The Smell of Commerce in the Morning

Having once possessed an actual paying job, I must say: I miss capitalism.  I know it's not a popular notion right now, but it's true.  Sitting within a stone's throw of the head corporate honchos, I often had a unique sideline view of year-end earnings, meetings with rating agencies, and the whispered hints of pending mergers and acquisitions.

Of course at the time, I was bored senseless. 

Don't get me wrong, I loved my actual job.  But I worked in insurance.  Insurance.  No little girl goes to bed at night secretly hoping to land that big job at AIG.  I would ask all potential English majors to heed my warning:  English is not a practical major.  Minor?  Yes.  You'll be able to jot off a stellar memo.  But as a major?  You'll be the red-headed stepchild in any field outside of academia. 

Just saying.

It took the monotony of 3 kids in 3 years to help me appreciate the excitement of American capitalism.  Sure, a lot of  Fortune 500 companies botched it over the last 5 years, but insurance companies have pretty much held their own.  I'm sure having an army of actuaries drawing up models and financial forecasts didn't hurt. 

The pinnacle of my career came when one of the companies I worked for went public on the New York Stock Exchange. I got to witness first hand the opening bell at the epicenter of global capitalism. Prior to that day, I hadn't been that enthralled with business as a whole. I secretly planned to go back for my PhD in something rewarding...like 18th Century English Romanticism.

Yet that day.  That day.  I got goosebumps watching Wall Street in action.  Tiny little Maria Baritromo stomped across the trading floor scaring the dickens out of anyone who crossed her path.  Traders frantically signaled to each other about what, I still don't know.  The energy was palpable.  It was incredible. 


 At the end of it all, representatives from my company all received an NYSE medal. My kids recently found it in a box and were very intrigued. They wanted to know what NYSE stood for and if they could use "the coin" to buy some gum.  I told them it was a very special medal that I got all the way in New York from a short, bald man named Dick Grasso. 

"You only made one quarter, mommy? You should have gotten a different job. Maybe then we'd at least have a Wii."

While I may not have always appreciated the spirit of free enterprise back in the day, I embrace it now.  It was such a thrilling ride compared to pairing hundreds of faded socks together week after week, year after year.

It is with this same entrepreneurial spirit I will begin plotting my return to capitalism.   I have been carefully biding my time and waiting for just the right moment.  That time is now.  It has been 4 long years since I've conducted a garage sale.  I was stymied by the obvious liability issues associated with my cracked-up driveway.  With new concrete and a smooth exterior, there is nothing to stop me.  Except a Chicago garage sale permit and perfunctory ads in The Beverly Review. 

Thank you America for affording me this opportunity to hock old baby bouncers and outgrown toys.  Thank you for giving me a chance to rise through the ranks and earn a little extra for all these piano and violin lessons.  God bless you America for being that last great hope, that beacon in the sky. 

At long last I will again experience the smell of commerce in the morning.  It may not be the New York Stock Exchange, but it's all I got.

Weddings & Things I Know for Sure

After a fantastic weekend wedding and through the haze of recovery, I have come up with a few foggy truths about life.  Follow along.  I'll type slowly as my brain is still not 100%

1.  I'm a sucker for romance.  

2. When given the choice on martinis, stick with the small:

3.  The only way to party like a rock star after the age of 30 is by stashing a couple of these in your purse (next to your flip-flops):

4. My brother Joe is very tall:

5.  My blog will be welcoming a new follower very very soon:

6.  When in Lake Geneva, the best "recovery" food can be found at Popeye's (not that chicken chain, but the rotisserie place)

7.  It's never a good idea to put the "Cubs" number card at the table where my husband the Sox fan is sitting.   I believe this was face-down for most of the reception with the exception of when I took the picture.

8.  Per the instructions of the girls at the wedding, if your problem area is fat arms, channel the Venus de Milo and pretend you don't have arms:

9.  Even though a great time was had, sometimes it's nice to just come home and look at your new driveway:

Hangin'

Wedding in Lake Geneva this weekend to be discussed once my head stops pounding.

In the interim, please enjoy pictures of my shoes. I'll leave you to figure out which ones I wore to the reception, and which ones I sported on the stumble back to the hotel.

Congrats Tommy & Julie!

Cap'n Crunch Meets Cap'n Literal

I got the scare of my life the other day.  Going on my usual 4 hours of sleep a night, I stumbled downstairs to perform the perfunctory headcount of my children.  Figuring they would all be glued to Phineas and Ferb, I was surprised when I reached the bottom of the steps only to find a tidy family room. Could they all possibly still be sleeping? My little roosters were usually up at 6:30 am.

I cracked my knees and headed back upstairs to do a "visual." I began to panic when I found their beds to be empty. Then I remembered that Joe was off that morning.  Could he have taken them to breakfast at one of his Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives locales? I looked out our front window and saw both cars parked and the construction crew working diligently on our driveway.

With my pulse racing, I checked the backyard and saw Joe calmly talking to the head of the crew with absolutely no kids anywhere in sight. Were they already run over by that big roller thing and soon to be forever blazoned in my driveway?  My stomach turned. I was now on the warpath as I opened the back door and blasted over all the noise:

WHERE ARE THE KIDS???

My husband yelled something back, but I couldn't hear him.  Thankfully, Joe is a gesturer, so I took notice of him pointing west.  I ran back to the front door and swung it open to find:

Apparently, the little goons had plotted their way to (1) a Cap'n Crunch breakfast (which I strictly forbid as this is "Daddy's cereal") and (2) an escape out the front door to oversee all the excitement of driveway construction.

When I asked who told them they could go outside, I got the stock response of "Daddy knows we're here."  This meant they performed the action first, received no reprimand from Joe, and now felt completely vindicated. 

I threatened them all within an inch of their lives if they moved even one single step down and went back inside to make myself a pot of coffee.

A few minutes later, one of the construction guys came over and jokingly asked Joey if he could finish up the work for the crew. We always call Joey "Captain Literal," as he hasn't quite mastered the art of repartee.  I would have assumed that Joey instantly agreed and marched towards the driveway to get his hands on all the equipment he'd been coveting for days.  Instead, his response?

"I'm telling my mommy on you.  She said 'WAIT HERE.'  You in twuble now."

He proceeded to run inside, recount the whole exchange, and then ask for another bowl of Cap'n Crunch.

For valour in the face of great temptation, I granted my younget's request by pouring the last bit of cereal into his waiting bowl

And Joe got stuck with Cheerios.

Exercising a Video Option

There are no words to accurately capture the moments filmed below.  Expecting to find my husband watching cartoons with the boys in bed, my assumption was proven incorrect:

By the way, I have got to stop talking when I film home videos. I am so much more annoying and nasal-sounding on video than I am in my head.  Any good speech therapists out there? 

May your weekend be filled with a few surprises of your own!

The Diva and the Secret Truth Behind Flash Mobs

I am loathe to do this, but I fear it is my responsibility to finally advise one of my best friends that people are starting to not like her.  It's all the talk at the water coolers lately. Nary a kind word has been said about her in ages.

Her name is Chicago and her reputation is nearing ruin.

Most of it is in fact her own doing.  She's a high-maintenance diva who costs everyone around her a mad fortune. She neither nurtures or protects her children and mocks her allies' trusting nature.

An example:

Say you're a man returning home from a long 24 hour shift at the firehouse and in need of a little family time.  You suggest an outing to visit your friend "Downtown Chicago" via the Shedd Aquarium.  But first you got to pay $19 to park (cash only). Chicago and her cohorts chuckle when you try to put away your wallet. You might want to keep that handy. 

You head over to the stairs to purchase admission tickets. If you want to see anything beyond goldfish at the aquarium, it's going to cost you. The "Total Experience Pass?" Why that's $34.95 per adult and $25.95 per child aged 3 and older.  Chicago laughs at you again when you try to pass off all your kids as "under 3."  Daniel is taller than the attendant and the guy isn't buying it.  Better luck next time, sucker.

But perhaps you're not that concerned about the expenditures.  After all, this is Chicago.  You're close. You practically grew up together.  A day out with your family in her beautiful downtown area is worth every hard-earned penny.

After a fishy few hours at the Shedd, you head over to your favorite pizza joint, Pizano's. The pizzas are pretty reasonable ($20). If Chicago does anything right, it's her pizza.  You remember why you're friends with this city again.  None of your other friends are capable of such culinary splendor.  So you order an additional pizza to bring home because it's just that good. 

You lean forward to whisper something to your waiter. All the old-school Chicago waitresses knew how to accommodate those special requests of regular patrons.  For instance, Pizano's pizza dries out something fierce in the fridge and a little extra sauce sent home in a Styrofoam container does just the trick.  Back in the day, Gertrude-the-waitress would take care of you:  

Oh sweetheart, it's on the house. Gratis. Thank you for coming and God bless those beautiful children of yours.

Not today.  In an age of city surcharges and extra restaurant taxes, "executive management" now mandates a pretty substantial fee for a little extra sauce. You have some strong opinions on this new policy and express them rather colorfully to your young hipster waiter who basically tells you to lump it. He storms off in a huff and sends someone else over with your bill.

Where is Gertrude when you need her? Oh. She moved to Alaska 5 years ago?  No state income tax you say? No state sales tax, either? Gertrude liked the Iditarod?  Who knew.

So you stomp out of Pizano's even lighter in the wallet because you forgot that they do not accept Discover card.  You've only got $5 left  due to the cash-only Shedd parking lot and the Discover-shunning Pizano's. No worries. Look at that skyline. Look at that lakefront. Your friend is just as breathtaking as always. You sally forth to your next stop: Michigan Avenue. The wife wants to look at shoes.  Again.

Before she can say "size 10 in a strappy sandal, please," a gang of thugs knocks you to the ground, pummels you ruthlessly for 5 minutes, takes your last five dollars, and runs away. Final score:

City of Chicago:  $200 and a cracked rib
You: A solemn vow to never visit this Godforsaken downtown area ever again.

In a period where families are struggling financially and personal safety is a legitimate concern, the lure of downtown is diminishing (Daley's flower pots notwithstanding). Even the city's premier food festival, The Taste of Chicago, drew fewer crowds and faced a significant downturn in business (see SunTimes article). 

A recent mob attack in Boy's Town (see Trib article) has led to a community meeting to address the issue as well as a Facebook group called, "Take Back Boystown."  As I am a big fan of the neighborhood from my years spent living near there (safest place in the world for a single 20-some girl to walk home alone at night), I was sad for the plight of this tight-knit community. I checked out the Facebook group to see what the residents were suggesting.

I got to tell you, there were pages and pages of thoughts on the matter. Everything from re-forming The Pink Panthers' Patrol to demanding an upsurge in police presence were batted around. Some people were angry, some people were hopeful, and some people were just trolling for a fight. The divergence in opinions was obvious.

One perhaps slightly naive poster felt that the thugs were basically bored kids angry about not being admitted into area bars because they were underage. Her solution: juice bars. Because behind every felonious, knife-wielding teen is a kid who just wants to hang out and drink apple ciders. Perhaps low blood sugar is the true dark catalyst behind all of this recent madness. Juice bars.  Of course.

Forget Pepper Spray - Offer your Attacker a CapriSun instead.

My boys have been dying to take a ride on "The El" this summer like they have every year since they were born. Heck, I used to ride the Red Line every day with Daniel clutching my hand and Jack bopping around in my stomach. I'm just not as comfortable as I used to be with that idea.

Some will say that I am perpetuating a myth of urban violence that is being exaggerated by the press and those easily agitated.  My recent car ride through several neighborhoods on the northwest side suggests otherwise. Good people are waking up every day on blocks were there is no order or likely assurances that daylight will shine on them or their families again.

I love you, Chicago.  But you can do better.