the fetishists, they walk among us

I left work last night like any other night, walking northbound on State St. amongst the bustle of commuters, tourists and random wanderers. As I walked, I felt someone sidle up to me and begin to address me in the way that panhandlers sometimes do when they’re about to ask for spare change, a dollar, your kidney, etc.

If you live in Chicago, this is an unremarkable, everyday occurrence and — unless the argument is particularly compelling — you just put your “sorry, no” face on and continue walking. Which is just what I did, except the exchange didn’t exactly go as I expected.

RANDOM SLOUCHY DUDE: “Excuse me. . .”

ME: *shifts eyes to the left to assess the situation*

RANDOM SLOUCHY DUDE: “You’ve got some really nice feet.”

ME: “…”

RANDOM SLOUCHY DUDE: *continues walking up State unfazed, eating peanuts out of the bag he’s carrying*

ME: *glances down at Teva-clad feet as RSD moseys ahead* “. . .Thanks?”

People, I’m going to be completely honest here. In my 34 years of life, no one has ever — ever — looked at my feet and said anything more exalting than, “I don’t think your feet are so bad.” While it’s true they mind their own business and aren’t blatantly offensive (at least not with the toenails painted), they’d also never be considered stop-you-on-the-street-and-discuss material. At least not by anyone with functioning eyeballs.

That leaves only the conclusion that my innocent feet were fodder for some fetishist’s ogling yesterday. I’m hoping that’s where it ended, and that I don’t need to constantly check my surroundings for a slouchy dude toting lotion and a basket.

The kicker, of course, is that this creepy, seemingly genuine appraisal of my piggies caught me so off guard, it took a few moments to realize I’d missed a golden opportunity. What I should have said in that moment was: “Careful, bitch — those are DANCER’S feet!”

that’s because fozzie’s not wearing his hat

I’m re-posting this from a few years back, when I kept a blog at MySpace that exactly five people read. It’s three years later, so the birthday being celebrated is n0w 28 and the fiancée is now my sister-in-law, Claire. I’ve also updated the photo (taken this weekend) but the rest of it is almost word-for-word what I’d write today.

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Originally published June 4, 2007

My baby brother is 25 today.

If you hadn’t figured it out, he’s the furred one in the photo above — that’s him making the creepy face, um, pretty much always. Although we’re the two most lookalike of the Barnaby sibs (especially our identical eyes), his commitment to this bonkers facial hair (as well as his aversion to taming the Barnaby eyebrows) at least ensures we don’t completely look like fraternal twins.

Dan and I were staying with my grandparents when he was born, and my grandma came upstairs that morning (at 6, I was SO super cool to be able to sleep upstairs all by myself) to tell me about my new brother. When she said they’d named him ‘Adam,’ I thought that was probably just about the dumbest name I’d ever heard. How ridiculous would that sound on the Christmas cards? “Liz, Tony, Angela, Danny & Adam” ?

Clearly they had lost their minds. How would he ever fit in?

The day they brought him home I wrote in my diary: “Adam came home from the hospital today. He is little.” (My powers of observation were dizzying, truly.) From then on, he’s been my baby brother. . . Even though we fought to the death the entire time we were growing up: I once pushed him off a chair in the middle of our family’s favorite Chinese restaurant because he was being, well, himself at age 6. (I’m pretty sure that’s why they still remember us 20 years later.) And even though we still fight to the death now: Last summer, we didn’t speak for half a day after fighting over a game of Scrabble. (He was mad because I was using all the triple word squares on the board.) All of this is no doubt because we’re so damned similar — stubborn and sarcastic and defensive and ridiculously competitive and attention whores at heart.

When we’d fight, my mother would warn me to watch my back, telling me that someday he’d be bigger and stronger than me. I laughed, of course – it seemed inconceivable he’d ever grow up that much. And yet. . .

Somewhere along the line, he outgrew airplane rides (though never my demand for water piggyback rides in the lake, which always end with my dumb ass getting dunked and coughing up water).

Somewhere along the line, he became 6 feet tall. . . and started shaving. . . and became a writer. . . and went to college. . . and fell in love. . . and (god help us) got engaged.

Somewhere along the line, he grew up. Not enough to stop deliberately showing his asscrack when he leaves a room (that’s crazy talk), but enough to truly impress the hell out of me with his maturity about important shit.

Somewhere along the line, he moved to Maryland with his now-fiancée, whom I love dearly. . . and whom I try not to give too much grief for getting a job way out there.

Somewhere along the line, he became one of the smartest, funniest (if still gassiest) people I’ve ever met.

Somewhere along the line, I got so lucky as to have not just one awesome brother, but two.

Somewhere along the line, “Angela, Dan(ny) & Adam” became the only way it ever could have made sense.

Happy birthday, Oam. I miss the hell out of you — and I’m the one on the right.