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!
Friday, July 8, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
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.
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.
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. |
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.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Thine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Coming of the Bobcat
New driveway: Thousands of dollars
Hours spent debating contractors: 30
Neighborhood reputation after 7 AM excavation crew showed up: Shot to hell
Cost of having 3 boys glued to the back window for 7 hours: Priceless
Hours spent debating contractors: 30
Neighborhood reputation after 7 AM excavation crew showed up: Shot to hell
Cost of having 3 boys glued to the back window for 7 hours: Priceless
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The Impossible Dream
As my college roomates would be more than willing to testify, I have a ridiculous love of musicals. In school, while most co-eds were listening to Nirvana or The Red Hot Chili Peppers, I was down with Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and West Side Story. Seriously, where was my intervention? You'd think friends and family would have provided some much-needed guidance to uber-dork here.
Anyway, one of my favorite musicals was (and still is) Man of La Mancha (the musical version of Cervante's Don Quixote). When I was living in New York, I saw it on Broadway five times. Still no intervention. The song I loved most was To Dream The Impossible Dream. For the theatre geeks out there, I've included the Elvis cover of the song:
Elvis:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8v2vANl2-LE
Back in my 20's, I interpreted the song as a quest for a righteous life. In my late 30's, I have a decidedly different take on it. I think the song may have been inspired by harried housewives. Our list of "impossible dreams" piles up daily. For example:
I dream that I will one day be able to park my car in the garage.
I dream the baby birds who have happily taken up residence outside our window and chirp all morning will learn to fly away. Or die trying:
I dream my husband will one day love me as much as he loves his bean bag boards:
I dream I will have my own laminating machine:
I dream that I will uncover a treasure trove of vintage Fisher Price Little People at my favorite second-hand shop:
I have found that middle-aged dreams can be exhausting. They serve only to remind me of my mounting failures. The laminating pile grows. I couldn't even fit a broom in the garage today. Joe wouldn't take his bean bag boards out of the car for a party on Saturday citing "safety" concerns (while our children turned purple from 12 hours in the pool followed by a dousing of DEET).
Anyway, one of my favorite musicals was (and still is) Man of La Mancha (the musical version of Cervante's Don Quixote). When I was living in New York, I saw it on Broadway five times. Still no intervention. The song I loved most was To Dream The Impossible Dream. For the theatre geeks out there, I've included the Elvis cover of the song:
Elvis:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8v2vANl2-LE
Back in my 20's, I interpreted the song as a quest for a righteous life. In my late 30's, I have a decidedly different take on it. I think the song may have been inspired by harried housewives. Our list of "impossible dreams" piles up daily. For example:
I dream that I will one day be able to park my car in the garage.
I dream the baby birds who have happily taken up residence outside our window and chirp all morning will learn to fly away. Or die trying:
I dream my husband will one day love me as much as he loves his bean bag boards:
I dream I will have my own laminating machine:
I dream that I will uncover a treasure trove of vintage Fisher Price Little People at my favorite second-hand shop:
Comedian Mitch Hedberg perhaps summed it up best:
"I'm sick of following my dreams. I'm just going to ask them where they're going and hook up with them later."
Sounds like a plan to me.
Monday, July 4, 2011
God Bless America and God Bless the Swim Dress
Happy birthday, America! Only a bunch of founding fathers could inadvertently start a 200 year tradition of combining explosives with barbecue.
Of course with a holiday weekend full of people bouncing around in their bathing suits, conversation naturally erupted over the dreaded bikini wax. One girlfriend refuses to have it done without downing a Vicodin. Another girlfriend recounted a tale of bolting out of a salon after the first swipe. Wanting to have something to contribute, I commented that I hadn't waxed since I produced children. My Miniature-Friend was appalled.
Miniature-Friend: But what about when you're wearing a more revealing swimsuit?
Me: I wear a swim dress. Razors work for that.
Miniature-Friend: But you're not going to actually wear a swim dress (said with complete disdain) when you're on a romantic trip with your husband and sitting by the pool? I mean, you'll get a cute little suit for that, right?
Me: I haven't gone anywhere alone with my husband for longer than 18 hours since 2004. Plus, I've had three c-sections, gall bladder surgery, and I like Cocoa Puffs. There will be no cute little suits in my future.
Miniature-Friend: Poor, sad Marianne (she forgot "lumpy").
My Miniature-Friend is a size 0. She runs and works out constantly and has the enviable little figure of a 16-year-old. There is no physical evidence that she actually birthed her own two children. I honestly don't know why I'm even friends with her.
I love my swim dress and will be wearing it proudly all summer. It comes in at the waist (which I still have), glosses over the stomach (which I definitely have) and makes "the girls" look good. I threw away all my bikinis 10 years ago and refuse to allow an imperfect figure to keep me from enjoying a day at the beach.
Which brings me to a quick discussion about this past Friday. We had planned to have the kids skip camp and instead head to the Warren Dunes. Joe even turned down a work call at his 2nd job. Tom Skilling, WGN weatherman, assured us it was going to be the hottest day of the year. Notices to "check-the-elderly" were hand-delivered to our door. Inspired by a sweltering forecast, we happily packed our beach stuff, loaded up the cooler and waited for the Grandma-Killing scorcher we were all promised.
At noon it was 75 degrees with 30 mph gusts and clouds. Joe kept insisting the temperature was about to shoot up. I put the kids in the minivan and dropped them off at camp. Joe looked like he just found out there wasn't a Santa Claus. Then he got mad:
I mean, I can understand being off by 5 degrees or so. But 30 degrees off? This is f$%cking ridiculous. I could be a weatherman if this is the level of accuracy expected.
In a sour mood, he threw himself down on his recliner to watch the Cubs-Sox game. Due to the storm the night before, the cable of course was still out. He then proceeded to spend an hour on the phone with Comcast. He took a week's worth of frustration over wood-chippers, jack hammers, unfulfilled beach plans and T.V. outages out on an unsuspecting cable rep.
Ah well, better him than me.
Thankfully, Joe still managed to enjoy sufficient water time this weekend courtesy of the highly-sought-after "friends-with-pools." And I got to sport my stylish new swim dress up until the time when a giant brown dog jumped in the pool with us and Jack had a nervous breakdown.
Please just keep in mind that an appropriate level of modesty is truly a gift to those around you when you do not have a Sports Illustrated cover model physique. I just wish somebody would have told these people that:
Of course with a holiday weekend full of people bouncing around in their bathing suits, conversation naturally erupted over the dreaded bikini wax. One girlfriend refuses to have it done without downing a Vicodin. Another girlfriend recounted a tale of bolting out of a salon after the first swipe. Wanting to have something to contribute, I commented that I hadn't waxed since I produced children. My Miniature-Friend was appalled.
Miniature-Friend: But what about when you're wearing a more revealing swimsuit?
Me: I wear a swim dress. Razors work for that.
Miniature-Friend: But you're not going to actually wear a swim dress (said with complete disdain) when you're on a romantic trip with your husband and sitting by the pool? I mean, you'll get a cute little suit for that, right?
Me: I haven't gone anywhere alone with my husband for longer than 18 hours since 2004. Plus, I've had three c-sections, gall bladder surgery, and I like Cocoa Puffs. There will be no cute little suits in my future.
Miniature-Friend: Poor, sad Marianne (she forgot "lumpy").
My Miniature-Friend is a size 0. She runs and works out constantly and has the enviable little figure of a 16-year-old. There is no physical evidence that she actually birthed her own two children. I honestly don't know why I'm even friends with her.
 |
| I love you, Swim Dress |
Which brings me to a quick discussion about this past Friday. We had planned to have the kids skip camp and instead head to the Warren Dunes. Joe even turned down a work call at his 2nd job. Tom Skilling, WGN weatherman, assured us it was going to be the hottest day of the year. Notices to "check-the-elderly" were hand-delivered to our door. Inspired by a sweltering forecast, we happily packed our beach stuff, loaded up the cooler and waited for the Grandma-Killing scorcher we were all promised.
At noon it was 75 degrees with 30 mph gusts and clouds. Joe kept insisting the temperature was about to shoot up. I put the kids in the minivan and dropped them off at camp. Joe looked like he just found out there wasn't a Santa Claus. Then he got mad:
I mean, I can understand being off by 5 degrees or so. But 30 degrees off? This is f$%cking ridiculous. I could be a weatherman if this is the level of accuracy expected.
In a sour mood, he threw himself down on his recliner to watch the Cubs-Sox game. Due to the storm the night before, the cable of course was still out. He then proceeded to spend an hour on the phone with Comcast. He took a week's worth of frustration over wood-chippers, jack hammers, unfulfilled beach plans and T.V. outages out on an unsuspecting cable rep.
Ah well, better him than me.
Thankfully, Joe still managed to enjoy sufficient water time this weekend courtesy of the highly-sought-after "friends-with-pools." And I got to sport my stylish new swim dress up until the time when a giant brown dog jumped in the pool with us and Jack had a nervous breakdown.
Please just keep in mind that an appropriate level of modesty is truly a gift to those around you when you do not have a Sports Illustrated cover model physique. I just wish somebody would have told these people that:
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Block Party Czar
So after all my blogging about neighborhood wood chippers, deck additions, and sprinkler-stealing, who do you think got nominated to co-chair our street's block party this year? That's right. Yours truly. I didn't even know my name was on the ballot. Of course, this is Chicago. Voting early and often is practically a mandate.
I have very logically refrained from engaging in this sort of activity given my inability to "go with the flow." Simply put: I am a dictator (an "Alpha Female" if you will). In corporate America, my loyal event planner, Sharon, executed all my wishes to perfection. When she made recommendations that I didn't like, I would merely say "Nah. Let's do it my way." Frank Sinatra would have been proud.
Those days are gone. On my own version of Wisteria Lane, I'm forced to play nice and listen to people's suggestions and be thoughtful and considerate. My sons could testify to my gross ineptitude in this area. I am just not naturally nice or patient. When I worked, I despised corporate meetings where every EVP, AVP, and just plain VP would toss out random concepts and wait for a standing ovation to commemorate their brilliance. Oddly enough, these same geniuses never stuck around to investigate, oversee, or implement a single thing. Those tasks, my friends, are usually assigned to a woman.
There is a clear explanation as to why men are the great visionaries in society while women are the great pooh-poohers. Women can anticipate the work involved behind every grand scheme. I can only imagine what Hannibal's wife had to say when he suggested using elephants to cross the Alps and attack the Romans:
Mrs. Hannibal: Really, you want to use elephants? To march across mountains? That's your master plan?
Hannibal: That's the plan.
Mrs. Hannibal: Have you thought about the clean-up on this super idea? Geezus...the smell alone will alert the Romans from 10,000 kilometers.
Hannibal: Oh, hush.
Mrs. Hannibal: And what about the river Rhone? It's not like elephants swim, dear. Unless your understanding of elephants differs from mine? Oh...but wait, who got an "A" in Mammalology 101 and who was too busy having sword fights in the quad to go to class?
Hannibal: You're killing my invasion buzz.
Mrs. Hannibal: You never think things through.
Hannibal: You're right. I married you.
So here I am, Czar of the Block Party and fully prepared for the neighbors to never speak to me again. I don't want to conduct brainstorming sessions. I don't want investigate new themes. I don't want to re-invent the wheel.
My co-chair and I will do everything we can to make this a nice block party. And if the people don't like it, they can vote me out of office next year.
Or I'll come up with a texting scandal to speed up my ousting.
And that is why elections matter.
I have very logically refrained from engaging in this sort of activity given my inability to "go with the flow." Simply put: I am a dictator (an "Alpha Female" if you will). In corporate America, my loyal event planner, Sharon, executed all my wishes to perfection. When she made recommendations that I didn't like, I would merely say "Nah. Let's do it my way." Frank Sinatra would have been proud.
Those days are gone. On my own version of Wisteria Lane, I'm forced to play nice and listen to people's suggestions and be thoughtful and considerate. My sons could testify to my gross ineptitude in this area. I am just not naturally nice or patient. When I worked, I despised corporate meetings where every EVP, AVP, and just plain VP would toss out random concepts and wait for a standing ovation to commemorate their brilliance. Oddly enough, these same geniuses never stuck around to investigate, oversee, or implement a single thing. Those tasks, my friends, are usually assigned to a woman.
 |
| I Heart Crossing Alps |
Mrs. Hannibal: Really, you want to use elephants? To march across mountains? That's your master plan?
Hannibal: That's the plan.
Mrs. Hannibal: Have you thought about the clean-up on this super idea? Geezus...the smell alone will alert the Romans from 10,000 kilometers.
Hannibal: Oh, hush.
Mrs. Hannibal: And what about the river Rhone? It's not like elephants swim, dear. Unless your understanding of elephants differs from mine? Oh...but wait, who got an "A" in Mammalology 101 and who was too busy having sword fights in the quad to go to class?
Hannibal: You're killing my invasion buzz.
Mrs. Hannibal: You never think things through.
Hannibal: You're right. I married you.
So here I am, Czar of the Block Party and fully prepared for the neighbors to never speak to me again. I don't want to conduct brainstorming sessions. I don't want investigate new themes. I don't want to re-invent the wheel.
My co-chair and I will do everything we can to make this a nice block party. And if the people don't like it, they can vote me out of office next year.
Or I'll come up with a texting scandal to speed up my ousting.
And that is why elections matter.
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