A golden opportunity

As if it's not enough that I receive catalogs in the mail these days with titles like "The Artful Home."

I have received in the mail a "charter invitation" to a new magazine. But lest you get the wrong idea, let me warn you in advance that this magazine is not for just anyone, heavens no. This magazine, the glossy envelope informs in ponderous script, is "For the woman within the mother." Pause there for just a moment to wonder what exactly that means. The woman within the mother. If you figure it out, please let me know. But meanwhile, I bring you the title of this new and most distinguished publication: "Cookie." That's right, as in tasty dessert confection. Flip to the back of this enticing offer, and one learns the possible range of topics that will interest the new Cookie subscriber:

The difference between a Newberry book and a Caldecott book
Dreamy vacations for the whole family
The perfect haircut for your child
A bit of pampering for you

and, the one that is really going to pique your interest, the one that is going to make you gather up your petticoats and run to the phone to become a charter Cookie subscriber:

The end of the missing sock

That's right, thanks to the folks at Cookie, the woman within the mother can at long last close the books on that one, and finally put an end to that plague of laundry rooms everywhere.

No need to thank me, all you women within mothers out there, for letting you in on the ground floor of this new opportunity.

Dear Warren Buffet,

I too am opposed to dynastic wealth, and I wholeheartedly approve of your plan to give away bazillions of dollars. So, can I have some?

I need your vote.

In response to popular demand, I hereby throw my hat into the ring as a candidate for the position of Generous but Supreme World Leader. I have no running mates--no Vice-Supreme Leader--but I do have a platform. I submit it to you here.

As Generous but Supreme World Leader, I vow to improve your lives in the following ways:

1. All television remote control devices will have mute buttons in precisely the same position.

2. The media will stop calling starlet couples by some kind of gross hybrid name. There will be no more Bradjelinas, no more Benifers, no more Vaughnifers.

3. No more dancing mucus on television. This will be central to my campaign.

4. That advertisement for ED meds with the guy throwing the football through the tire hanging from a tree? You've seen it for the last time.

5. Coffee will be universally served in standard sizes. Small, medium, and large. No further adjectives will be allowed.

6. Ice cream trucks will no longer feature bastardized versions of 18th century composers or Broadway showtunes.

7. Arrested Development will be brought back to network television.

8. This will be Barbara Streisand's last tour.

That's pretty much it. I may have to raise taxes to accomplish these worthy goals. Thank you for your support.

Signs your career might be on the wrong track

I'm a fundraising professional. I'm in the philantrhopy biz. What this means is that I'm essentially a travelling salesman. But I'm not vacuuming pennies up off your carpet. You give me your money, and I say thanks. Instead of Cutco knives, I'm selling satisfaction.

I recently had a meeting with an elderly gentleman and his wife at their home in an apartment tower with fantastic views of the lake. They offered me some fizzy water, and we settled in on the couch, me perched on the edge so as not to stick to the leather permanently in the humid, close air. The first sign that this meeting was not destined to be fruitful came when he grinned at me and said, "You know, we'd forgotten you were coming today until just a few minutes ago. I sure am glad we remembered to get dressed!" Well, now. That makes two of us.

Eulogy

I recently sold my first car, a blue 1991 Volvo 240 4-door sedan, to Michael from Oak Park on Craig's List. Obviously a guy with an eye for a classic. I'd like to take a moment to remember her boxy lines, her faded upholstery, her powdery paint, her stereo that turned off every time you hit a pothole. We went a lot of miles together, the two of us, and she was a trouper all the way, gasping up and down mountains in Vermont or bumbling along the expressways at a breezy 55 mph. It took us a while to work together well: I came to realize she just needed a little helping hand now and then. So I'd turn that AC off going up hills, and she thanked me with her engine burping back to life.

Oh, sure, her health had been declining in recent years, and she'd gotten a bit fragile. But I've forgiven her for the cut I got on my hand when I leaned on the plastic divider between the front seats and it shattered under my weight. And I learned to turn corners more gently, so as to keep her chrome molding from flying off in the middle of the parking lot. She was a resilient old gal: she never let on that it bothered her that some punk not only keyed her trunk, but decided to get all artistic and write "Satan" while he was at it. One of her brake lights might have flashed its last twinkly light for good, but the other one was resolutely shining on. She was all heart, that Volvo: it might have been strapped in with a black bungee cord, since we couldn't figure out how to reattach that dang clip when we changed the battery, but it kept on ticking.

We now drive a family-mobile, a long stretch of silver Volvo station wagon that accommodates our giant dog, our little baby, and the occasional 4X8 sheet of plywood. It's pure luxury, this car: cupholders as far as the eye can see, leather seats that remember where you last sat, volume controls right there on the steering wheel. I don't drive in this car, I cruise. And I cruise at a rather leisurely pace.

So I bid you farewell, old friend. I hope you are happy with Michael from Oak Park. He pointed out that the tread on your tires was wearing a bit thin, so I know he'll be sensitive to your needs.

Please note

Memo to the lady in the white Toyota mini-van with Illinois plates:

Tailgating me only makes me drive moooooore sloooowwwwlllyyy.

Perspective on breakfast

1 small whole-milk latte and chocolate filled pastry: $5.06
Current minimum wage: $5.15/hour

It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt

I'm not what you'd call a Sports Fan. I can generally tell you what sports are happening in any given season (although come to think of it, I have absolutely no idea when one plays hockey. It's ice, must be winter.) You name the sport, I can probably tell you at least one star. (Wayne Gretsky, does he play hockey?) I don’t really do sports. There was that moment, a few years ago: I was visiting a friend in Minneapolis who was on some kind of softball team, and she talked me into joining her for her game. Little did I know that if you show up, you earn yourself an at-bat. That was, I hope, the only time in my life I’ll find myself in high-heels with a baseball bat in hand, facing down a grim lady in a sleeveless T with a mean underhand pitch. I won’t keep you in suspense. I did not hit the ball.

But I’ve managed to put that whole embarrassing episode behind me, for the most part, and I enjoy taking in an occasional baseball game now and then. I have a baseball cap. I don’t have one of those giant hands, or any kind of dairy product to wear on my head. But I’ve learned to leave the high heels at home. I manage to blend in. But what has become obvious is that the 8 year old sitting next to me knows way more about the sport than I do. For me, every baseball game is like my husband’s experience watching Mission Impossible. “What? who is he? what just happened? where did that come from? why is he yelling at that guy? why is that bunch of guys all running that way? why don’t they just take him out? why is that lady in gold lame dancing around in the middle of the field? now just a doggone minute, what the hell is going on now?” I liked Mission Impossible, before Tom Cruise became positively creepy. But I need an audio tour of every inning.

Even I knew, though, that the game last night was a bit of a rout. 20-6. Those Cardinals (they’re from St. Louis) were getting a little pissed. And at certain point, their pitcher banged two of our Sox in a row. Much discussion, lots of people running around, lots of hand gestures. Back to the game. So then the next round, the Sox put in some wanker pitcher who throws 3 pitches and then nails the next Cardinal up. He was headed back to the dugout before the umpire even looked his direction.

So I poked my husband and got the skinny on the whole deal. I learned that it was retaliation, pure and simple. The Sox, he said, were getting hit a lot this year, and they had to make a stand, or else they'd look vulnerable, and other teams would think they could intimidate them. They'd put in that guy for the sole purpose of nailing a Card.

I've been thinking about this since last night, and I find it a little dispiriting. This is our all-American sport, hot dogs and apple pie and 4th of July. I had no idea that retaliation was part of the unwritten rules of the game. I'd like more ladies dancing around in gold lame dresses with matching shoes, please. But as for our all-American boys running around in funny uniforms: this retaliation business, well, it's for the birds.

Phil the Sore

On the topic of things I'd banish from this universe once named Generous but Supreme World Leader: weird spokescreatures. Dancing geckos, dancing babies that talk with Brooklyn accents, mucus that walks and talks, all would be banished from this good green earth, sent off to crap up another universe's television airwaves. Because while I can suffer through a dancing gecko here and there, the dancing mucus is just really too much. I'm just waiting for the representative from the erectile dysfunction camp to chime in.

So this report from our friends at NPR really resonated with my distaste for these creepy animated body byproducts. Because, well, I really can't do better than this on the subject of weird spokescreatures:

"Syphillis is no laughing matter, especially in LA county where new infections rose 41% last year. Clearly the Health Department's prevention mascot, Phil the Sore, has not been effective. Phil, a lumpy red cartoon sore with an angry frown, a buzz cut, and an earring, was meant to discourage risky behavior. The very unfriendly spoke-sore also made live appearances, in the form of a giant walk-around pustule. Imagine Disney-land, but instead of Goofy or Mickey, a big mean shanker. Imagine a Fruit of the Loom character with roid rage. Imagine a Smurf, but red instead of blue, and with lesions."

Now, on the other hand, if Disneyland were indeed filled with a bunch of walking and talking veneral diseases, I guess the whole thing would be a lot more intriguing.

World Bike Naked Day

Today's morning paper brings this astonishing tidbit. Apparently tomorrow is the day that people around the globe gather together to shed their clothes and hop on their bikes to protest international oil consumption. This is the kind of story that that makes The Onion so brilliant. If I read this story in the Onion, I would crack up and praise those brilliant Onion writers anew. As it is, I'm left with the mental image of a bunch of naked people riding around in the dark on their bikes. Of all the things I can think of doing while I'm naked, riding a bike falls very, very, very far down on the list. It's about number 95, just above going rock climbing in the nude to protest the rendition of prisoners at Guantanamo.

So long, jello shots

I got to thinking about jello shots the other day, and realized that I've finally reached a stage in my life where I feel I am too old for a certain number of things. The signs are there: for example, I've reached the age where my generation's shock rock is now sagely discussed by NPR's music critic. I did not detect any note of irony earlier today during his report on "the distinguished work of Kiss and AC/DC."

And in some ways, it seems like cause for celebration. I'm looking forward to my thirties. It promises to be a good decade. To be sure, there are things that I'm not quite ready for: backing the car up without looking, tour bus vacations, water aerobics, dinner at 5:30 PM. But there are a fair number of things that, while I might not promise never to revisit them, I'd say are for me safely in the category of the jello shot.

So in tribute to the thirty-somethings, and our decade full of promise, I begin my list of things I leave to those youthful sprites still in their twenties to enjoy:

jello shots
waiting in line for Sunday brunch
rock concerts with anthems where people wave their lighters around in the air
listening to music standing up
kegs of Pabst
driving aggressively—-it’s all zen behind the wheel these days
acid washed jeans
blue mascara
step aerobics
sun tanning—-or “laying out” as we like to call it back home
Marco Polo
the yard of beer
Casey Kasem
painting any part of my body for a sports team
tie-dye
hotel rooms where I’m afraid to shower without flip flops on
wine coolers
sleeping until noon (alas)
gum that comes in cubes instead of sticks
any garment that makes it obvious I'm wearing a thong
group dancing in a circle
Cheetos
coffee drinks with more than 3 adjectives
that long-range plan to buy a motorcycle

Mount Olympus, here I come

I'm afraid it's true. I swore it would never happen. I've mocked them, unkindly. But as I jogged home from work yesterday, I found myself thinking the unthinkable: I need to buy a fanny-pack.

I know what you're thinking--she's gone mad. Fanny packs are the domain of the sweaty Disneyland tourist, not the 30-something urban dweller. But let me explain: I really need something to carry my crap in.

See, I have this new exercise routine--finding that I was rarely making it to the gym in these months of a new baby at home, I decided that the best idea was to do it on my commute. I might as well make my commute to work work for me, right? So I have a veritable triathalon every day of walking to work, biking home for lunch, biking back to work, and running home. What you suspect is true--the result is that I cannot keep track of my crap. Bras left in my office, cell phone god knows where, always having to carry my keys. You get the picture.

I was muddling along through all of this pretty well until yesterday, when I found myself jogging home with keys in one hand and an official looking black case in the other. The Greeks, they ran for 26 miles with objects in their hands, but that was the flame incarnating the spirit of humanity, or something. I was like a CIA agent (only recently returned to field service and therefore very sweaty and out of breath) running off to make a drop with my little mini black briefcase. Only I wasn't carrying state secrets--I was hauling home my breastpump.

So with keys in one hand and breastpump in the other, I plodded home, thinking to myself that there has to be a better way. I need to free up my hands so I can really get my stride going. I obviously need a fanny pack.

It's rarely a problem

What is it with kids these days? Now that I’m over 30, I’m cultivating my crotchety old lady profile. I can purse my lips with the best of them. If I’m lucky, by the time I’m 40, I’ll have those little wrinkle lines around my lips from my perma-purse.

My current peeve with the youth vernacular is the Gen Z reply to “thanks.” No your welcomes or my pleasures from this crowd. It’s “not a problem.” Thanks for the refill on my water-—not a problem. Thanks for making the correct change for my muffin—-not a problem. Thanks for going to get the size 9 shoes for me to try-—you guessed it. (Who am I kidding anyway, I’m a size 10). It’s as if the waiter, in his infinite wisdom, saw past my menu to the horizon of all the potential pitfalls and obstacles to placing my order for fettuccini alfredo, and judged it a mission he could accomplish, no matter how difficult. Thank heavens it won’t be a problem. It’s no wonder we’re a stressed-out society. As if it weren’t enough to worry about that our politicians are spending their time campaigning for the sanctity of marriage when the sanctity of life is being destroyed every hour in Iraq, there are obviously a bazillion little potential problems out there all the time just waiting to mess up our day. I’m just waiting for the proclamation from the decks of the next battleship: “Iraq? Not a problem!”

I'm on to you, Mr. Garbage Man

I'm afraid of the garbage man. I'm only sort-of kidding. The grinding of the garbage truck as it slooowly works its way down the alley every Monday and Wednesday morning never fails to jolt me from my slumber. You see, I'm pretty sure they're out to get me. It's a psychological game we're playing, me and Mr. Garbage Man, and it's anyone's guess how it's all going to play out.

Oh, he's playing it all cool now, all Mr. Friendly Banter and "I'll take that from you and deposit it straight into the truck, no prob." But I know what you're up to Mr. Man. I'm one step ahead of you.

See, we live in Chicago, a city that despite the mayor's protests, still seems to run best with a little extra grease. And the garbage truck is no exception. They don't, as a rule, pick up construction trash, but with enough persuasion of the right kind, it seems that they'll back those rigs right up to the garage and you can toss all kinds of contaminated crap into them from your rehab job.

We didn't realize this until too late. Oh, we got dumpsters for the big stuff, but that cardboard, those paint cans, all that rosin paper, well, we figured the city bins were just the place. We didn't, for some reason, get the hint from Mr. Garbage Man when we asked him if he could take away that cardboard refrigerator box ("Well, I'm not really SUPPOSED too....") and we kept on neatly stacking our crap by the cans for them to take away.

Now, as an interjection, let me say that our alley is no dumpster diver's paradise. Don't get me wrong, there's usually at least one couch, a few chairs and other miscellaneous furniture at there at all times next to cans positively overflowing with nasty mess. But noone is putting this couch in the back of their Passat and hauling it home to their loft. This is the last stop, the end of the road, for used couches. My alley is where couches go to die.

So after repeated though subtle overtures from our garbage men, which we naively didn't really acknowledge, we got a $200 fine in the mail for "misuse of our garbage containers." Now, who gets fined for misuse of their garbage containers in Chicago? Only schmos like us who forget to pay the toll.

You can smile all you want, Mr. Garbage Man. I'm on to you.

Pilsen's neighborhood characters #2

It seems like biking is becoming a pretty popular mode of transportation these days. Gas prices are high, the weather is nice, so increasing numbers of us are dusting off our bikes and hitting the pavement. I make my commute on what I prefer to think of as the Cadillac of bikes: really big, super heavy, spring cushion leather seat, built in bells and whistles (both figurative and literal). It can only be ridden as if every outing was a Sunday drive. It almost has cruise control.

I live, in fact, in a neighborhood of bikers. The usual cast of characters are pretty well represented: the slightly reclusive couple across the street, reputed to be architects, who don all manner of reflective gear and resolutely bike off to work in driving sleet, pouring rain or inches of snow. There’s my sister, of course, and her cronies, the hard-core types with aero-dynamic sunglasses who bike to Wisconsin and back before lunch. (If I had any idea how to make a hyperlink, I’d put one here to her bike club. I’m just impressed that I know the word hyperlink.) There are the bike messengers, who can trade stories about assorted broken limbs and other battle scars for hours. There's Ken/Keith, who I've told you about already and deserves his own category. And then there are the schmos like me, with no real gear and very little know-how, who commute a mere 1.5 miles to work on their bike and feel that that’s a good day's work.

But all in all, this crowd makes up a smallish minority of the bikers in our neighborhood. I’d say for many of the bikers in the hood, it’s not so much an alternative, eco-friendly, self-congratulatory mode of transportation. It’s just a good way to get around. Take, for instance, the guy I saw riding matter-of-factly down the street yesterday (the wrong side of the street, that is) with a six-pack of Natural Ice beer slung across his handlebars. I’ve seen the occasional case being hoisted along on a Huffy as well.

Which leads me to another character we’ve come to dub The Wino on a Bike. A scruffy, thinnish guy in a dirty blue-jeans and dirtier black t-shirt, Mr. Wino rides up and down our alley on a squeaking old mountain bike, steering with one hand while grasping a bottle in a brown paper bag in the other. He has to be the most physically fit drunk guy ever.

So at one point during construction on our place, we had our basement opened up for some work crews doing plumbing and electricity while picking their way around the assorted crap we’ve managed to accumulate there in a very short time. One night, I went down to get a bottle of wine from our pitiful stash of mediocre reds in the basement. I found them gone. Swiped, all of them—-all of them except, that is, to add insult to injury, the bottle of a dubious vintage from an Indiana winery (there’s more than corn in Indiana.) As I looked around at all the power tools left, it seemed odd that the sneaking thief with an oddly discriminating palate had only taken the red wine and not even touched the power tools.

It all made more sense later, though, when we couldn’t find the bike pump. So I figure that our Wino on a Bike was, for a short time, enjoying some of the best cheap reds the grocery store has to offer whilst squeaking up and down our alley on very well-inflated tires.

I'll take the Chamomile Armanis

So as I sit here at the computer, typing a blog entry on a lovely Saturday morning when I should be out on the porch ranting on about the idiocy of Maureen Dowd and other such nonsense in the morning paper, I realize I have a blogging addiction. And now that I've discovered this whole site meter thing, it's all down hill from here.

I've even got my sunblock on (I'm now over 30, caution rules) and as I reached for my sunglasses I had this funny feeling that something was terribly wrong, and I remembered a dream I had last night. Yep, here it comes, reporting on a dream--never as interesting to others as they are to you. Have you ever listened to someone's description of their dream without starting to space out and start wondering what you're going to have for lunch? Although I have to say that my husband's shopping dreams are the exception: "I was in the grocery store, shopping for cat food." There's a whole series of them. Now that is the sleep of the truly untroubled.

Anyway, I was speaking Italian (even in my dream I spoke it poorly--my subconscious obviously caving to the fact that I actually speak ZERO Italian.) So I'm at a restaurant, and the waiter comes to take my order. I think I'm ordering wine. But as I know as much about wine as I do about Italian, the waiter makes it clear to me, in emphatic Italian and lots of hand gestures, that I've ordered totally the wrong thing to go with my meal. And what I take from the conversation is that he's going to bring me a selection to choose from. But when he shows up, he's got a display box like the ones they use to bring tea bags to your table in restaurants, and with a flourish he opens it to show me about a dozen pairs of euro-designer sunglasses. And I realize that he'd been gesturing at my shades tossed on the table by my plate, not my wine glass, when he'd been telling me that my choice just wouldn't do.

I take from this that I obviously need a new pair of expensive sunglasses.

That's it. Back to the porch.