band, you’re completely immersed in the music as it penetrates your every thought and breath. No band builds a better song, and the songs on World Container come with the same promise of an intensely live performance: a Hip standard with any album. Listening, fans swear to know exactly what Downie is trying to convey with his words; the beauty is that sometimes you don’t fully (certainly never completely) understand what the hell he’s talking about. But like any allusive poem, Gord’s lyrics resonate differently to each listener, but the magnetism is always the same.

Collectively, Hip fans await the purchase of each new album and there's no end in sight. The band keeps collaborating, keeps writing compelling songs, and for seasoned players in a wayward industry, they keep getting better. The Hip continue creating great music and leaving it behind for the listeners; and we, the devout fanatics, are the benefactors who are enjoying our inheritance.

Beautiful, young Eva proving once again that Brooks girls love living in their bikinis.

I’ve taken my place at my post: the kitchen table. It’s become my favorite place to write. I occupy alone time in this space and, with the blinds raised, sit and feast upon the woods outside for inspiration. A million thoughts come to mind and my fingers try to catch them in their butterfly net.

I’m keeping a sleeping bag on the porch in which to wrap myself during Matt’s necessary smoke breaks. I bought a pumpkin and a month’s worth of firewood today, preparing to watch every last leaf fall. The Reese’s peanut butter cups aren’t far away, either. There is still life beauty standing before me, the words of Wordsworth pushing me toward the frame. I’m happy for these gifts.

The First Fall Days

The leaves changed overnight: fall has arrived and winter is fast approaching. That familiar chill is in the air. Matt got up earlier than me today, a rarity, and my cold toes felt the shock of his absence. I tiptoed downstairs to set the heat at 70 and start the coffee, then ran back to bed in a scurry.

Yesterday I took him to Eagle Creek for his first time and we hiked through the woods for a couple of hours. I grew up hiking at Eagle Creek, but it’s not the park of my childhood; everything changes, no? Trying to find private solace, it was difficult for us to escape the preponderance of Mexican trumpets blaring from someone’s car…in the woods. I love ethnicity, just keep your music down.

The weather was perfect for crushing leaves beneath our shoes, holding hands and exchanging glances and smiles. My heart hummed all the octaves.

Matt was in rare form both Friday and Saturday night. Saturday, around midnight, he took me up into the attic in his garage where we sat Indian-style (do I have to say Native American Indian-style?) and drank wine. Upon climbing back down he decided to golf…in the garage…with the doors shut and his car inside. Have another glass of wine, smartypants.

His golf stance could use a little improvement: he looked like an old man trying to heed his backside to a child’s lawn chair. He hit the ball a few times and it disappeared. He finally opened the garage door and said, “Honey, get the eggs.” We took turns blasting eggs in the yard, and Matt (after carving many divots) shot a tomato and a can of diet Coke toward the neighbors we don’t like much.

Later, right before he fell asleep, he announced that he had Coke all over his feet. But those sticky toes were sure nice in cold weather.

It's Friday I'm in love; however, I cannot get my birthday iPod speakers to work! Another glass of wine oughtta help...

Backwoods

So again I’m experiencing the afternoon ennui of Perfunctory Friday. Matt and I have no specific plans for the weekend, except dragging all of my furniture back into the basement where brand new carpeting is settling. I never thought I’d smile so toothily about such things as new carpeting and where to hang art work, but domesticity has taken its place in my heart.

Matt and I went to Bloomington last weekend for a little IU tour, bluegrass concert and camping in the rain. We stayed at the IU Union on Friday and Matt, a Charlottesville snob of sorts, was most impressed with campus. You know you’re an adult when you book a room at the Union.

I took him to the Bluebird, my college home-away-from-home, and we watched Del McCoury belt it out with his boys for over two hours. We were afraid old Del might suffer a tenor’s aneurism right there in the middle of Travelin’ Teardrop Blues, but he made it through unscathed. Matt said I should take up banjo, and I’m considering it.

Saturday, after much ado about Urban Outfitters, we groceried in town and headed to Yellowwood State Park…where we assembled our tent (Jason’s tent, actually) and tarp kitchen in the bleak welcoming of a rain storm – it was fantastic.

A chocolate lab found her way to us, and Matt suggested we dognap her and take her home with us the following day. I was in, but she escaped our blindfold, gag and burlap bag and headed back to her owners after downing a couple of hotdogs.

We drank some wine and headed to the tent around midnight, where a host of mosquitoes awaited our entry. As we unzipped the tent, the leader of the swarm stood on one knee helping push the others inside quickly. We didn’t, unfortunately, discover this until we were climbing into our sleeping bags. Matt announced, “I feel itchy!” And with this began a twenty-minute mosquito massacre. I frantically maneuvered the flashlight and Matt’s job was to finesse, i.e. smash, the mosquitoes against the wall of the tent, which, as you can imagine, was no easy task. Matt was cussing and shouting (and drunk) and finally pronounced that he would soon be entertaining a COMPLETE FREAK OUT if we didn’t kill those monsters immediately.

Oh, I died laughing. And I’m still laughing on the inside. Matt had about 12 large, red, swollen bites all over him and all week I called him “Lumpy.”

My friend Anne and I had an underground newspaper in high school called Aurora Boring Alice. It had one issue, which consisted of about 16 copies we "posted" on various car windshields in Broad Ripple. A bit underachieved, maybe, but a fun afternoon.

We moved on to imaginary bands. Oh yes, we rocked (this was imaginary, please remember) in such bands as Kitty Transport and Wind Tunnel Tested.

I made up a new imaginary band today: Bored Certified.

September 14, 2006
Living with 'love interest'
Big step has Jill dreaming of Crate & Barrel.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

No matter what age, fathers worry about their daughters; mothers worry, too, of course, but it's not the same, endless duty.

Twenty minutes ago, in a cowardly act, I e-mailed my father and "mentioned" that I've moved in with my boyfriend.

My parents have always been cool not to pry or judge, and certainly to never ask: Is he the one?

That is a question I never answer.

When a girl moves in with a guy, my suggestion is to proceed slowly; that way he won't feel his territory disappearing all at once.

With all of those shoes, you'll need a lot of closet space, so carefully weed out his '80s clothing and the junk he's saved since high school, then quietly move these items to the "charitable donations pile."

Take your time switching out the artwork on the walls -- accelerate too quickly and he'll notice.

Pictures and letters from old girlfriends that you "come across" should obviously be boxed up using an entire roll of tape, and stored in the basement.

I took my sweet time moving in, taking small boxes up each day, and hiding things like my Star Wars lunchboxes and snow globe collection in closets.

I've been told more than a few times that I own a lot of stuff. Yeah, well, duh.

Everyday more of "me" arrived and the closets began brimming with skirts, purses and high-heeled shoes.

On the official moving day, I created the illusion that all I really owned was a bunch of extremely heavy furniture.

I'm that good.

My boyfriend and my good guy friend carried all my stuff up and down flights of stairs for the proverbial pizza/beer tradeoff.

This pizza/beer thing is the greatest device known to womankind.

I helped with the drawers and mattress, but basically I was there to direct traffic.

I hardly broke a sweat, and now I live there. When it was just called "dating," and I visited, I loved cleaning the kitchen every day.

Strange, I view it now as a job without pay or vacation.

Laundry's lost its luster a bit, too.

Domesticity takes its daily toll, but I never get Crate & Barrel tired.

I want to buy more stuff.

In fact, sometimes I daydream of waking up in a different style of Crate & Barrel bedroom every day.

This is what time on your hands and routine shopping in Indianapolis will do to you, so be careful.

But so far, sharing time and space and grocery duties is pretty wonderful.

September 7, 2006
She's California dreamin'
L.A. is her guilty pleasure, from the OC to Laguna.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I have a few guilty pleasures: Maroon 5; Steak-n-Shake; extremely expensive shampoo; and Los Angeles.

But I just returned from the OC, and I've added Laguna Beach to my list.

I've "aged-out" of the television series, I'm afraid, and before I left for my trip, all I knew about The OC was that everyone there was beautiful, because my 15-year-old-sister (who owns the boxed set) told me so.

She and her friends probably discuss the characters via their MySpace accounts.

(Ah, MySpace: Couldn't you just, um, call or e-mail your friends? Does the world really need to see your daily notes?)

I visit Los Angeles every year. My girlfriend there lives in the guesthouse of a famous female singer whose name bears a popular, well-paid fruit.

Every time I'm there I meet people in the "industry." Everyone is creative and talented, and most of them are pretty cool about visitors from Indiana (because no one, namely bands, is really "from" L.A.).

Last week I had lunch with my girlfriend on Hermosa Beach. She said she had $56 in her checking account, but I noticed that she was sporting Gucci sunglasses.

That is a perfectly respectable Californian quality and I defend her.

After all, without California, The Red Hot Chili Peppers would have nothing to sing about.

Everyone in Los Angeles wears jeans and flip-flops, and that's kind of dressy. Make-up is subtle, hair is purposely disheveled and long, and people watching is first rate.

The last time I was in L.A. I went to a bar whose theme was national parks, and another that was a diorama of hair salons.

It is a wacky, dirty city, and I love it.

The battle between L.A. and Orange County pits the Jets against the Sharks, and until now I always sided with Hollywood & Vine.

But the rumors about Orange County are in fact true. It is the land of toned bodies and sun-kissed hair; myriad sports cars and overpriced art; but man, is it lovely.

Orange County isn't the Carmel/Geist, Ind., parallel I'd always heard it was; it actually has stuff to do.

Walking Newport Beach and catching the sunset at Laguna, I decided that I'm moving to California.

I crave endless days of summer, bodysurfing, wearing no make-up and seafood tacos.

I want Mischa Barton's hair!

Back in Indy, I'm currently daydreaming at my desk. I've begun saving my pennies, waiting for that day I too can pay $2,500 in rent for a two-bedroom beachfront shack.

August 31, 2006
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Yesterday I spent the day at Disneyland in good old Anaheim California.

My boyfriend and I are visiting his family, and on my wish list was the Magic Kingdom, near where they live.

My childhood family vacations tended to involve canoes, tents and hiking, but several times we went to King’s Island.

I never got a wink of sleep the night before a trip to King’s Island. It was cool, and the Brady Bunch hung out there too, I told myself.

When planning our California adventure, my boyfriend explained that the rides at Knott’s Berry Farms were a lot more frightening; my response was: Knott’s Berry Farms is a real place?

I thought Knott’s was like Hidden Valley, or Keebler Forest, merely crafted by marketing people to sell jam, salad dressing or cookies.

I’m a Midwestern girl, and so my theme park knowledge was a little underdeveloped.

The decision was mine, and though I’d rather experience thrill rides, I couldn’t pass up Disney.
Those Disney commercials - the ones that put a little tear in my eye - are real!

The minute we arrived to the park I felt my inner toddler come forward, like one of those personalities Sybil had and no one knew about.

Within minutes of disembarking from the Lion King tram, I ran into Geppetto. I got a little giddy and wanted his autograph.

Next came Woody, from Toy Story; I made my boyfriend take my photo with him.

All day long, in between rides and our 35 dollar lunch, I searched for characters.

We rode Space Mountain twice and the music was so good that I now want the soundtrack. Is it available? Please say I can maintain this fantasy.

I ran into the evil queen from Snow White, and Cruella De Vil, but when I made my boyfriend stop to watch the parade, and I saw Ariel live in the flesh, I got a happy chill down my back despite the blanketing summer heat of southern California.

As a rule, I don’t disclose every facet of myself to my boyfriend, but at the Magic Kingdom I learned that one cannot think straight.

I mentioned the chills and goose bumps I was experiencing, and I asked if we could get a little closer so I could take a decent photo of Ursula, the sea witch.

I’m not sure if he’ll ever look at me the same way again.

Disneyland is 50 years old this year; I suggest that every inner child make a visit.

August 24, 2006
Nephs 2
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Once a year I donate my time to a needy cause: I baby-sit for my nephews, allowing my brother and sister-in-law time to regroup and sleep.

This year I presented the babysitting anniversary as a weekend getaway package for my boyfriend; kind of like a gift, but not really.

He fell for it (ha ha, I laugh).

We loaded the car with some clothes and necessary supplies (half case of wine) and we were off.

As an aunt, there is nothing quite like the moment of arrival at their house. Both boys’ smiles turn upward in animated awareness, and I run toward them in slow motion, arms stretched out, like I’m in a field of poppies.

I scoop them up, drown them in kisses and usually pinch their little behinds (a cheek is a cheek is a cheek).

This year was easier: there were no longer diapers in the house; the boys dressed themselves; and they played without constant supervision.

For a brief moment I thought maybe I could own a pet of some kind, or maybe just a houseplant.

My sister-in-law left all-American food for us to cook the first night: veggie hotdogs and Laura’s lean hamburger.

Truly scrumptious.

My boyfriend squirted mustard on his dog and it came out Kelly green. Fearful, and a little grossed out, he looked to me for an answer.

“It’s kid food, I guess.”

But he pointed out that nowhere on the package did it mention anything about the color green.

We deferred to the five-year-old.

“Oh, mommy did that for my Hulk birthday party…”

I have always taken issue with food coloring, and this day was no exception; luckily the ketchup was still red.

So, on the first evening my boyfriend and I decided that a tired kid in the morning would be a good kid in the morning, so we allowed them to stay up until 10:30.

“Run around the yard again,” I’d say, snickering and setting my inner clock to sleeping in late.

But morning came, and with it the sun; the boys were staring over my bed at 7 a.m..

“We want pancakes,” they chanted.

“But aunt Jill is sleeping peacefully…you know where the grapes are, right?”

“We want pancakes.”

Wearing dark circles and housefrau slippers, I lumbered to the kitchen.

The boys hadn’t stopped smiling from the night before; I said, “You’re killing aunt Jill, you know.”

They giggled.

The next night we allowed them to stay up past midnight; the following morning there they stood smiling…this time at 6:45.

August 17, 2006
Chicago
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Lazy summers are a great time for taking road trips, and also a good time to bite your tongue, suck it up and learn once and for all: men don’t ask for directions.

My boyfriend and I drove to Chicago last Friday to meet his parents for a minute-by-minute fun filled weekend.

His parents did all the heavy lifting: they made the hotel and dinner reservations; plans to hit the Gold Coast Art Fair; and bought tickets to “War” at The Second City.

Basically, all we had to do was remember to pack our toothbrushes, which we both forgot.

For the most part I am, some would say, a super planner, and it’s difficult relinquishing that role.

The only task I had for the entire trip was to print directions to the hotel off of mapquest.com, thus butchering my work ethic.

But I held those directions, my sole responsibility, tightly as we burned up the Dan Ryan, and, nearing our exit, a few times I gently nudged: Honey, you might want to get into the right lane soon. Honey…um, honey…

We were looking for Exit 51A: the hotel was a straight shot downtown from there.

Four exits before our designated route (good God, men are predictable), my boyfriend said, “I’ve had enough of this traffic; let’s get off on this exit and make it an adventure.”

Thereupon, a small hell broke loose in my bloodstream.

We had a dinner deadline; I needed a shower; I wanted a nap; I had drunk way too much water.

Things that make you go: damn it!

I kept a smile plastered to my face; an hour, and what seemed like hundreds of U-turns later, we arrived at the hotel.

I didn’t need to say “I told you so” because he knew; oh, how he knew.

But if anything can help shake off travel debacles and boyfriends who let you waste an entire sheet of paper with directions printed on it (I am so kidding right now), Chicago is it.

Within minutes of dropping my bag in the room, I shed my infantile hubris and we all ate at Gene & Georgetti’s, the St. Elmo’s Steakhouse of Chicago.

I had a fat steak and a belly to prove it, which is pretty good work if you can get it.

Thankfully, I walked off the steak on my way to chocolate truffles at the Fudge Pot, then nightcaps atop the John Hancock building.

Indy is a good place but, oh, Chicago, couldn’t you move to town?

August 10, 2006
Superhuman aspirations
She's no Wonder Woman, but a girl can dream, right?

Jill Brooks Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I simply don't get TV, especially reality TV.

I've spent a total of six delusional minutes flipping between a few reality shows, but I felt no allegiance toward Puck as I already knew he wasn't my brand of roommate, and I didn't need to view Rupert building shelter out of coconuts, or whatever he did, to trust that he's a cool guy.

There was no way the channel changer was ever going to stop at "Cops" or "Who Wants to be A Millionaire."

To me, television keeps the dust on books. But I must admit that the new "Who Wants to be A Superhero?" has piqued my curiosity.

I may even forgo productivity one night just to catch an episode. I never had the body to fill Wonder Woman's costume, but the boots were sure nice.

I wanted to be Samantha on "Bewitched." She was kind, independent and powerful.

I can raise one eyebrow, giving the universal glower signifying disappointment (can't all women do this?), but unfortunately my nose won't twitch.

And unlike Sam, I would never marry two separate men whom no one could tell apart.

My superhero name would be The Social Independent.

My secret identity would be: Girl Next Door. My alter ego would undoubtedly maintain a squeaky clean headquarters.

I would fight for recycling, animal rights, facing fears about vegetables and being allowed time off work for traveling to concerts.

I'd be prone to shoe shopping but immune to poison ivy.

My cape could be used as a tablecloth, a pot holder or an evening gown, and I'd be a gourmet chef able to open tight jars with a single twist.

I'd speak seven languages, cleverly turn phrases and be on Jon Stewart's holiday card list. (I could watch Jon building a shelter out of coconuts for hours.)

I would have a perfect shower voice and perfect pitch, and therefore be a singer in a rock band.

I could stream music between my fingers, but -- look out -- my vulnerability would be hip-hop.

Hip-hop would make my ears bleed, and then I couldn't hear the monitor while on stage. I'd only wear dresses, and I'd never have to shovel snow again. I'd own a vegetarian restaurant near the sea, and my lipstick would be everlasting.

I'd write good poetry, not the crap I currently scrawl, and my catch phrase would be: "Be still my heart."

Most importantly, I'd be the first superhero to daydream and nap, because a superhero must play to her strengths.

August 3, 2006
She's not tortured enough
Novel writing dream nixed by functional lifestyle.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I read Emily Watson's column a couple of weeks ago about how she quit her job to write.

(Note that I didn't say to "become a writer," because everyone knows one must actually write to become a writer.)

After reading this, my first thought was "Go Girl, You" and my second thought was one of pure, sore jealousy.

Isn't she terrified? Doesn't she worry about health insurance costs? Surely she doesn't grasp the American way: work all week longing for Friday.

But she has something I only dream about . . . courage.

According to a 2005 American Community Survey by the Census Bureau, Americans spend more than 100 hours commuting to work each year, with an average commute of 24.3 minutes.

That's more time than the average American spends on vacation.

My commute used to be six minutes. Because I fell for a guy living on the Northeastside of town, it's now more than 30 minutes, if a semi doesn't jackknife on I-70 before I pass it.

Weaving through the car maze of people refusing to putter over 40 mph, I ponder life.

Now I have the added frustration of imagining Emily opening her laptop and sipping her first cup of coffee just as I'm slamming on my brakes (for the sixth time) near the Emerson exit.

I enjoy the work I do, and I write for a living, but there's something so romantic about leisurely crafting stories while snug in one's jammies.

I just finished a book called "A Dab of Dickens & A Touch of Twain" by Dr. Elliot Engel, a compendium of short biographical essays on the "greats" of English literature.

From Chaucer to Frost, it chronicles the lives of 17 authors who were disciplined (unlike myself) and passionate (much like myself) about the one and only way they knew to survive: by writing.

Almost all of them had ne'er-do-well fathers or overbearing mothers, and most were severely depressed.

I question why my parents didn't allow me to suffer more so that I may, too, someday, pen an American novel. (One can blame parents for simply anything!)

The only thing novel I'm currently working on is this column.

I love wine, but can't even manage an alcohol addiction -- a crucial element for ever being considered a literary master.

So, like most working Americans, I'm a talker, a dreamer and a dabbler.

I tolerate my commute and complain about it to make sure it still exists.

But if I can just get depressed enough, I'm sure there's a book in me somewhere.

July 27, 2006
She's so 'Tragically Hip'
Jill runs into the band at the airport with no lipstick on!

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Most days when I wake, like many Americans perfunctorily scraping noses against grind stones, my first thoughts focus on coffee and my hefty commute.

But a handful of special days I save for myself. On these certain days I open my eyes, my heart warms, and thoughts assemble "Hip day!"

There is this rock band I know, The Tragically Hip, greatest live band ever and, unequivocally, better than sliced bread.

I am a Canadian wannabe; everything I touch turns to maple leaves.

I've been branded "one-dimensional" given my propensity to, ya know, "belabour" the point. Besides one boyfriend I fired because he didn't appreciate the Hip, everyone else to whom I've introduced their music became a fan.

I flew to Montreal last weekend to see them with masses of other Hip followers.

My theory is that the French-Canadians traveled south until they found land on a river that was as hot and muggy as Montreal, and so became New Orleans.

Not having developed this theory before I left, I mistakenly over-packed jeans, jackets and four pairs of high-heeled shoes (and I couldn't resist another pair once I got there!).

My French, although I took four years of it and have been to France a few times, is rotten. But Montreal is not Paris.

If you can muster "Bonjour, comment allez-vous?" followed by a scared foreign look that depicts "J'ai mal au ventre" (I have a stomach ache), they'll grant you English.

The band was just off a European tour and, ironically, we were all off our planes at the same time. Some might call this fortunate, running into your favorite band at the airport, but not after four hours of travel.

I had "nap" hair, mascara all over my face and I was messing up my French vocabulary tres bon. But in baggage claim, I turned around and there they stood.

It was greetings and hugs all around but, curse my mother, all I could think was "I'm not wearing lipstick!"

After catching up, touring the city and torturing my feet with hills and heels, the weekend culminated with the concert.

Seeing the Hip at an outdoor venue in the ski village of Saint-Sauveur was, perhaps, like seeing a moose running alongside your car: pretty amazing.

My girlfriend and I pressed our way to the front row, passing out our friendly "pardon!" to persons left in our wake.

Finally in my element, I stood before the band, smiling and dancing. I never tire of their music . . . those talented Canucks.

July 20, 2006
Recent indecent exposure
How I got caught with my pants down -- literally.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

We used to play a drinking game in college called "Most vulnerable."

Going around the table, you had 10 seconds to tell one of your life's most embarrassing moments, or you had to drink.

For some people it was difficult to deliberate, or at least to admit something. For me, the girl for whom big plastic red noses were invented, the difficulty came only in choosing from my extremely long list, as I made a fool of myself -- wait, let me check, yes -- daily.

I excelled at winning this game, and never once caught a buzz while playing.

But like good wine I've aged; the only drinking game I play now is, frankly, called "Here, have another."

French people drink every day, and that's why I pulled for them in the World Cup. But wait -- I think Italian people drink every day, too.

Like them, I appreciate that wine is a basic food group.

I drank a lot of it last Friday night, and suffered the consequences early the next morning when my boyfriend announced, "They're showing the house in 15 minutes."

We've dubbed this "The morning scrambler." Each weekend, hung-over or not, we're forced to leave the premises while the Realtor does her thing.

We did a cursory cleaning of the house; I couldn't believe I was up, much less vacuuming the living room floor, at 8 a.m. as I suffered from extreme dehydration.

We ate breakfast at Café Patachou, where I hid behind sunglasses and three cups of coffee.

An hour later, I headed back to bed and my boyfriend went to the gym.

While trying to get back to sleep, I suddenly heard doors opening, squeaking and slamming. I heard footsteps and voices, and before I surmised that it wasn't my boyfriend back to wake me from the dead, I realized it was another showing.

The exact moment I realized this was, unfortunately, the exact same moment when three people walked in to the bedroom.

I was lying on my stomach in a T-shirt and underwear; a sheet draped over one leg.

A woman asked, "They wouldn't have left a person here, would they?" (Her question struck me as fairly stupid, but I pretended to be asleep.)

For what seemed like minutes, they stood there. I moaned and they gasped . . . right before leaving the house.

I always win most vulnerable, but it keeps me entertained.

Still, I text messaged my boyfriend: "You forgot the second showing; you're in big trouble."

July 13, 2006
What she'll do for love

The fire of passion ignites like the sky on the Fourth of July.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

My boyfriend is turning me into a juvenile delinquent.

A few weeks ago, around midnight on a week night, we heard cars drag racing through the neighborhood.
Routinely sipping wine on the back porch, I said, "Damn kids."

My boyfriend took it a step further: he suggested we go and get them.

We gathered a few handfuls of pebbles from the neighbor's driveway and hid behind trees awaiting the miscreants return.

Making decisions like this while drinking usually concludes with the line: "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

In my youth, I was a trouble-free kid for many reasons: I was a bit of a goodie-goodie; I was afraid of getting punished.

I was into Barbies; and Bobby Brady's line "Mom always said, 'Don't play ball in the house' " was lodged in my brain.

Bobby's painful caveat came to mind often, like the recurring nightmare I sometimes have where I'm looking up words in the dictionary, but they aren't there.

Anyway, I now grant myself permission for a little unbridled pebble throwing.

The drag racers never returned, but we kept our pile of stones for future rumbles.

For the Fourth of July, we went to a fly-by-night fireworks store run by carnies in their off-season (seriously, they told me this).

We schlepped around selecting our explosives, filling the laundry basket supplied to us with Roman candles, ground bloom flowers, four-feet sparklers (so I could best chant my middle and high school and college fight songs), and a few hens in a basket. (Those were for me.)

My boyfriend is from a state that doesn't allow fireworks, not even sparklers.

I remember trips to Atlanta when I was a kid, when we'd stop in Tennessee for the banned, ultra-dangerous detonators, then smuggle them (back then, this felt like espionage) back in to Indiana.

Standing before a pile of M80s, filling my basket with bottle rockets, my boyfriend asked, "We just put these in a bottle and shoot them? These could catch a roof on fire!"

I shook off his West Coast mentality, replying: Put 'em in the basket.

For hours, we stood on opposite sides of the street and tried to shoot sparks over cars.

Our timing was always off: 5 seconds to light; another 15 seconds to detonate.

Only 8 seconds for the car to pass by.

We drank a lot, though, and spent the next morning hosing off the driveway.

July 6, 2006
Dentistry as punishment
Sometimes getting your teeth cleaned isn't all fun and games.

by Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Dentistry is in the air.

I love all things sparkling and cherry-sandpaper flavored, so naturally my over-achieving favorite pastime is getting my teeth cleaned.

Brushing puts me in a really good mood, and flossing is the icing on the cake, requiring another brushing.
I look forward to my six-month check-ups, and because teeth cleanings are as important as hair highlights, I'm careful never to reschedule an appointment.

I went to my appointment last week in a Downtown skyscraper; the view overlooks Monument Circle with minimally invasive laboratory lighting, and often I'm inclined to nap.

I ignore the unsettling brochures and life-sized posters dripping beneath fluorescent lamps, featuring the cross-sections and structural anatomy of Chronic Periodontitis and advancing Gingivitis.(Don't mock my descriptions you crazy science people.)

Do I care about a form of periodontal disease resulting in inflammation within the supporting tissues of the teeth, progressive attachment and bone loss characterized by pocket formation and/or recession of the gingiva?

Am I worried about the mildest form of periodontal disease causing the gums to become red, swollen, and bleed easily? (Not to mention bad breath.)

No. I'm just there to get my teeth cleaned.

I happen to like my dental hygienist, and don't mind hearing her stories about how she partied really hard the night before.

But when I arrived last week, I learned that my usual tooth inspector was off work for the day; instead, I was met at the operating table by Nurse Ratched.

Except for the pillow-like surface on which to rest my head, and the aforementioned Circle view, there was nothing enjoyable about this visit.

Ratched had it in for me from the get-go; she sensed my trepidation, and she pounced.

She decided to do that thing where they count your teeth: 1 -- 2 -- 2 -- 3 -- 2 -- 1 -- 2 -- 2 -- 2.

I made the fatal mistake, trying to gain her friendship and sympathy, of asking what this process meant.

She punished my ignorance by boring her little tool into my gums as she counted. I missed the delicate adeptness of the party-girl.

I pretended to read the gory posters, acting as though normal people find them fascinating.

To this came no avail.

Hours after my violent cherry scrub, my gums still bled and ached.

June 29, 2006
Singing the bird blues
From now on, I'll leave the nature photos to the pros.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

For what I'm about to admit, please don't send me hate mail -- I already feel horrible enough, thank you.

It all began with a few twigs and some hay . . . .

A bird family built a small nest atop an outside sconce on my boyfriend's back deck, and he and I kept the light turned on low to help incubate the eggs.

All spring I chronicled the life and times of the cozy family by nosily peering over the nest with my digital camera.

My photos captured such events as sitting, hatching, feeding and growing.

Sure, I felt awkward and self-indulgent invading their privacy, but I wanted a good photo, to boot.

My digital presentation began with four small eggs, and then moved to the frail, plumply veined bodies of the two ugly babies that survived the hailstorms.

Each week the babies produced more feathers, and my photos, and ego, grew more in depth. Ansel Adams had nothing but film on me.

The parents of the offspring began to fear me, and my persistent, super-human attitude went something like this: Dude, relax; I'm just taking a photo.

Weeks and weeks went by, and here's where I begin to rationalize my behavior: I think the babies were ready to jump from the nest.

At least, I hope the babies were ready to jump from the nest, because after that one last shot I just had to have, they jumped from the nest.

My boyfriend was outside with me when it happened -- two frail birds hopping over my head -- and I screamed.

I asked him to run and grab two hand towels while I stood there screaming about what an idiot I was. He didn't deny this.

I thought we'd get them and put them in the nest before the parents returned.

Alas, the tribulations of cool conceit.

Both baby birds -- I'm choked up about this -- flew away.

I would like to believe that the parents found them in the woods and are still feeding them today.

But this past weekend, the mother bird returned to the nest alone, where she sat and stared for hours.

My boyfriend and I were sitting on the porch drinking wine when she landed. He looked at her, then at me and said, "That may be the saddest thing I've ever seen."

I'd created an empty nest syndrome; I am a failed naturalist and awful person.

Oh, birdies, wherever you are, I hope you are warm and eating well. I have some great photos to show you.

June 22, 2006
Getting wild at the zoo
What does the Blue- Tongued Skink think of party people?

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Last year was my first experience with Indianapolis Zoo's Zoobilation and, sure, I disputed the happiness of the animals.

I ponder such things, and I'm repeatedly armed with a line of questioning.

I care about the Amur tigers' innermost feelings and whether they're getting four squares, or at least some protein from other animals, per day.

Are the African lions allowed to decorate their dens the way they want; does the Blue-Tongued Skink feel comfortable in his skin; will the Aldabra tortoise ever come out of his shell around the Pacific Walrus?

An event like Zoobiliation merely adds to my worries about animals' adaptation to simulated habitats.

Sure, I've seen the band Zanadoo perform a few '70s tunes in my day, but do Kodiak bears get down to Roberta Flack? Does the Gila Monster really need any more mojo?

This year I spent a little more time with the animals, and from initial statistics collected in their community "gallop" pole, I discovered they're OK with fundraisers.

As it turns out, they all have expensive tastes.

The California sea lions lay sleeping the entire evening, across from blaring cover bands and the martini bar, but I'm pretty sure I saw one tapping his right flipper.

And what really causes more anxiety for a Greater Kadu: pedestrians in formal wear sucking oysters on the half shell at a kiosk, discussing the latest venture capital deal whilst splashing about in delicate, plastic finger bowls, or a hungry cheetah that has just targeted you for dinner?

For the passive, vegetarian creatures, a zoo is like being in high school with the bully on your side.

Zoo keepers will get the meerkats' lunch money back and there's nothing the hyena can do about it.

Knowing this lessened my distress and helped me enjoy Zoobilation.

I had no problem mixing alcohol and using bushes as "facilities." (It's the zoo, after all.)

Plastic surgery was rampant, and my friends and I pointed it out like we were playing a game of Slug Bug; this proved fun.

It was my first formal date with my boyfriend, and I certainly didn't mind him checking me out. Every couple should dress up together once in a while, even if only to sit on the back porch at home and count stars.

But in the end, I'm a simple person.

I asked of him: 'Will you please return to Morton's booth and get me another beef burgundy?'

His laugh gauged astonishment in how much one little black evening dress can hide.

June 15, 2006
Itch you just can't scratch
For the first time in my life, I know the agony of prickly poison ivy.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

All summer long the ant slaved away, while his friend, the grasshopper, played and played. But when summer turned to fall and fall to winter, the grasshopper had nothing; the ant, however, had poison ivy.

That is a variation of a variation by Woody Allen, an ode to mortality and the brutal, spring youth of the poisonous, indigenous leaves I encountered.

Scratching at my red and inflamed wrists, which weren't properly covered while weeding, I may have spoken too soon when cursing my discontent for winter.

I now carry four varieties of topical histamine-blocking analgesics at all times.

On a friend's suggestion, I rotated sessions of soaking my arms in bleach-filled water at the kitchen sink.

As I hovered over the basin, my boyfriend said I looked really cool. The problem is I thought I was invincible.

Growing up in Indiana, camping, hiking and romping through almost every state forest, I never fell "babe in the woods" to the pretty little three-leaved monster.

Until now, I wore "never did drugs" and "never had poison ivy" as badges of honor.

Ripping the vines from the side of my boyfriend's house and tearing them root by root from the ground, I scoffed at threats from his experienced knowledge warning "beware the ivy."

I was on a mission; I now have one badge of honor left.

The other night, I scratched my arm so violently that it looked like a small sea creature had burrowed beneath my skin.

The scratching feels so good, but an hour later the oil spreads to my elbow, or perhaps the back of my short-shorted leg.

Suddenly, with every itch comes a degree of worry, and I constantly wash my hands like an OCD sufferer.
I think of alternative misfortunes I might enjoy more: seasickness; a poke in the eye with a sharp stick; Turkish prison. I'm maddened by the prickling sensation.

I've become sympathetic to King George: he wasn't roaming the palace grounds with porphyria -- he obviously had poison ivy!

I wake up every hour on the hour engaged in a disoriented scratching pose; Mother Nature, I want my old skin back!

Just today, after three weeks of scratching, I visited my family physician. I opted for Cortizone pills instead of a shot, the lesser of evils.

I'm typing, and waiting for the itch to vanish. But first, I relapse and scratch.

Mmm, so good.

Through this I've learned one more valuable life lesson: next time call a lawn service.

June 8, 2006
Passing the parent test
Indy 500 is a tough place to bond with boyfriend's family.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

My boyfriend's entire family came to town for Memorial Day weekend.

Typically, this is the weekend I get out of town as it's also "race weekend."

Always eager to entertain, I cleaned house for three days before they arrived.

Before we picked them up at the airport I gave the microwave one last dousing of 409 cleaner. (Moms always check microwaves.)

From what I could see, I passed in this category.

Not only did I meet the parents et al, but I attended the Indy 500 with them, as well.

This is where it got a little tricky.

Some people dread meeting the family, but I am of the peculiar breed who looks forward to such things, where interest and putting your best feet forward converge.

Unfortunately, I vehemently dislike large crowds who gather where music isn't playing; watching drunk people crush beer cans against their heads, and heavy contenders battling it out for Darwin Awards.
Oh, and I'm not a race fan.

The band Staind played a tune from their catalog of morose selections before the race began, and I couldn't help but imagine their disappointment in crowd enthusiasm.

My boyfriend said, "They sure chose an uplifting song for the 90th running, eh?"

I heaved a sigh that noted being stuck wearing earplugs for four hours.

I downed two beers before Mari Hulman George called for the engines to start, and a boxed lunch appeared on my lap.

Things were looking up.

But after I ate the chicken breast, only a bruised apple remaining, there were still three hours left.

From me came a silent sigh and a big, toothy smile for his dad.

I cheered, I clapped and I pulled for the Andrettis: It was a name I recognized.

After the race, we made the fatal mistake of herding through the endless IndyGo shuttle line headed back Downtown, where one employee belittled us all, and grated our remaining nerves.

Trying to remain carefree, and not get in a fistfight with the frustrated masses (because a fist fight might leave a lasting impression), this proved a difficult time to impress new parents.

But we all made a pact to watch the race at their house next year, on the big screen; oh mighty Isis, how we bonded.

Later, we grilled steaks and let off fireworks.

After several beers I performed my high school fight song while holding six sparklers.

I'm not sure if I passed this category, but I gave it my all.

My boyfriend told me to keep being myself.

June 1, 2006
Music means so much
'There's no stopping a free spirit caught up in a musical moment.'

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Music gets me through my days.

In middle school, living solo with my dad, we had full band equipment set up in our living room.

The couch was pushed over in a corner so that the drum kit filled in the backdrop for guitars, bass and amps.

Sleepovers were the rage, and I appreciated my girlfriends' homes full of wicker, flowered wallpaper and Helen Reddy.

When they came to my house I'd say, "Wanna turn the microphone on and sing along to Ministry?"

Friends loved the freedom of expression at the Brooks abode.

Call me ardent.

After first seeing the Tragically Hip, I listened to them for six straight months. On the seventh month I rested, and then I began listening to them again.

I can multiply because of School House Rock, and I can survive the Indiana weather because bands tour here.
Due to an iTunes snafu recently, my friend and cool person who runs Midwest Music Summit, bailed me out of yet another impasse with technology.

While transferring music from my computer to iPod (third time, long story), he said, "Your database is like Christmas morning."

I told him he could "listen" to anything he wanted. I suggested an L.A. band called The 88, my recent favorite.
He listened; he loved; he transferred.

The 88 played Radio Radio, June 19, alongside Matt Costa, and I fell helplessly victim to starstruckitis.

I was the only person in the building who knew all their songs and, oh, how I milked it.

They've been featured on NPR, Carson Daly, Gray's Anatomy and, gosh darn, The OC, so they're obviously good.

This unsigned Silver Lake phenomenon sold (out) their song "Coming Home" to a Target commercial, and who doesn't love Target?

They're a power Popsicle changing creative tempos on a five and dime, Hockney's surreal L.A. in the happiest times.

Think Queen meets David Cassidy dressed in his Sunday best and you're there.

I shouted out a request: "Melting in the Sun!" The band laughed and the lead singer said, "Oh my God, we have one fan in Indianapolis!"

After their set, about eight other people and I skipped Matt Costa altogether, and were privately serenaded behind the venue.

They took more requests and allowed "the women folk" to sing along or play tambourine.

My boyfriend grunted a couple of times, but he understands that there's no stopping a free spirit caught up in a musical moment.

Some may say, "Grow up."

My standard reply is, "I've always grown up with music."

May 25, 2006
1 isn't the loneliest number
In a book club, Jill's tastes for literature stand on their own.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I've been in a book club for two years.

The beginning stages brought six bright women together for a literary fix.

We met once a month, rotating houses and supplying each forum with a lavish spread: wine, beer, maybe even champagne, and a feast of delectable hors d'oeuvres and desserts, because you can't parley on an empty stomach.

I can attack a bowl of mixed nuts and swig a flute of champagne like nobody's business, then get right down to a line of questioning administered by proxy to a Cliff's Notes exacting blueprint.

The first book was Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath," which I'd never read.

(So many books to read, so many bands to see.)

I was so engrossed reading this book, and when I finished, its chilling conclusion coursed through me. Lying in bed, I closed the book and pondered its relevant pulse, beating still in today's corporate hierarchy. Then I read the last two chapters once more.

I'm a sucker for bad news.

This is what literature is supposed to accomplish; and so, I found my independent self a member of a book club, the first real non-sports group of my life.

Book club is a time to "take the floor," a time to exfoliate some of life's brittle dust onto other voracious readers. But members of my book club grew tired of my piercing angst.

More and more we were split down the middle, realizing one tragic book club flaw: We didn't have the same interests in authors.

Some members begged that I no longer choose the books. "Jill picks weird books that no one understands," one hostess exclaimed. Another said, "Can't we read something happy for once?"

A few of them have taxing, complicated daily jobs and asked if we could "lighten it up a bit," so we read several books about female editors living in NYC, dating their bosses or best friends' boyfriends, or not dating at all.

I know when I'm not wanted, but I like these people. I suggested we all read what we want but still meet once a month for champagne.

Last month only two of us showed up at Starbucks.

We ordered tea and crumpets and sat discussing men, kids, world leaders and good chicken recipes.

Literature is a personal thing, and just like all my former clubs of one, I hold tight as the sole member.

May 18, 2006
Hung over in Hotlanta
Loving libations on a recent free trip, but not the hangovers.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Last spring I volunteered to get bumped from my flight and miserably hang around LaGuardia Airport in New York all day in exchange for a free travel voucher.

I felt it only fair that I receive this flight after shredding my sails in the scattered winds of a long-distance relationship.

I held this voucher for one year; I do not like being rushed.

After sifting through restrictions, blackout dates and no direct flights whatsoever, I finally booked a flight to Atlanta. I was worn out already and I hadn't packed.

Atlanta is a cosmopolitan city where you'll find sweet tea, pot liquor and local accents that just fell off the turnip truck.

The word "Atlanta," to a native, has seven syllables.

Day one: hung over.

Like a bad recurring dream, I arrived in Atlanta after a nefarious episode involving Cinco de Mayo, two 40-ounce margaritas and a nap on the bathroom floor the night before my trip.

I stayed with my best guy friend and we rotated dinner plans with his friends, my aunt and uncle and a former college roommate.

We met my suburbanite aunt and uncle at their hip downtown retreat within minutes of my landing.

We were offered glad tidings and a killer bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape.

I love animals and oh, prickly hair of the dog, I certainly cannot deny you.

We ate dinner at a railroad-loading-dock-turned-swanky-restaurant called Two Urban Licks.

It was full of southern charm, slow cooking and sleepy waiters.

Wine (this is a column about wine) was served in carafes and "thieves," which apparently robbed you of your next day.

Like fools we ordered several of the latter.

Day two: more hung over.

As if my head wasn't exploding enough, my friend and I ate too-spicy Indian food then sat slackjawed at an underground Mexican restaurant listening to his buddy "DJ" two hours of Prince songs from his iPod.

Day three: Ibid.

My college roommate was busy carting her kids around all day, so my friend and I did reconnaissance work in her neighborhood before meeting later for dinner.

With map in hand, we scoured Buckhead until we found her chalet on a hill.

"So that's what hard work will get you," I said, as we secretly coasted down her street.

At dinner, her husband mentioned their house.

My friend and I smiled at each other, danced our eyebrows a couple of times and kept eating.

I love traveling, but nothing is worse than a hung-over day four, heading home.

May 11, 2006
So fresh, so clean, so fast
How to survive at-random showings by your Realtor.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Tired of the long drive Downtown, traffic as tight as a jealous girlfriend's noose and only three slightly-above-mediocre restaurants in his Northeastside neighborhood, my boyfriend recently put his house up for sale.

With this, new ways of exploring my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder befell my neat-as-a-pin talents.

I get a little choked up when life comes together so beautifully.

Having a house for sale puts one at the mercy of constant yet sporadic "showings."

The Realtor usually calls when my boyfriend and I are napping, cooking or have unknowingly just tracked in 5 cubic yards of mulch, telling us she'll be stopping by in 15 minutes with a couple greatly interested in symmetrical vacuum tracks on the carpet and a kitchen sink that glows in heavy fog.

For me, this is like getting picked first for kickball; for my boyfriend, it's a real pain in the arse.

In one 15-minute spree I vacuumed five rooms, made the bed, straightened the bathroom hand towels, unloaded/loaded the dishwasher and took out the trash; in this same amount of time my boyfriend turned on lights around the house.

I can accomplish any household chore in 1/8-Flight-of-the-Bumblebee-time while heating up a turkey sandwich and applying lipstick.

Clean house accomplished, heart racing with an athlete's flourish, I searched for my boyfriend; he was outside hosing off the driveway.

Now, if I were house shopping, a freshly hosed driveway might be the first thing I'd hope for, but I explained to my boyfriend that this could slightly, I mean maybe just a little, be a complete waste of his quality hygienic time.

I always feared settling for Mr. Right when I knew Mr. Clean could be waiting just around the corner.

When the house is spotless (be still, my fulfilled little heart) my boyfriend and I jump into the car and hide out for an hour or so.

During the first two weeks of "open houses" held at his place, we found this time to be magical; a date, if you will.

"Wanna grab coffee and hang out at the bookstore?" he'd ask.

We'd hold hands and I found enchantment in real estate.

Now, a few more weeks into it, our tune is changing.

"The Realtor just called; there's a showing in a half hour," he'll say.

"I'm beginning to hate her," I reply.

We scrub, polish, vacuum, fold and leave; we begrudgingly park two blocks away and wait it out.

May 4, 2006
I don't care for karaoke
Friends let friends ignore inhibitions to belt one out.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

My girlfriend was in town last week from L.A., bringing with her great detriment to both my punctuality at work and my liver.

We began on Monday night, and whittled down the week into one continuously hung-over nub.

We are both creative, but I choose tapping thoughts out over keys; with her, you never know what's next.
For the past few months she's mentioned gearing up for planning a one-woman act, which she will, one day very soon, perform in the city of angels.

She and I share lofty goals and a bent toward procrastination.

In L.A. she's surrounded by people in "the business" who provide for her needed inspiration and support.
She does perfect renditions of the Bad Seed and Gloria Swanson, and feels that if her L.A. friends perform, then she can, too.

For practice, she said she'd been frequenting karaoke spots in Venice Beach, singing "Brass in Pocket" and "Bungle in the Jungle."

This forced a question: What in the hell are you talking about?

I reminded her of how she broke into hives an hour before our junior-year production in high school, that the Mighty Oz had spoken years ago, and that she could not sing in public.

She replied, "Oh, but I can, and I do; it's fun throwing caution to the wind, ignoring my inhibitions and belting it out."

This I had to see.

My boyfriend and I met her for dinner; she said she needed to meet/converse with him before serenading.
After dinner we headed to a bar for my first-ever karaoke experience.

We were forced to listen to Vanilla Ice, Van Halen and a bunch of country songs I'd never heard while my friend waited her turn.

One sweet girl ready for her public embarrassment (yes, here I realize that at least she was trying, while I sat idly by dreaming up new pipedreams and drinking a Corona) told us that her eyelashes cost 98 cents, and that we should cheer "real hard" for her because she needed prize money for another tattoo.

Oh, wow.

Another woman sang "Proud Mary" without ever reading the monitor; the karaoke show-off.

My friend's two songs were great, and we cheered plenty.

After she finished she calmly said, "I must admit something: I lied. I'd never done that before."

In making us believe karaoke was "old hat" she calmly found the courage to try.

She is on her way to fame; I will, however, forever remain in the audience.

April 27, 2006
Creepy-crawly encounter
There was nothing itsy-bitsy about this eight- legged terror.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Many early societal lessons watermarked my life: Mismatched socks are not for public display; elbows are never on tables; girls should have a healthy fear of spiders.

Growing up, I was taught that Granddaddy Long Legs were good, but that all other spiders deserved death by lethal indigestion.

I once sprayed half a can of poisonous spray on a hairy black beast and, still screaming, fled the room to let him die alone. How kindhearted of me.

This practice changed several years ago when a former, insect-friendly boyfriend convinced me that spiders are good.

In fact, in our first weeks of summer dating, every time he kissed me a spider appeared somewhere in the backdrop of romance.

Seriously.

We took this as a good omen.

To this day it would take a miracle, and about one million dollars, to get me to kill any bug.
I have changed my evil ways; this is not to say I'm not still afraid.

I was lounging and reading on my boyfriend's couch last week while he was at work.

In my peripheral vision a small shadow glided down from the ceiling. I stopped to look at the biggest, hairiest, best-legged spider I'd ever seen in my life.

In a faint whisper I spoke: help me.

He fell to the floor and I whimpered.

Gingerly, I climbed over the back of the couch and tiptoed to the kitchen to retrieve a glass in which to trap him.

Seconds later I returned but he'd vanished. Foiled! How could this happen?

I quarantined the sunken living room and kept a watchful eye out for my fuzzy friend from a safe, distant chair.

My boyfriend came home and (shocking) wondered what the hell I was doing.

"I'm catching a spider." (So obvious.)

"Catching a spider?" he asked (which I predicted he'd say). "Why not killing a spider?"

"Oh, didn't I mention? I don't kill spiders or bugs."

He probably would have preferred me repeating my dating history to this particular comment. But he laughed and said, "You're very weird" and helped me look for him (or her -- who knows?).

As we moved furniture and shook curtains the spider got larger in my memory.

"He was four inches, maybe five, with dangling long-legs . . . 12 or so."

We never found him.

That night I positioned a high-powered oscillating fan on the living room floor to keep Spidey contained. (I don't think they hunt human prey during windstorms.)

My boyfriend shook his head. Men needn't understand women; just love and tolerate.