Drill Baby Drill

We had a fire drill at work today. That's not meant as a dopey corporate euphemism for some urgent project – I mean an actual practice for exiting the building in case of an emergency. It was a surprise drill for most people, but not me since I am our floor's fire warden.

This duty was bestowed upon me recently when Jennifer, the former warden, moved to new position on another floor. A few months ago Jen did a great favor by recommending me for my current job. So when she asked if I'd be interested taking over the role, I felt more than a little obligated to help her avoid the task of convincing someone else.

While I prefer to think my proven leadership skills and ability to remain cool in a crisis helped me earn the floor warden position, I think the primary qualification was being tall enough to see over the rows of cubicles. Also my voice has been known to carry amazing distances when others' safety is concerned or when I've had a few belts of whiskey and need to share something "hilarious".

Please don't misunderstand – I accept and perform the fire warden duties with all the appropriate seriousness. Perhaps more than most places, we in Chicago are exceedingly cautious when it comes to the dangers of fire. But I also I consider the role to a bit like the hall monitor in grade school. There's no extra material reward for going above and beyond in this case, but we're here 40 hours a week anyway so I might as well wring a few drops of recognition and authority wherever possible, right? Plus, yeah, it's a flattering charge to think that people would actually depend on me in a real emergency.

At the very least, I expect this job will be an interesting test of the belief that ladies love a man in uniform. A tall, boisterous lout in a DayGlo cap and vest is a far cry from the traditional knight in shining armor image, but it'll do for now.



[Note: Alternative hacky title for this post: "Orange You Glad I Didn't Take Another Month Off?"]

Post-poned

A month since my last post, I apologize to those who checked (and are still checking) to see if I'm ever going to update this blog again.

It's not that there haven't been interesting topics on which to muse ... on the contrary, there's been too much going on with work and various extracurricular activities that I haven't been able to formulate a complete post of brilliant observations to satisfy the highbrow readership.

Please consider this a place-holding teaser of exciting things to come including (but not limited to): the return of Pub Quiz, the welcome onset of Autumn and our recent free vacation to Seattle.

I promise to reward your patient understanding with my improved discipline. Thanks for hanging in there.

Clearance Sail

This weekend featured another opportunity to enjoy the calming powers of Lake Michigan. In all the summers since I moved back to Chicago in 1999, I don't recall spending as much time in or near the Lake as I have in the last several months.

This time it was a day sail up the coast a bit from Michigan City, Indiana. My dad learned to sail years ago and has been chartering boats out of this harbor for the last several summers. Except for the minimal wind (not from the preferred direction, anyway), the weather was perfect. Warm enough, in fact, to jump off the boat and do some swimming a few hundred yards off the coast of New Buffalo, Michigan. Most summers the lake water maintains the same temperature as a typical airplane toilet seat. But despite the relative mildness of the last few months, a lake swim has been the perfect refreshment on a warm, sunny day.

The best part about the boats he uses (the best part for my friends and I, anyway) is that they're nearly impossible to sail alone. My dad accepts the help of a crew almost as eagerly as we jump at the chance to float around on a boat eating cheese and crackers and sipping beers all damn day. So besides Brooke, my dad and me, the ship's manifest included our friends Randy and Sheila.

I've known Randy since high school and his wife Sheila since shortly after they met in college. Moving to Chicago around the same time I did, they got married and were the first to venture out from our tight-knit circle of friends in Chicago's Lakeview neighborhood, opting to purchase a condo in Rogers Park, a community on the far north edge of the city. For several years they seemed like lone settlers in an outer rim territory since few of our complacent peers -- myself included -- would bother to travel all the way up there (approximately 5 miles, easily accessible via public transportation).

Since Brooke and I moved to the nearby neighborhood of Edgewater almost a year ago, the hope was that we'd feel more connected with our close pals ... but as it turns out, now they're moving even farther north. Milwaukee, to be precise. The narcissistically obvious conclusion is that they can't stand living near me. But the truth is that their independent graphic design business has been getting a steady stream of work from nort'-a-da-border. and, not surprisingly, a housing dollar stretches considerably farther in America's Dairyland than in the Land of Lincoln. Also, the congested commute to Chicago's west and south suburbs is often worse than the journey north into Milwaukee anyway.

After finding a great house, they're scheduled to close in mid-October and hope to relocate soon after that, so this was a great chance to take advantage of one last summer in Illinois (even though it was done in Michigan and Indiana). We'll miss having them just a few blocks away but will be grateful for the excuse to visit someplace new soon. And if we don't feel like shelling out for gas or taking the quick Amtrak trip up, we can always hoist the main sail and let the lake breeze facilitate a reunion. Last I checked, there was no shortage of cheese, crackers, or beer in Wisconsin to replenish the galley.

John Solo

Most of last week I had the place all to myself. Brooke's big birthday present from her Mom was a trip to a fancypants all-inclusive resort in Costa Rica which, needless to say, is a swell cushion to any blow that comes with turning 30.

The group left out of Midway Airport early early last Wednesday morning. Brooke said she'd call during a brief layover in Atlanta, but didn't have the chance to. Then I wasn't surprised when she didn't call to say they landed in Costa Rica since the international rates would be mucho expensivo. Taking for granted the ease of global communication, I never asked Brooke to give me her flight or hotel info. It was strangely unnerving to think that I had no way of getting a hold of her in an emergency like, say, I was at the grocery store and couldn't remember if we needed peanut butter or just bought some. What is this, 1998?

Despite the lack of verbal confirmation, I wasn't especially concerned that they didn't make it safely. Put bluntly: if the plane crashed, I would have heard about it. So, content in the knowledge that Brooke was just too busy having a great time, I gave up worrying and settled in to catch up on some shows that were collecting cobwebs on the DVR. Specifically, I had several episodes of The First 48 to watch.

If you've never seen it, The First 48 is a terribly addictive crime series on A&E which, I reluctantly concede, falls in the otherwise deplorable "reality TV" genre since it's not scripted. The show follows actual homicide detectives during the first 48 hours of a recent murder investigation. You see police analyzing the crime scene, questioning suspects and, more often than not, charging someone with the offense.

With few exceptions, the resolution is pretty clear from the beginning – there are almost none of the complicated twists you'd find in the average network cop drama. The down side of such an entertaining but unfiltered look at criminal justice is the real acknowledgment of the potential violence in any urban environment. And that realization is exactly what I didn't need clouding my short-lived satisfaction that Brooke and her fellow travelers made it on time. Now I had a whole new crop of disastrous theories on why they hadn't called.

Yes, I would have heard if the plane crashed ... but what if they never made the flight? Three single women parking in the remote lot of Midway Airport for a pre-sunrise departure? Seems like a great place for some thug to stage an abduction, especially since no one planned on hearing from them for several days anyway. Or what if they did make the flight and got nabbed in Costa Rica? All I know about the country is that it's in Central America, and all I know about Central America is what I learned in Predator. So since I already assume that everywhere outside of America survives on a robust white slave trade, my mind ran ragged about what unspeakable peril was befalling my girlfriend.

Needless to say, all my semi-comical worrying was for nothing. After a little detective work of my own (thanks, The First 48!), I eventually found the name of their hotel and had Verizon add International Dialing to my service plan just to make a quick call to their room, where Brooke picked up the phone. She felt bad for not calling and wanted to tell me all about the trip there, but – despite the fact I just spent 45 minutes tracking her down 2200 miles away – I quickly interrupted her as I envisioned the phone bill digits climbing like years in the Buck Rogers TV show intro.

We agreed to save our all our exciting anecdotes our reunion on Sunday night, which we did. Hers were about frequenting a swim-up pool bar and zip-lining over the rainforest. Mine were about loafing around in boxers and not putting used plates in the dishwasher (which is my M.O. even when Brooke's not jetsetting all over the hemisphere). They had a great time on the trip and I learned that my wild imagination is a horrible roommate.

Triple X

I started this blog talking about birthdays – relatives' as well as my own – and how they're good times for reflection and all that. After a brief break from cake and ice cream, it was back into full birthday mode recently when Brooke turned thirty.

Over the last few weeks I'd been conspiring with her Mom and a couple of her friends to plan a soirée worthy of the momentous occasion. We ruled out a surprise party early on because, as a typical spotlight-stealing only child, I didn't think Brooke would buy any cover story that played down our event planning. After settling on a date, time and venue, we set about recruiting attendees using one of mankind's finest creations, Evite.com.

Evite is a fantastic resource for publicizing an event, but I feel like the ephemeral nature of online communication encourages a casual attitude towards attendance. Not by much, but I'm old enough to remember when party invitations were sent via mail and a formal response was requested. The paper notecard was evidence of the party planners' efforts as well as a nice reminder for the attendees of the date and time to which they committed. With Evite, responding to an invitation is a simple click ... but it's also just as easy to forget about.

On a related note, Evite might as well do away with the "Maybe" response option. This is for people who know damn well they won't attend but feel guilty declining the invitation outright. It has been proven using science that nobody who uses the "Maybe" response ever shows up. What's more mystifying, however, was the girl who confirmed her attendance saying "Wouldn't miss it for the world!" and then proceed to do exactly that. Orbis non sufficit, apparently.

I didn't care about a large headcount for its own sake – my concern was making sure the birthday girl had a good time. To that end, I stressed about the party enough for it to guest star in my dreams twice during the preceding week. The nice thing about getting wound so tightly over this stuff is the amplified relief once the event is a success, which this most certainly was. Great turnout and great cupcakes at a great venue.

The fun continued through dinner on Monday, which was Brooke's actual 30th birthday. We used the occasion to finally try a new Vietnamese restaurant in the area. It did not disappoint despite our concerns about the only people in the place (I claimed I rented out the whole joint but Brooke didn't buy it).

The extra attention we received from the staff included complimentary espresso martinis served with our cheesecake dessert. The drinks came equipped with neat cookie straws ... which, needless to say, was a special treat for a spry gal of just one score and ten years old.

Good Mourning

So it's been almost a week since we tearfully but dutifully escorted Dana to dog Valhalla. As you might imagine, the loss still weighs heavy in small, strange ways

Since last weekend, friends and family provided many comforting phone and email greetings as well as a very thoughtful card (pictured above) that came in the mail yesterday. Everyone – especially those who have been through this – did a fine job providing counsel on dealing with the grief, but no amount of advice can completely assuage the sadness of little reminders.

Perhaps the most unexpected pang came when I arrived from work last Friday. Since I got Dana while still in college, I never knew coming home from a day at work to an empty place. It wasn't as fun as trying to keep an excited dog from shedding on dress pants, but I'm adjusting. I'll also catch myself instinctively keeping food out of reach (Dana was a notoriously resourceful scavenger) and closing our bedroom doors on the way out of the house.

The other striking thing about the last several days are the flashes of crippling guilt over minutia. Looking back, it kills me to think about how mad I'd be when Dana decorated the kitchen floor with the garbage. Or those times I complained about having to take him on a walk because I was exhausted or it was raining. For as much as I hate to reduce the human experience down to a mechanical "process", it's some comfort knowing such misplaced guilt is part of a grieving process and will subside with time.

Meanwhile, of course, the good news is that those regrettable moments are far outnumbered by fond memories, several of which I was reminded of through friends' recent correspondence ...

... like the time before Dana was "fixed", when my friend Patrick and I walked in the living room to find Dana defiling a pillow to the thumping beat of Lenny Kravitz's "Are You Gonna Go My Way?" which blared from the stereo speakers. As we laughed hysterically, puppy Dana looked up at us like "You guys gotta try this!" That day Dana became a man ... and a proud owner of his very own pillow (thereafter known as Daphne).

... or the night my old roommate Matt made sure to put a newly-purchased Entemann's cake far back on a high kitchen counter before he and I went out for the evening. As we left, Matt actually dared Dana to reach the thing. When we returned home that night, sure enough, the floor was littered with ripped-up box and Dana's bed was covered with incriminating cake schrapnel. To this day, forensics experts have no idea how he did it.

... finally, there was the time a few years ago during a killer thunderstorm when I couldn't find Dana anywhere in our small two-bedroom apartment. After a frantic search of our place as well as the stairwells and back yard, I pulled back the shower curtain to discover a trembling dog hiding from the thunder in our tub. It was far too adorable not to preserve the moment in pictures (click).

If you made it through this post, thanks again for letting me get all cathartical.

I promise this won’t turn into a year-long online memorial to my dog. And if it does, I’ll at least change the name to DeceasedDogDailyBlog.com.

Friendly Farewell

Fetch thy hanky from yonder dresser drawer … this is a sad one. It took a couple days before I could write about this and, even now, I’m sure to be wiping tears and snot from my laptop (as you might too – consider your keyboard warned).

In late June I posted about taking my dog Dana to the vet for a cough. Fortunately it wasn’t long before we found the right antibiotic to cure it. Unfortunately, as we recently learned, the cough was a symptom of a bigger problem. When he became really lethargic after refusing to eat or drink for a couple days early this week, I took him back to the vet and had my fears confirmed. Blood tests showed that his kidneys were failing.

The docs assured me Dana wasn’t in pain, but made it clear that he was very sick. They gave me the treatment options, none of which sounded favorable for my dog or my checking account. Being the responsible caregivers that they are, however, I was also told that even the most aggre$$ive treatment offered no guarantee of recovery considering Dana’s age and condition.

Everything between the lines was clearly legible.

The trite thing to say is something about this being the hardest decision. Really, the medical diagnosis and my knowledge of Dana’s behavior made the decision itself considerably easy. What’s difficult is the reality of losing a friend and the twelve years of memories that have a nasty habit of rushing back at the most inconvenient time. Especially Thursday morning around 8:15 a.m.

There are a million little details about the past few days that could lend an even sweeter sadness to this post, but I’m not going share everything just to sap it up. Like my conversation with the nurse Wednesday about cremation remains and urn options that seemed straight out of The Big Lebowski. There’s no need to mention that. Or the fact that Dana’s walk to the vet Thursday morning was so comically slow it was almost as if he knew it was The Green Mile. What’s the point of including such a tidbit?

I’m grateful to have this cathartic outlet. If you read the blog, I assume you know me and want to offer your condolences in the comments. Really, though, I’d feel better if you all just go hug your dogs. And if you don’t have a dog, hug a strange dog (assuming the owner isn’t also strange) (or Michael Vick).

Dana was a good dog and a great friend. The last few days have been rough but there is a huge comfort knowing he isn’t suffering. I’ll miss him, of course, but I’ll also have plenty of opportunities to think about him since most of my computer passwords have some version of his name in there. Don’t bother trying to crack my bank login – all the money went to the vet.

For any friends of Dana who may not have seen him in a while, here are links to a few recent photos.

Nursing an injured foot last fall
Reluctantly wearing antlers last Christmas
Showing his spirit on Super Bowl Sunday
Sampling a nearby beach this spring
Hanging out on my parents' deck a few weeks ago