The Wordmistress

whoo-hoo

I remember in 1982 when the Milwaukee Brewers went to the World Series, my brother called me in Madison. They're dancing in the streets, he said. It was very cool. And I was a lifelong Brewers fan. A box-score checking, auto-show appearance stalking, listening on my transistor radio fan. And for perhaps the only time of my entire college career, I felt homesick.

My love affair with baseball ended abruptly with the 1994 baseball strike. I was so disillusioned with what I had always adored about sports in general: passion. All I could see was the petty and the greedy.

But after I moved to Chicago, I couldn't help but be wooed by the lovable loser Cubs. Wrigley Field reminded me of County Stadium; and the spirit of the Cubs appealed to my wounded heart ... since they couldn't win, they had to be in it for the game.

And so, I began to trust in this game. And that spirit, that very spirit that I used to feel and you're supposed to feel about sports came back big time when the White Sox looked like they might be a contender for world champion.  The last few days when the Sox would be in a situation that would appear dire, they would do the impossible: they'd pull it out. When your team, a team in your city shows that they really are a winner, something starts to happen. It's a kind of patriotism, a kind of excitement, a kind of purity, an energy, something to think about outside of yourself and marvel at and go hey. whoo-hoo.

Cause you know, there's not a ton of stuff to say that about.

Direction Home

About 20 years ago my parents called me and asked me if I wanted a lamp. I was in year 3 of 6 glorious years of college in Madison. I said sure, thinking I would get it the next time I was in Milwaukee. This was before the age of Caller ID. They said they'd be there in five minutes.

Ten minutes later, they pulled up in a moving truck. Unbeknownst to me, they had sold the house I grew up in and packed it up, moving much of what they wanted to salvage to Las Vegas. My mom was moving out there with my brother Ross, who had been bouncing around from college to college; my Dad would remain behind. Would I also like a pair of couches?

Yes, this was typical Kurzer behavior. My parents always operated on the assumption that the less we knew, the better. My brother and I often came home after school on a Friday to find $100 on the table and a note that they'd be home late. Once we realized that late meant Sunday night, we soon became the destination for last-minute parties. My parents' behavior was not without its perks.

My roommates and I took the couches and my mom moved to Vegas. My mom bought a little house and, to the envy of friends and lovers, I was able to fly off to Vegas on a whim for much of the next decade. My parents were able to maintain a weird, strangely cosmopolitan, cross-country relationship, but when my Dad had a quadruple bypass about eight years ago, my mom sold her house, put her stuff in storage and moved back.

Fast forward to this weekend. Dutiful daughter, setting off on a journey to unlock the secrets of the long-locked storage unit. My parents paid monthly on that unit for eight years, nursing the futile notion that they would return to the arid climes of the desert. It just wasn't meant to be.

Ever since I was a little girl, there was this coffee table that I wanted. I used to tell my mom that when she was gone, I would claim that table for my own. I must have been talking about that table for 25 years. I guess this is my lucky day.

I am leaving tomorrow evening and returning Sunday. It's actually the first time I've ever left town without Mia. It's the first time I will be in Vegas since my mom left. And for some reason, I've booked myself in a wild card hotel. I didn't want to stay in a casino so I chose a place off-site, with mixed reviews. I guess I have this image of driving up to a kind of divey type hotel with only my backpack by my side; it seems like that would make sense. But if the rooms are dirty, I will freak.

And so I will embark on my trip. A journey back in order to go forward. And possibly a late night trek across a lit-up town in search of alternative housing to punctuate the oh, so dramatic poignancy of it all.

The Man

Mia cracks me up. She has this way of saying things that is so completely serious and earnest that you just want to give it so much credence, but at the same time, it is so god damn funny. For instance, whenever she observes any type of construction: a house being built, roads being repaired ... she will look out the window and, with a wistful deadpan, utter "The man did that." Our back porches are being rebuilt (don't get me started) and I showed her what was going on. She looked up at me, all wide-eyed and such and said, "The mans did this. Then they went away." Before you get all school her on gender equality on me, know this: I always explain to her that women do these types of jobs too. (I also tell her that it's men, not mans). But we don't see women out there. And she is stubborn little girl. And so as we continue on our travels, to school, to work, we are constantly on the lookout for ... the man. And y'know, he's always out there.

The Low Down Greasy Grumps

Is it the barometic pressure? The change of weather? Or maybe it's hormones.  For whatever reason, I've been feeling totally grumpy since yesterday. And I even worked out yesterday! But shortly after my midday workout, I took some goodhearted (I think) teasing at work WAY too seriously ...  and then fell into major tears. Huh? I could not look at anyone without shooting daggers. Steam seethed from between my teeth. I worried about picking up Miss Mia, but as soon as I saw that cute little face, I felt much better. Thing is, as soon as I dropped her off this morning, the Grumps found me again. I almost ran a woman over for having the audacity to try to let me go ahead of her. Damn. This weekend, I'm going to Vegas to clean out my mom's storage unit. Do you think that maybe I'm feeling a little blue about this task? Could be, but you'd think I'd be just a little more mature by now. Guess it takes a whole lot of growing up to really grow up. Jeesh, I'm tired. Probably the barometer.

Twenty-four Hours of Floozy

I'm recovering ... I think ... from the 24-hour flu. Literally. Like it came on with a bang Sunday night, mid Larry David and felled me, causing all kinds of nausea and dizziness. And I always know I have the flu when my wrists are weak. But I still went to work yesterday, because, I guess, it's easier than having a toddler jump on a pukey stomach. But I could not shake it. There were moments, I guess, when I did feel better, but it kept coming back. So much so that I had to go home and pass out (my friend Jamie was kind enough to take the child away). Then, just as steathily as it came on, it walked off. The veil of nausea was lifted ... pretty much at least. I mean at least as much so that I could deal with the flourescent green poop Mia had to lay on me at that moment. But the questions still remain:

1. How does it know when the 24 hours are up? This flu lasted precisely 24 hours. Weird and wacky stuff.
2. Why's it got to hit me so often? I'm a good girl. I take my anti-oxidants, wash my hands regularly. Yes, I could be working out more and lose weight. Okay ... my answer. Leave me alone!
3. What's with the wrists? I don't know why this always happens to me, but it's the sure fire harbinger that I'm fluing, rather than food poisoning or some other illing. Crazy shit.
4. And speaking of shit ... flourescent green poop? What is this child eating? And can someone convince her to use the potty already?? She does not listen to me.

On the lighter side of the news, please check out my new blog venture: My Fabulous Fake Friends. It's a celebrity blog and you can find it at www.myfabulousfakefriends.com.  Then, maybe you'll feel nauseus too!

The Jay Leno Shoe

I got a funny email today. I knew that someone was hitting my weblog recently searching under my brother's name. In fact, at least two people in two different cities have been doing that recently. Anyway, I got an email that had the simple subject line: Hello. Well, you know what most of us do with emails that have that subject line and a name we don't recognize, right? Delete! Still, I don't know why, I clicked on it. And it happened to be from a friend of my brother's from way way back. He was just searching for information on my brother and came across my weblog ... hadn't known that he had passed away. He was surprised that my insane and selfish uncle hadn't told his family, who he knows, but that, kind reader, is another story completely.

Anyhow, he wrote me a nice little email, chock full of little tidbits about the past, which I LOVE, because it reminds me so much of Ross and it reminds me in exactly the way I love to be reminded: in real anecdotes. He mentioned that he used to come over late night and watch MTV at my parent's house (everyone did, we were one of the first families with cable -- can you imagine that?) And then, as a PS, he asked if I still had the Jay Leno shoe. Well, I laughed so loud in my office here at work that I raised somewhat of a ruckus. See, back in high school my friend Dan and I used to stalk the comedians at Summerfest. Now, first, you have to remember that Summerfest back in the 1980s was a lot different than it is now, smaller and more accessible for sure. Anyway, we went to see Jay Leno a few times and chatted with him after his set. He was small time at the time. He had been on the Tonight Show a few times, that's how we knew him, but that's it. Well, he was distracted and looking around and finally, he looked at us and asked us to drive him to his hotel. We jumped at the chance!! He was staying at the Ramada Inn downtown and we drove him to his hotel and before he jumped out, I asked him to sign my shoe. I saved it for a while. And Dan used to point to his car seat all the time and say, "Jay Leno's ass was right there."  Good times.

Who's That Knocking on My Door?

You. You know who you are: Winter Park, Florida. I know you're checking up on me. I see you in my server logs. And I know you found me by searching for me by my full name. But who could you be? Maybe it's a mystery man, someone from my past trying to find me and rescue me from mediocrity. Nah ... probably just a bill collector. Damn my luck.