The Mighty Sand Gnats

Based on the evidence below, who do you suppose mixed up Joey's T-ball game with Danny's baseball game?

If he was allowed to swear, you know he's thinking, "This is such bullsh*t."

This is Joey "playing" left field.  I stole Danny's hat so he at least sorta looked like a baseball player.

I did figure things out by Game #2.

My son invited every single base runner to our house for a playdate. We might have to move.

For more on my adventures in T-ball, visit today's Chicago Parent!

Death of a Couch (1986-2013)

Fred had a good long run and enjoyed a lifetime of living rooms. He traversed the homes of assorted friends and family before meeting his final resting place on the southside of Chicago.

Sadly, his demise was accelerated by a trio of Walsh boys who viewed him as a magnificent combination of trampoline and coloring book.

Battle scars.

Do NOT leave your wet coats on the couch, you hear me?!   Yeah.  That worked.  

Poor Dead Fred

I thought about prolonging Fred's life for a while.  But when the reupholsterer gave me a quote for $850, I knew it was time to pull the plug. 

Sorry, Fred.  There were braces and Catholic school to pay for next year.

My husband called up Bad Luck Lenny to help maneuver Fred into the alley.  Oddly enough, not one Chicago garbage picker even slowed down to take a second look. 

Poor Fred, I almost felt sorry for him.

That was, until I sat down on Antonio:

"Marianne (and Marianne ONLY), come sit with me and discuss life, love, and musical theatre."

Total clearance price from Darvin Furniture = $399.  Now subtract the $50 gift card (expired) that I received for doing their commercial.  This is the one that all my loyal readers demanded get reinstated in order for poor little Joey to finally get that lamp for his bedroom.

Sorry, Joey.  But did you see what you guys did to my couch?

I also had a $200 gift card leftover from when we bought our TempurPedic bed 3 years ago.

Final cost = $149.

For someone who has never really owned "new" things, I am almost embarrassed by my overwhelming love and desire for Antonio.  Just being in the same room with him makes my heart skip a beat.  I try to remind myself that he is, after all, just a couch.

But that doesn't mean I have to cut off his tags.

Chicago Show For Mothers - May 5th!

In a little over one week, a group of Chicago-area women will be taking the stage to share true tales of motherhood.  I am so honored and excited to be a cast member of the 2013 Listen to Your Mother show on May 5th at the The Athenaeum Theatre (2936 N. Southport Avenue, Chicago) and hope everyone considers going!

As someone who has been known to experience paralyzing stage fright, my plan is to down one hearty shot before going on.  Mum's the word.  I think the producers are already second-guessing my casting and questionable influence on the far-classier members of the troupe.

The voices and backgrounds of the selected artists are as wildly diverse as the topics. I am dying to give you a sneak peek into these fantastic readings, but the producers remain keenly aware of my deficiencies in the area of secret-keeping.  They have also issued a confidentiality agreement and are holding me to that most sacred of promises...   

The pinky-swear.

No matter.  I will take this risk for you, loyal reader, and confirm that the show is an emotional journey spanning tears and laughter, life and loss, and that one little word that looms so large throughout all the days of our lives:

Mom.

So think about grabbing a mother you know and heading over May 5th!  Tickets can be bought by visiting HERE.

As an aside, I am dedicating my reading to all those who have lost their moms far too soon and who would give anything to "listen to their mother" just one more time.

I hope to see a few friendly faces there!

And please pray that I don't suck. 

Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

There aren't too many things for which I'm willing to wait in line:

Pie.

Botox.

A parachute.

And there are even less things that I'd get up at 3 o'clock in the morning to secure.

Find out what had me stretching my parental limits this week in today's Chicago Parent (click HERE).

The only person who arrived before me.

My Park District Peeps

Pretending to be #1

 

Learning to Live with Green Peppers

My husband, Joe, took me to his favorite little Chicago diner on one of our first dates.  When we sat down at Billy's that night, he could not wait to order the stuffed green pepper soup.  The steaming bowl arrived and my husband proceeded to spend 15 minutes picking out every last pepper. 

I was baffled.

"Why did you order the stuffed green pepper soup if you don't like green peppers?"

"I can't help it," he answered, "I love the rest so much that I just have to have it."

Over the years, Joe finally learned to tolerate the green peppers and stopped picking them all out.  He even discovered a recipe for making his own stuffed green pepper soup courtesy of Norm at the firehouse:



This is Joe's "happy" face.

Yummy.

After 10 years of marriage, I now realize that I am like that soup.  There are plenty of bits and pieces that I'm sure Joe would just love to pull out if given a chance:   

I squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube. 

I forget to pay the cable bill.  

I use all the hot water. 

My "green peppers" take up more than half the pot.  And still.

Joe continues to order the soup.

While I work on taking shorter showers.

The Exciting Conclusion

Our trip to Florida was quickly coming to an end when a cold front moved in that brought overcast skies, rain, and three bored children.

And here is where it is very good to hail from the Beverly Neighborhood of Chicago.

Why? Because you simply pick up the phone and call whichever pal is also vacationing in Florida. Because Beverly people are EVERYWHERE.

I used to get freaked out when Joe and I would travel to random and obscure places only to bump into Beverly folks. Joe once shared the story of how his uncle was hiking up Pikes Peak when he suddenly heard:

HEY LARRY!  Dat you? It's me...PATRICK. You know...from the NEIGHBORHOOD! 

It's kinda like being in Goodfellas.

As luck would have it, Miniature Friend and her family were staying in nearby St. Augustine. We agreed to meet up and check out the local Alligator Farm:



Hey, kids! Look here for a picture!  LOOK HERE!  All together!! oh forget it
 

You know Danny's having fun when he actually smiles for a pic.
 

Joey and his future prom date (fingers crossed)

I did not like the feeling of only a layer of glass keeping us safe from this man-eater.  I took this pic and  RAN. LIKE. HELL.
 

I hope you can tell why Miniature Friend is named that.  You can pretty much fit her in your purse.

What do people from the southside of Chicago do best?  They stand around "and bullsh*t" (talk).  FOR HOURS.  Case in point. 

After leaving the Alligator Farm, we headed to a local fish restaurant on the beach and immediately directed the kids to play near the pier so we could...well.... bullshit.  Seriously.  It's an art form around here.  Beers are encouraged.

I'm not quite sure WHO took this picture as I am actually in it.  It may be the only proof that I even exist.

Sadly, our vacation was over and we packed up the minivan the next morning.  That was when things really got interesting.

Our ride home would result in one of the most scarcest of marital admissions known to man:

You were right. 

It came as a result of Joe suggesting we book our hotel in advance for the midway point of our drive. I brushed him off: 

We'll just stop when we're tired and stay wherever. 

How was I supposed to know that the perfect storm of the NCAA tournament, a huge cattle show, an international chess tournament, a Harley Davidson convention, and Spring Break would prohibit us from getting a single room anywhere along I-75?

We had to drive straight through. 

At about 4 o'clock in the morning, I noticed my husband was fading.  I valiantly offered to drive, having not taken the steering wheel once during the entire trip.  We switched positions and Joe was snoring away within seconds.  I zapped on the old Cruise Control (it totally helps you save on gas), and I relished my selfless contribution to our family's safety and well-being.

I was practically Joan of Arc.

Until all the warning lights started going on 20 minutes later. 

I nudged Joe in a panic.

"Oh, Marianne..." he mumbled, barely opening one eye, "those are the dashboard lights for the CRUISE CONTROL."

I looked again.

"But why are they orange?"

Joe leaned over to take a better look and immediately started yelling:

PULL OVER PULL OVER PULL OVER!

Were you guys aware of this whole "coolant" thing?  Apparently minivans, when forced to go straight through the mountains of Tennessee only to continue on for 12 more hours at 80 mph, have a tendency to overheat.

Huh.

Joe got the car cooled down after saying the F-word about 762 times.  We managed to buy coolant at the next exit and Joe also re-took the wheel.  Although he denies it, I know he believes I broke the car.  You know....in 20 minutes.  Upon our 7 am return to Beverly, we forked over $500 for a new radiator and went to bed.  We then ate Macaroni and Cheese for a week because who knew this vacation was going to cost us another $500?   

I tell myself it is all okay.  Because this kind of material simply does not come cheap.