Furlough Joe

As a Chicago firefighter, my husband is not allowed to have a beard.  I think it has something to do with his mask not sealing properly if there is hair in the way.  I, for one, can certainly appreciate a good safety rule.  I make my kids wear helmets and knee pads.  I yell indiscriminately at any child running with a stick at the park.  I carry a first aid kit in my purse.  My husband only recently put the kibosh on my forcing the kids to wear life preservers in the kiddie pool.  Haven't we all heard of cases where children drown in an inch of water?  My point exactly.

Yet despite wanting Joe to return safe and sound from the firehouse, I do miss out on the ability to mix things up a bit.  When Joe grows a beard, he looks like a different person.  Part lumberjack.  Part high school teacher.  It's like having a whole new husband:

Why in the name of God won't firemen ever smile for the camera?

So during those rare instances where Joe goes longer than a few days away from the firehouse, he will skip a day of shaving.  Then I pounce and ask for the old "furlough beard" that firemen sometimes grow.  Joe goes along with it for me because it makes me happy.  He tries hard not to scratch and complain too much.  He's a trouper.

The beard will be gone in a couple of days and I will soon be left only with my memories of "Furlough Joe."

I will never let go, Furlough Joe.  I will never let go.

(cue Celine Dion ballad)

O Borders! My Borders!

I mourn Borders today. The one time bookstore titan was neither noble nor kind. Over the last fifteen years, it destroyed legions of mom and pops around the country. It served coffee and lattes while hawking pillows and CDs. Those who ran the company seemed largely ambivalent to the written word - an insulting slap in the face to the true book lovers of America.

So why am I sad? After all, I believe in karma and karma really stuck it to Borders. Yet at the end of the day, I love books. Real books. Hold-'em and smell-'em kind of books. I like bending the corners, making notes in the margins, and stacking them endlessly on my bookshelves.

The demise of Borders reflects a shift in how we access our literature. Kindles and iBooks are this generation's Borders and Barnes & Nobles. The implication is clear: paper books are dead or dying.

"Our fearful trip is done."

As I attended the wake of Borders a few weeks ago at the Orland Park store, it was hard to not take notice of the traditional bookstore archetypes: the middle-aged newly divorced woman in the self-help section, the geeky 30-year-old comic book reader who lives in his mom's basement, the eccentric college professor growing frustrated when employees don't know how to spell Nietzsche. They were all there, paying their last respects and picking up a few 80% off deals.

I of course fall into the most offensive of bookstore archetypes: the poser. I am equally happy reading Graham Greene or People Magazine. True literary types hate me, but I am what I am.

"The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won."

So where does this leave the mom who refuses to read her books with something that requires batteries? All of my batteries are tied up in Leapsters and remote control cars. I will not give in. I am a proud tree-killer when it comes to how I want to view my poetry or tragic memoir. I crave the satisfaction of turning a page. Of slamming shut the final chapter. Of throwing a book across a room to make a point.

Exactly two blocks from where I live on the southside of Chicago (2419 W. 103rd) is a tiny little used bookstore crammed with people and the written word. They offer store credit when you decide you're never going to read that John Grisham thriller your Nana gave you for Christmas. Its name is Bookie's.  I call it my salvation:

"From fearful ship, the victor ship, comes in with object won."

  
So I toast today the demise of one of the largest Mega Bookstores the world has ever known. I also raise my glass to Bookie's, in hopes that its fate is also in the hands of karma. 

The king is dead.  Long live the king.

(All of the picture quotes are from Walt Whitman's "O Captain! My Captain!"  The poem is really about the death of Abe Lincoln, but I have a history of stretching applicability when it suits my needs.  So here's to Walt, Abe, and any poser archetypes out there who aren't ashamed to read about the Kardashians.)

7-Eleven and I Just Broke Up

First, they turned my White Hen into a 7-Eleven.

I still went.  I told myself it was just a name.

Then, a whole new owner came in and hired people I didn't know.  One overly chatty and extremely annoying woman takes 10 minutes to give you accurate change while simultaneously criticizing the long line. 

I mean this is Beverly for chrissakes.  We don't do new people.  Especially when they're annoying.

While trying to limit my exposure to the cashier-challenged, I figured out what time the woman worked and only visited during her off-hours.

Next, they switched the in-store ATM from our bank (no fees) to another bank (fees).

I growled, but I still needed my coffee.  But I'd be damned if I was getting cash!

Then worst of all, they let go of the old-timer who knew our neighborhood, our kids, and our regular lottery numbers by heart.  

I stopped going for weeks.

Shamefully, I returned when I started arriving late for the school pick-ups because getting coffee at Dunkin' Donuts was taking way too long.

But finally, I've reached my no-return limit. 

They upped the price of coffee from $2.03 to $2.18.  That would result in a complete depletion of all my car wash quarters (needed for regular vacuuming of the minivan).  If I tried to conserve my vacuum quarters, I'd end up toting around a purse weighed down with the results of all those 82 cent change transactions.  Madness.

There are a lot of neighborhoods in Chicago where none of this would matter.  Beverly is not one of those neighborhoods.  Our kids walk up to this 7-Eleven for Slurpees and chat with the cops getting coffee.  This 7-Eleven is en route to the downtown train and each morning dozens of related family members, friends, and neighbors congregate in front for a groggy hello.  This 7-Eleven might as well be the nerve center of our little 'hood in the big city.

I am not sure what else I can do to communicate how upset I am over these recent developments.

Perhaps a strongly worded letter to 7-Eleven is in order?

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

I got to be honest.  I'm a little angry. Somebody asked my kids recently what they did this summer. Their response?

Nothing.

Nothing?!?

Instead of banishing them to their rooms or refusing to ever drive them anywhere ever again, I'm rebutting their claims with photographic evidence to the contrary. Consider this Exhibit A in my future defense against charges that I ruined their lives.

Lemonade Stands

 

Fundraisers

Fine Dining

Baseball

Rides on "The El"

Sheer and Utter Exhaustion

I may just decide to request an essay from each of them on why their mother is the most noble and self-sacrificing person to have every lived. Right after I finish this Miller Lite that is.

Battle of the Chicago Area Pumpkin Farms

Before I had kids, I did not know why pumpkin farms were such a hot topic come October.  You go.  You buy a pumpkin.  End of story.

Seven years into parenting, I get it.  It's about the photos.  The rides.  The day.  The fun.  We've even forgotten to buy pumpkins after getting distracted by all the petting zoos and train rides.

As a seasoned veteran of two of the most frequented pumpkin farms on this side of Madison Street, I'd like to offer a suggestion to the newbies: 

Skip Bengtson's.  Go directly to Konow's Corn Maze.

I am not being compensated for this review.  I'm just looking out for parents not wanting to get hosed.

At one time, Bengtson's was our family's choice of pumpkin farms. This was back in the day when Joe and I were both working, and dropping $120 for an outing with the family was no big deal.  But alas, those days have disappeared along with my flat stomach and good humor.

Bengtson's charges $10.99 per kid and $11.99 per adult.  For our family, that's around $60 to just step through the gates.  You'd think you'd have free run of the place, right?  Hardly.  Now it's 2 bucks a ride and the place feels more like a traveling carnival than a pumpkin farm.  I suppose they did try to add a little "country" with the $5 pony rides, but multiply that by three and you've got milk money for the month. 

While there are other things to do besides the rides, the boys have a special knack for gravitating directly towards anything that costs money or involves a carny.  This 15 second ride, for example,  ran us $4 for Jack and Dan (cousin Grace in the middle): 

In stark contrast to the blatant commercialism and money grab of Bengtson's, there is Konow's.  Konow's will run you $9.00 a person.  One-time fee.  No further obligation required.  Done.  Now put your wallet away.

But in case you're interested, Konow's does offer reasonably priced food and pumpkins (transported effotlessly to your car via a courtesy John Deere wagon).  The fun is so much less carny and so much more folksy.  Toss the kids into the huge corn pit and you've got an hour to relax and drink your coffee. The corn maze, hay rides, and tractor-bikes are also great fun.

Kids still got energy to burn?  Throw them into the hay barn with the giant fort to climb and they'll be asleep by 7 pm. But this year I will be stashing some Benadryl in my purse as I sneezed for 45 minutes due to an apparent hay allergy.  Stupid city girl.

At Bengtson's, you're usually standing in a line waiting to hand over your money.  At Konow's, your kids are in constant motion climbing, jumping, and riding.  It's a beautiful thing.  Some pictures to prove it:

It only took us a minute to convince Joey to stop eating the corn.

Anti-photo boy actually smiled for some pictures.

Poor thing wants to be a farmer.  Not with those allergies.

35 minutes from our Chicago home and there's a farm in the background!  Who knew?

So there you have it.  Do with it what you will, but don't say I didn't warn you.  Please do me a favor either way - use the coupon codes on the links I provided.  You'll at least save yourself a few bucks no matter which of the two you look to try.  And if you've got some other recommendations, feel free to post!

Why They Stamp Your Hand at Chuck E. Cheese

My husband and I get into legendary battles of Street Hoops every time we have to endure a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party.  My back just can't do Skee Ball anymore.

Yet last weekend was the first time a Chuck E. Cheese venue didn't offer side-by-side Street Hoops.  I blame it on Naperville's overall lack of city planning.  So Joe and I had to take turns, which is when I started appreciating those stamps they put on you and your kids' hands with matching numbers.  John Wayne Gacy could have easily walked out with all three of my children in tow.  Our levels of distraction and competition were simply out of control.

For the record, Joe would like everyone to know that he whooped my a$$ at Street Hoops.

Whatever. 

The video below shows a previous visit to Chuck E. Cheese where the hoops are placed in the more desirable side-by-side fashion.  For some unfathomable reason, I allowed Joey to take a turn next to his father.  I'm assuming it was probably his birthday as I'm not normally this generous at the Cheese.

 
For all those parents getting "the Cheese migraine" from the blinking lights, hyper kids, and noisy games, keep in mind we've gone to 12 Cheese parties this year alone.

I seriously must have killed someone in a prior life. 

Maybe I was John Wayne Gacy?*

*Yes, all you serial-murderer enthusiasts, I know I couldn't have been John Wayne Gacy because he was alive when I was born.  But the fact that you know so much about serial killers has left me slightly alarmed.