Inspiration

This morning at the gym I was paging through a local magazine and its cover story on "Chicago's Most Beautiful People." The list included flattering blurbs and photo spreads on local and national celebrities (singer/actress Jennifer Hudson) and a variety of charming local executives, entrepreneurs and socialites. I'm always drawn to these articles (see also: Crain's Chicago Business' annual "40 Under 40" list) but somehow always feel a little less impressed with myself after reading them.

Where, I ask you, is the list of people whose utter lack of ambition, fabulous hair and good shoes might make the rest of us feel better about our wonderful but not-very-exciting lives? I need a cover story like this:

"Sad Sacks and Jerkfaces: Chicagoans You Wouldn't Want to Be"

Gary Schmelz Unemployed since well before the recession hit, Schmelz lives in his younger sister's basement and sleeps on a futon he's owned since his first and only semester at Eastern Illinois University. Recent projects include a run at beating his personal best on Missile Command on his parent's circa-1980 Atari system he inherited when they moved to Florida.

Linda Peterson Thrice-divorced Peterson, 58, is the unpleasant woman behind the counter at the DMV. She says the best part of her job, which she has held for two months, is seeing the frustration rise in her fellow citizens as they try to navigate the Secretary of State's system. Currently she is yelling at her neighbor's kids for standing on the sidewalk in front of her house.

Jeff Barkowitz Since getting a taste of fame as a cast member of the reality show "Mr. Personality" (in which the female contestant was tasked with choosing her mate from among mask-wearing men, basing her decision solely on their - you guessed it - personality!), 42-year-old Barkowitz has left his full-time bartending job behind and spends his days applying to appear on every other reality show in development in search of his 15 minutes of fame.

Now that kind of list would inspire me to work a little harder at life.

Why do I read this stuff?

For some reason I find myself checking People.com nearly every day. Once in awhile that site offers some legitimate piece of breaking celebrity news, and God forbid I miss it.

Most of the time, however, they have headlines like this:

PHOTO: Hillary Duff cuts her bangs

And then I feel the need to go read a lengthy novel.

"It's been so long! Have you been...working out?"

Ah, Facebook. You have provided me with some really nice online reunions with both college and high school friends. Some have, sincerely, been fun to catch up with, a couple really leave me wondering how I lost touch with this person or that. Others, meh, I could take or leave 'em. Every once in awhile, though, Facebook provides a "what the #$*@?" moment.

About a year ago, I "friended" a girl I knew in high school. She was a year behind me, not someone I would have hung out with one on one, but nice enough. She came from a fairly wealthy family and always had interests that were sort of above and beyond what the normal Southwest Iowa teen takes on, like equestrianism, for example. So when I became her Facebook "friend," I wasn't surprised to see recent photos of her competing in steeplechase and whatever other horse riding events exist.

Yesterday, however, she revealed her new hobby. Evidently she is not just into, um, working out, she is actually a competitive (prizewinning!) bodybuilder. She posted a photo of herself, holding a trophy. In a very small, hot pink bikini. With arms the size of my husband's and clearly enhanced "girls." And a skin color that makes the female cast of Jersey Shore look like geishas.

My first thought when I saw her photo was that she was standing in front of one of those plywood cutouts at a carnival where you stick your face in the designated hole. ("Ha ha, look at me, I'm a farmer! And my husband's a cow!") Then I realized the skin on her face perfectly matched the skin on the plywood cutout's body and that it was, indeed, her own body in that bikini.

I mean, good for you for being "fit," but holy crap, dial it down a notch.

Note: The photo above is not her.

Lesson(s) Learned

A couple of weeks ago, I was just cleaning up after dinner when our doorbell rang. At the door was a sizable teenager - I could only guess his age by how he was speaking, rapidly and nervously reciting a spiel about scholarship money and Chicago Tribune newspaper sales and wouldyouhelpmebysubscribingforjusttwentydollars? We already have a subscription, so I asked if I could just make a donation. He said that would be fine, he'd just mark on my receipt that it was just that so we wouldn't get billed by the paper. A receipt? Great. This is totally legit!

As I went to get my wallet, I thought of a few other people who had told me about similar experiences, where a teenager comes to their door at dinnertime with something to sell or a charity to support. Typically the message is, 'this is a scam - do not give them money.' For some reason, I ignored that thought and handed over $20, thinking it was better than giving him a personal check with our information on it. He then asked me for my mailing address so he could write it on the order form, so I gave it to him, and got a little nervous, wondering if I should even do that. But then, I realized, all he has to do is look at our address on our house - he's standing on my front porch, after all - to get that information. He was really polite, very appreciative and smiled and waved at Eamon. He handed me the receipt and walked off down the block to the next house. I looked down at the receipt as I shut the door and noticed that it had no information on it regarding a scholarship - it just had the Chicago Tribune logo, no indication that it was for a charity of any kind. I mumbled to myself, "idiot." And left the receipt on the table.

When my husband got home, he too agreed it was probably a scam because the receipt looked shady. Then he suggested I not answer the door when I'm home by myself at night, because anyone could just burst through the door. I thought of how big the kid was - he was built like a linebacker - and eventually lost about three hours of sleep that night thinking about how stupid I was for even opening the door and putting Eamon and myself in harm's way. I am a naive suburbanite, I thought, wondering where and when I'd lost my street smarts. I very rarely if ever give to panhandlers. I used to always deny those kids selling M&Ms on the street corners who say they're raising money for their basketball teams. Why would I give twenty bucks to a teenager on my front porch? I should have just turned the porch light off and ignored him.

Today in the mail I got a letter from the Chicago Tribune and a check for $20 from an organization called Starr E. Sales Inc. The message on the form letter said they apologized, but their records show I already have a subscription and therefore cannot subscribe through that charity. So, the kid was trustworthy, he just didn't have his information straight -- donations weren't allowed, only new subscriptions were accepted. I was glad I initially went with my gut and trusted him, and embarrassed that I thought he might have been a threat, and wonder now how many kids I've turned down who were honestly trying to raise money for something worthwhile. I'm a little sorry I wasn't able to support him in the end.

But I am still looking for my misplaced street smarts.

And, in other aged rockers' news...

Phil Collins has announced he is "quitting" the music business. Because his back hurts.

Sympathy for the Devil

I just finished reading Keith Richards' autobiography, Life. All my life, I'd heard various urban legends about this guy -- the whole "having my blood replaced" thing, all the drugs he's done, even the more recent falling out of a tree. So I was anxious to read this book. And who knew? Most of the stories are more or less true. Okay, he didn't actually have all of his blood replaced, but it might not have been a bad idea at the time were it medically possible. And he actually did snort his dad's ashes. I mean, of course, it's an autobiography, so should be taken with a grain of salt, but he doesn't exactly paint a totally rosy picture of himself.

Oddly enough, after reading his life story, I not only find him to be a pretty likable guy ("I trust you until you do something to make me not trust you.") who truly loves what he does and has a great passion for many types of music. He comes across as very down-to-earth, even including his recipe for bangers and mash in the last chapter, but I also think he is not human. The man almost died, like, 87 times. And not from drug overdoses. From multiple car accidents, falling from a ladder in his Connecticut library, almost being electrocuted. The list goes on. And mark my words, he's nearly 70, but I think he'll be around for another 25, easily. And in the end, he will probably die of natural causes.