The Columnist

Dear Faithful Followers,

Please note that I have decided to go by this symbol:

Because as of January, I will be a monthly COLUMNIST for Chicago Parent Magazine!  So when speaking my name aloud, I would suggest using "The-Columnist-Formerly-Known-as-Marianne." 

Or more simply, "The Columnist."

I feel like Pinocchio when he became a real boy, but without the whole creepy Geppetto side-story thing.

In the meantime, feel free to pick up November's Chicago Parent to find me on sexy page 117.  I have been told that the new column will "definitely appear closer to the front of the magazine at the start of the year."

I'm thinking page 103 has my name written all over it.

So thank you, gang.  Thank you for continuing to support all my nonsense, clear bipolar tendencies, and horrible decision-making process in raising 3 kids.

In some small way, you are helping make the world a better, more dysfunctional place.

Love,

The One Where My Head Explodes

I really hate it when my head explodes. It leaves a terrible mess. Thankfully, my head doesn’t explode too often. Instead of getting angry about all the stupid and aggravating things in life, I usually look for the punch-line. It keeps me from becoming a recluse and moving to a remote cabin in Montana.

Sadly, my head did in fact explode last week. It was disastrous. There was brain matter all over the place. I had to call in a HAZMAT team. And I'm quite sure I won't be able to remove all the stains from my beautiful poo-colored carpet without professional help.

What started it all? It was a simple phone call from my dad:

"Hey Marianne. Don’t forget to get your $25 gift card from Walgreens when you attend parent-teacher conferences this month.”

“What are you talking about, old man? Go take your St. John’s Wort pills and call me back later.”

“$25 gift cards! Walgreens and the Chicago Public Schools are giving them to parents who simply SHOW UP on report card day. I just read about it in The Tribune. Go on your computer and see if the boys’ schools made the list.”

“What list?”

“I guess they only picked 70 schools as part of the pilot program. Maybe they’ll start paying you guys to wash your kids’ clothes next? HA HA. You’ll be RICH. And what about pouring cereal each morning? That should earn you a ten-spot for sure. HA HA HA.”

Convinced my father was experiencing the early stages of dementia, I went and looked up the story online with my husband. It was all true. In an effort to engage disinterested individuals in their children’s education, CPS had partnered with Walgreens to essentially bribe parents. To do their job.  

And that's when my head exploded.  

As I ran around the kitchen collecting the key components of my brain (the part that remembers where my minivan keys are), I struggled to stay calm. The level of absurdity in this plan was so high that I couldn’t figure out why I wasn't yet laughing. The comedic potential was infinite! And yet I had nothing. Even Joe looked surprised.

I wondered aloud how in the world I would put my head back together again.

“Don’t worry, honey,” comforted Joe. “If one of the boys’ schools participates in the program, we can buy like SIX bottles of SUPER GLUE from Walgreens with that gift card. We’ll have you good as new.  Like Humpty Dumpty. HA HA HA."

That’s when I gave the man a real piece of my mind.

It hit him in the nose.

And from now on, I’m screening all calls from my dad.

I'm one mad chick.  The one in the middle.  With bad hair.

Can I Look Now?

I am so going to miss all the ads, political Facebook posts, robocalls, mailings, t-shirts, faux school elections, hysterical rhetoric, negative campaigning and a firmly divided nation.

And if you believe that, I've got a wonderful bridge I'd love for you to take a look it.

What I will actually miss is the extra week of work for Joe courtesy of Election Day set-up at McCormick Place:

The paycheck will buy me a whole lot of Red Bull and Cocoa Puffs.  Joe kept calling me throughout the afternoon yesterday to see if I was watching CNN and marveling at all his hard work and glorious production preparation. 

He was careful to whisper, though.  I think the Secret Service may have been watching him.

And my response was truthful:

Nope.  I'm doing laundry.

But thanks for keeping me in my happy, Nutella-fed lifestyle, honey.

Anyway, congratulations to Barack Obama and best wishes to Mitt Romney.  At the end of all this insanity, I believe both men truly want the best for America, they just disagree on the approach.

And now?

Can we all get back to normal life and start posting pictures of our pets and kids on Facebook again? 

For my Kumbaya moment (sort of), please click here for  today's article in Chicago Parent.

One of the Good Ones

I have always believed there is a rhythm and music to life:  crescendos and decrescendos, overtures and operas, tempo and melody.  It is how a person tells a joke, enters and room, and even marches through life.  There is a recognizable beat to us all, whether one is a whimsical little minuet or a grand romantic concerto.

The dynamics of songs are evident in the sheet music.  When I started this blog, I wanted the same obvious and immediate understanding.  The blog would be fun and airy.  Whimsical and light.  Nobody would ever confuse its tone with Tolstoy or Dostoevsky.

And yet there are moments.  Moments where I don't feel light or airy.  Times where I need to go somewhere else and write something different.  Today is such a day.

It began yesterday afternoon.  It was the usual response once word gets out.  A southside Chicago fireman had been killed.  Our phones were suddenly riddled with texts and phone calls.  Folks doing a headcount.  Making sure.  Details began emerging. 

Captain Herbert Johnson was a neighborhood guy, a Beverly man.  He came from a family of cops and firemen.  He had a wife and three children.  And he was looking forward to his son's upcoming football game with so much excitement that it was all he could talk about that day.  Over and over, people describe him the same way: 

A great guy. 

What a smile. 

What a laugh!  

One of the good ones.

He died battling a fire that destroyed the home where 8 children lived.  In watching the aftermath of Sandy this week, I was overcome by the image of dozens of other firemen wading through a flooded and burning Queens neighborhood to help as best they could.  In the middle of a hurricane.  With their engines, trucks and hoses unable to reach the fiery structures, they kept going. 

I could almost hear the blaring symphony as the winds raged and the downpour furiously pelted those rare individuals who stood in the middle of it all.   

Captain Herbert Johnson was like that.  The 32-year veteran headed to New York after 9/11 to help.  He attended the funerals of his New York brethren.  He made friends wherever he went, and in a neighborhood full of characters, he managed to stand out. 

Friends and family are asking for everyone to check their smoke alarms "in Herbie's honor" this month.  It is a way of making sure the man's song plays on, his legacy unforgotten.  So I share that message with you.  It is the least I can do, and also ask that you offer up a prayer for the family of Captain Herbert Johnson.     
 

Scary Beyond Words

I wanted something really scary for Dan's costume this year.  Something so terrifying, that mothers everywhere would scream and tremble.  Can you guess what I came up with?



Honestly, is there anything more horrifying than a school strike?

For the true meaning of Halloween, click here for my article in today's Chicago Parent.

And happy Halloween!!

Note to self: BLOW OUT candles or a real-live version of Chicago Fire will be at your doorstep.

Out of My Gourd

Does anyone else remember that classic Star Trek episode "The Trouble with Tribbles?" It's the one where the U.S.S. Enterprise is nearly overrun with fast-multiplying little fuzzballs called "tribbles." 

I'm not a big Star Trek fan, but that episode always stuck with me.  I fear it was intended to warn me of things to come. 

My first purchase was a few fun little gourds:

Jack couldn't be persuaded to exchange the straw hat guy for a pilgrim man to complete the Thanksgiving theme.  Stubborn.

Next, I received a flyer in the mail about our bank giving away free pumpkins.  When have I ever turned down free crap?  We stopped by immediately:

Jack and Joey were caught with Sharpies.  Danny piped in, "I wanted to tell them to stop, mom, but you're always reminding me that I'm 'not the mother.'"

Factor in a visit to the pumpkin patch and a couple more pumpkins:

I tried sneaking in a high-zoom photo of Daniel from across the farm, and the kid caught me.  Not only does he hate having his picture taken, but he has a sixth sense for cameras.  It's making it very difficult to document his childhood.

...and then there's Joey who would rather have his picture taken than go to Chuck E. Cheese.

Add another school field trip to the patch, some gifts from family, and without warning, I understood the trouble with tribbles:



I can hear them laughing at night.  They are also plotting.  I think they might know what I did to their kin:

Tribbles are delicious.