Here in Chicago, we are lucky enough to have a dedicated corps of folks committed to ensuring that all our refuse is hauled away in a timely fashion. I speak not of those valiant fellows of Chicago Streets and San. Their efforts, though helpful and courteous, leave a residue of refuse that still must be contended with. These items are typically claimed by the Chicago alley trash pickers.
An unafflilated band of helpful do-gooders, these are fellows who comb the alleys looking for good things that people are throwing out. Often, the items they rescue are re-sold, or sold as scrap metal. This can be useful, as it means never having to worry about whether the trash man will haul away large or unwieldy items. The trash pickers gain access to an otherwise untapped source of revenue. Everyone wins.
There is, however, a wee problem. These snappers-up of unconsidered trifles have a very loose and generous notion of what is being "thrown out."
To wit:
-- A guy down the street reports that he came upon them trying to haul away his lawn mower. He assured them he was still using it.
-- My neighbor Ruth offered me an in-table sewing machine whe wanted to get rid of. She called to let me know she had just put it in the alley. By the time I had hung up the phone and walked out there, the sewing machine had been removed.
-- Ruth, similiarly, had a rain spout that had become detached, and had leaned it up against the house, still in the gutter. It disappeared like the fine morning mist.
-- My friend Will was working on rehabbing his basement, and had removed the door for easier access. He leaned it against his fence, and when he returned, someone had walked off with it.
My neighbor Ann claims that if you stand for too long in the alley, they will swipe the metal shoelace eyelets right off your shoes.
I hear it's worse in Detroit, though. A friend of ours told us about a guy he knew who was barbecuing steaks in his back yard. He went in to get a beer, and when he returned, the steaks were gone.
Such is city life.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #246: The part where I finally recount the doings of our summer block party
It's October now, and there's a pre-winter chill in the air. Which means it's high time -- well past high time, in fact -- that I recount our most recent block party.
The date was August 29, 2009. The theme: the '70s.
Those of us involved in the planning and execution of this theme had concerns. Was the '70s too vague a theme? Would it even be grasped by the younger set, who bring such hilarity to these events.
Our concerns proved to be ill-founded, as the first ever 1970s block party proved to be, possibly, THE GREATEST BLOCK PARTY IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND.
Here's a bulleted blow-by-blow of the doings, viewed, as always, from my point of view. Allowances are to be given for any of my biases or limitations in my perspective, as I am the one doing the typing, and therefore have a right to edit, enhance, or embellish as I see fit.
The date was August 29, 2009. The theme: the '70s.
Those of us involved in the planning and execution of this theme had concerns. Was the '70s too vague a theme? Would it even be grasped by the younger set, who bring such hilarity to these events.
Our concerns proved to be ill-founded, as the first ever 1970s block party proved to be, possibly, THE GREATEST BLOCK PARTY IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND.
Here's a bulleted blow-by-blow of the doings, viewed, as always, from my point of view. Allowances are to be given for any of my biases or limitations in my perspective, as I am the one doing the typing, and therefore have a right to edit, enhance, or embellish as I see fit.
- Morning started early, as always, at 9am, with coffee and donuts at the Bertogs. The traditional repast was enhanced by a variety of theme-appropriate treats including Honeycomb cereal (Honeycomb's big... yeah, yeah, yeah!) and Pop-Tarts.
- Before visiting the breakfast buffet, however, I slipped outside to construct my "What's Your Sign" house display, the designated design for this party. Some, including the Harris-Wattses, opted for a pictorial display of the astrological signs of family members. I, however, realized that since my sign is Leo, my good friend Lulu the Lion (originally named Frazier on account of mistaken gender) could play a role in my display. And thus she did.
- I then slipped into my costume for the day, a look my father has dubbed pregnant Earth Mother -- which would be fine, if I was actually pregnant. Daishikis, I have found, are not flattering.
Since I've mentioned my costume, I feel I should enumerate the get-ups of others.
- Rose Cancilla appeared resplendant in her costume as a Venice-beach visiting roller disco queen, sometimes appearing instead as a roller derby maven.
- Not to be out-done by his wife, Chris Cancilla donned his best '70s-era porn star costume.
- Ann borrowed every last bit of my pale blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick to emerge as a flower-loving flower child.
- John Calto took a simple, understated approach to the era, and let his hair do the talking.
- Megan Calto was also not to be outdone, and is seen here with Kim Cavitt and Annie O'Neil as a trio of '70s sitcom lovelies.
- Later, Chris Cancilla emerged with a fantastic '7os 'fro, a chick magnet if ever there was one.
- Eamon thought outside the box, and outside this realm of consciousness, taking a guise as Hunter S. Thompson.
- Thankfully, I had the good sense to purchase a large number of fake mustaches for distribution, to enhance the appearance of those had not opted for full costumes. These were overtaken by the 8 and under set, seen here, here, here, and here. This also led to a misapprehension of the mustaches as contributing to an Old West theme.
- There was also tie-dye in abundance, as evidenced here, here, here, and here.
Now, on with the day, and the next big event:
- After breakfast, Eamon re-emerged, bursting from our front door with his Thomspon-esque cigarette holder clamped tightly in his lips. "Want to see my pet?" he bellowed. He called to all the children, insisting only the bravest among them to view his pet ... a pet rock, which he displayed with a flourish to the suitably amazed children.
- After ascertaining that they wished themselves to capture their own pet rocks, he led them down the gangway and into our backyard.
- There, he instructed them that they were in the very midst of pet rocks, who could be captured and tamed as pets, and the hunt was on!
- Captured rocks were inspected and approved, and then taken out front for decorating.
- Then followed a training session, in which the new pets were taught to "stay" and "sleep."
Lunch followed, a psychelic hot dog fest offered by Megan Calto, and then an afternoon of lounging and hijinks, which included:
- Participation in a very difficult Brady Bunch quiz.
- Examination of a posterboard filled with photos of neighbors and our neighborhood as they appeared in the 1970s,
- Leisurely enjoyment of anecdotes and frosty beverages, seen here, here, and here.
- The decoration of vehicles large and small, seen here, here, and here.
- A visit from the City of Chicago's Bicycle Ambassadors, who amassed our small pedalers for a lesson in bike safety, and then ran them through a challenging and competitive obstacle course.
- Groovy tattoos and body adornment for all!
- Daring and dangerous versions of vehicular madness.
As afternoon shifted to early evening, the mood changed, the tunes cranked and we enjoyed:
- Era-appropriate hors-doevres including my patented rumaki and cheesy delicacy smuggled from Wisconsin by the traitorous O'Connors.
- Live jazz hits offered up by Jon Hey and one of his many fantastic musical ensembles.
- An aborted cocktail contest, which ended up being merely a frenzied binge of exotic liquors hosted by Kevin.
Also to be noted are the creative activities of some of the young ladies of the block -- namely Bridget Verdon and the Brenner twins, Claire and Simone. In addition to enhancing my astrological display with a romantic dinner salad crafted from grass clippings and an exploration of the possibilities of the questionable beaded curtains I had purchased from Uncle Fun, these young ladies craftily constructed a "hippie van" from cardboard boxes, a wagon and embellishments, seen here flanked by me and my good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt.
The cocktail hour was followed by a potluck dinner buffet featuring taste treats from the era, many in casserole form.
Afterwards, we premiered an all-new and soon-to-be repeated tradition, our rendition of The Gong Show. Sadly, no photos or video exist, as the event took place after hours, but here are some highlights:
- We constructed a gong, consisting of the Daly trash can lid (painted gold) hanging from a ladder.
- Chris Cancilla donned his best Chuck Barris wig and a fine be-ruffled suit for his role as emcee.
- Celebrity judges included Mark Spitz (aka Tim O'Neil), Jamie Farr (aka Christopher Piatt), and JP Morgan (Katie Heilman, seen here with me).
- Winning acts included Calvin Keyes burping the alphabet and teeny Caroline Verdon dancing to her mother's ring tone.
- James and Jack Casey also treated us to a jaw-dropping magic act, while Jim sang and accompanied himself on the guitar. Ann Casy, however, trumped them all, placing among the prize winners with her singing of the Coke song and God Bless America to the accompaniment of a lit sparkler while donning a costume approximating the statue of liberty.
- Gonged acts included: mine (fish riddles told via ventriloquism with a barracuda puppet); Sam's amazing sock-and-ball maneuver (ball in sock, swung around); a duo of pre-teens attempting "Who's on First"; Rose and Annie presenting "Pigs in a Blanket" (oinking loudly while wrapped in a blanket); young Matthew Waller and Casey Cancilla clashing in light-sabre combat. Many other also, too numerous to recount.
- Bridget and the Brenner twins dazzled many of us with their original song about the '70s, which I am still humming.
The best-remembered high point, I believe, was the quickly gonged original sketch featuring a hot-tempered John McEnroe, who jeered the crowd after his defeat. At the end of the show, he returned to the stage, and berated the audience, whipping the children into a frenzy. Soon, he took chase, with the entire contingency of Edgewater children on his feet. As judging and prizes were determined, he and his hooting, angry mob swept up and down the street, and included among their ranks a pogo-sticking Casey Cancilla. It was surreal, to say the least.
After prizes were awarded, a screening of the Brady Bunch followed for the kids. The remaining grownups, now in high spirits, retired to the benches to enjoy a wood fire, frosty beverages, and an extended booty dance by Megan. And thus, the '70s party ended as the '70s themselves had, in a haze of debauchery and shoddy pop culture.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #245: The part where James ensures his own survival
Halloween is less than a month away and, as such, I spent a lovely Sunday afternoon decorating. I've yet to document this year's splendor, but it's very similar to last year's, which can be seen here.
As always, I was assisted by many small "helpers," who offered up useful suggestions, sage opinions, and dubious hand-eye coordination, all in support of my efforts.
Young James Casey, newly turned 5, was particularly assiduous in offers of "help," viewing my decorating activities as an opportunity to slip into my house, harass Eamon (who was ailing on the couch), bang on our keyboard, and otherwise explore. So bold he was, in fact, that as I was rooting in the basement at one point, I heard tiny footfalls on the floor above me. I was, as a result, not surprised when he appeared, cautiously working his way down our rather rickety and cobweb-festooned basement stairs.
James: Watcha doing?
Kay: Talking to Pumpkinhead.
For those unaware, Pumpkinhead is a legend in a neighborhood, a figure of mystery and terror. He made his debut some years ago, on Halloween. Appearing at first as a large pumpkin perched upon a festive holiday display, he would leap up when approached and menace costumed passers-by, to terrifying effect.
Pumpkinhead's first arrival inspired nothing but terror on the block. But soon, cooler heads prevailed. Around age 5, the smaller denizens of Norwood begin to suspect that Pumpkinhead is indeed Eamon. But they aren't quite sure yet, and there's too much at stake to assume he does not, indeed, exist.
On one occasion, James' brother Jack discovered the pumpkinhead itself in my basement, and loudly announced, "See! Pumpkinhead is Eamon!" To which I replied, "...Or, Eamon defeated Pumpkinhead, captured him, and trapped him down here to keep you all safe." This gave Jack much food for thought, and he soon began proposing the rules by which Pumpkinhead operates. To wit:
"If you say Pumpkinhead's name while in Kay's basement, he will come to life and chase you."
Now, at age 8, Jack seems pretty assured that Pumpkinhead is but a costume. James, however, is not so sure. Which brings us back to last Sunday.
James: What are you talking about with Pumpkinhead?
Kay: I'm asking him which child he intends to grab on Halloween.
James (decidedly): He should grab Sam.
Kay: No, he wants a smaller child.
James: Well, if Miles and Nolan come to our block, he should grab Nolan.
Kay: He says he wants someone a little bigger.
James: Then he should grab Miles.
Kay: No, he wants someone with lighter hair.
[James begins to nervously stroke his blond forelock.]
James: He should grab Jack.
Kay: I think he wants someone a little smaller.
[Pause.]
James: Are you giving me clues?
Kay: Yes.
James: I want to decide. Tell him to grab Sam.
James may not know if Pumpkinhead is real, but he surely knows how to save his own bacon.
As always, I was assisted by many small "helpers," who offered up useful suggestions, sage opinions, and dubious hand-eye coordination, all in support of my efforts.
Young James Casey, newly turned 5, was particularly assiduous in offers of "help," viewing my decorating activities as an opportunity to slip into my house, harass Eamon (who was ailing on the couch), bang on our keyboard, and otherwise explore. So bold he was, in fact, that as I was rooting in the basement at one point, I heard tiny footfalls on the floor above me. I was, as a result, not surprised when he appeared, cautiously working his way down our rather rickety and cobweb-festooned basement stairs.
James: Watcha doing?
Kay: Talking to Pumpkinhead.
For those unaware, Pumpkinhead is a legend in a neighborhood, a figure of mystery and terror. He made his debut some years ago, on Halloween. Appearing at first as a large pumpkin perched upon a festive holiday display, he would leap up when approached and menace costumed passers-by, to terrifying effect.
Pumpkinhead's first arrival inspired nothing but terror on the block. But soon, cooler heads prevailed. Around age 5, the smaller denizens of Norwood begin to suspect that Pumpkinhead is indeed Eamon. But they aren't quite sure yet, and there's too much at stake to assume he does not, indeed, exist.
On one occasion, James' brother Jack discovered the pumpkinhead itself in my basement, and loudly announced, "See! Pumpkinhead is Eamon!" To which I replied, "...Or, Eamon defeated Pumpkinhead, captured him, and trapped him down here to keep you all safe." This gave Jack much food for thought, and he soon began proposing the rules by which Pumpkinhead operates. To wit:
"If you say Pumpkinhead's name while in Kay's basement, he will come to life and chase you."
Now, at age 8, Jack seems pretty assured that Pumpkinhead is but a costume. James, however, is not so sure. Which brings us back to last Sunday.
James: What are you talking about with Pumpkinhead?
Kay: I'm asking him which child he intends to grab on Halloween.
James (decidedly): He should grab Sam.
Kay: No, he wants a smaller child.
James: Well, if Miles and Nolan come to our block, he should grab Nolan.
Kay: He says he wants someone a little bigger.
James: Then he should grab Miles.
Kay: No, he wants someone with lighter hair.
[James begins to nervously stroke his blond forelock.]
James: He should grab Jack.
Kay: I think he wants someone a little smaller.
[Pause.]
James: Are you giving me clues?
Kay: Yes.
James: I want to decide. Tell him to grab Sam.
James may not know if Pumpkinhead is real, but he surely knows how to save his own bacon.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #244: The part where I receive an amusing request and a delightful compliment, both by way of Mr. Czajka and Laura Ingalls Wilder
Incident #1
So, as I have mentioned before, my good friend Mr. Czajka is more than just a little fond of "Little House on the Prairie." He has virtually memorized all the Little House books, and wrote fantastic online reviews of all season of the television show. He has traveled to all the major Laura Ingalls Wilder tourist traps, investing at each a small fortune in books, souvenirs and other praire-bonnet paraphernalia. (He's also obsessed with the Mormons, but that's another story.)
As an, I guess, not unexpected result of his fanaticism, coupled with his remarkable connections in the world of public television, Czajka was recently offered a plum side project: to act as historical consultant for a new musical of "Little House," starring Melissa Gilbert in the role of "Ma." He negotiated a deluxed compensation package, which included samples of all the show's branded souvenirs and a new I-Phone, which he claims was payed for by Ms. Gilbert herself. (Get a load of the excellent educational guide he produced for the show.)
Coinciding with the premiere of the show in Minnesota, Mr. Czajka was quoted in a CNN article, saying this and that about the history behind the production, half-pint, and other related topics.
Some weeks later, what should appear in my inbox but an intriguing missive begging to be forwarded on to Mr. Czajka himself. The writer of said email identified himself as an author who had published articles on one Ms. Anne, the lass of Green Gables, Canada's answer to Lil' Laura. He had found my multiple mentions of Czajka in this very blog, and wished to apprise him of a poll designed to determine who was more popular: Anne or Laura. I, of course, forwarded it on immediately.
Later, I received another missive from said Anne expert, pointing me to the outcome of his tussle with Czajka and Half-Pint. Let the games begin!
Incident 2
As Little House, the Musical, just had its first public appearance at the Paper Mill Playhouse, Mr. Czajka was on hand to see how things went. He notes, "They've done alot to it since last summer and it's looking pretty good. I cried four times. . .while taking three pages of historical notes for the director."
But his report on the Little House opening included a curious note for me personally, one that put quite a little bounce in my step, I must say. To wit:
Anyways, the artistic director of the Paper Mill Playhouse is Mark Hoebee. 'Memba him. I've got to say that he has a mind like a trap. Iwas talking with one of the producers and he came up to me and said,"Did you go to Northwestern?" Mind you, I recall having two conversations with the man. Never took a class with him.
He asked me when I was there, and I told him, and rattled off the shows I worked on. And he said, "Oh! Meet Me in St. Louis! There was that Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers number with that guy. . .Ben. . .and that woman. Cute short brunette." To which I replied "Yes, Kay Peterson." And he said, "YES. She was always so great on stage. She did Nunsense, didn't she?" And I said yes, and he said, "Is she here now? Is she acting?"
And I told him that you had given up the wicked stage and were a matron in Chicago.
Even we matrons like a little recognition now and again.
So, as I have mentioned before, my good friend Mr. Czajka is more than just a little fond of "Little House on the Prairie." He has virtually memorized all the Little House books, and wrote fantastic online reviews of all season of the television show. He has traveled to all the major Laura Ingalls Wilder tourist traps, investing at each a small fortune in books, souvenirs and other praire-bonnet paraphernalia. (He's also obsessed with the Mormons, but that's another story.)
As an, I guess, not unexpected result of his fanaticism, coupled with his remarkable connections in the world of public television, Czajka was recently offered a plum side project: to act as historical consultant for a new musical of "Little House," starring Melissa Gilbert in the role of "Ma." He negotiated a deluxed compensation package, which included samples of all the show's branded souvenirs and a new I-Phone, which he claims was payed for by Ms. Gilbert herself. (Get a load of the excellent educational guide he produced for the show.)
Coinciding with the premiere of the show in Minnesota, Mr. Czajka was quoted in a CNN article, saying this and that about the history behind the production, half-pint, and other related topics.
Some weeks later, what should appear in my inbox but an intriguing missive begging to be forwarded on to Mr. Czajka himself. The writer of said email identified himself as an author who had published articles on one Ms. Anne, the lass of Green Gables, Canada's answer to Lil' Laura. He had found my multiple mentions of Czajka in this very blog, and wished to apprise him of a poll designed to determine who was more popular: Anne or Laura. I, of course, forwarded it on immediately.
Later, I received another missive from said Anne expert, pointing me to the outcome of his tussle with Czajka and Half-Pint. Let the games begin!
Incident 2
As Little House, the Musical, just had its first public appearance at the Paper Mill Playhouse, Mr. Czajka was on hand to see how things went. He notes, "They've done alot to it since last summer and it's looking pretty good. I cried four times. . .while taking three pages of historical notes for the director."
But his report on the Little House opening included a curious note for me personally, one that put quite a little bounce in my step, I must say. To wit:
Anyways, the artistic director of the Paper Mill Playhouse is Mark Hoebee. 'Memba him. I've got to say that he has a mind like a trap. Iwas talking with one of the producers and he came up to me and said,"Did you go to Northwestern?" Mind you, I recall having two conversations with the man. Never took a class with him.
He asked me when I was there, and I told him, and rattled off the shows I worked on. And he said, "Oh! Meet Me in St. Louis! There was that Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers number with that guy. . .Ben. . .and that woman. Cute short brunette." To which I replied "Yes, Kay Peterson." And he said, "YES. She was always so great on stage. She did Nunsense, didn't she?" And I said yes, and he said, "Is she here now? Is she acting?"
And I told him that you had given up the wicked stage and were a matron in Chicago.
Even we matrons like a little recognition now and again.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #243: The part where Lisa offers an apt descriptor
Recently, there's been a new addition to the hijinks on Norwood, a young lady whose antics I've yet to describe.
And that is too bad, as this young lady has much potential for mayhem and hilarity. She is Caroline, our resident toddler-ish young lady. I'm awful in guessing kids' ages, but I'm going to estimate that she's in the terrible twos. She is the third -- of four, mind you -- children of our neighbors Lisa and Don Verdon. All of the Verdon children -- four, mind you -- are adorable -- but Caroline has a special, and some might say remarkable, charm.
In looks, she is commercial-grade pretty. Big blue eyes, a flirtatious grin, a sweet shy air. At neighborhood events, I end up taking photo after photo of her because I always seem to catch her just in the midst of Gerber-style adorableness.
But do not be deceived. This little cookie is tough as nails. She stomps around on solid, slightly bowed legs like a little bulldog, barking orders at her siblings in some incomprehensible form of gutteral English I've yet to decipher. "Little Mama" is her moniker in the family. "Go tell them to come in," Lisa will tell her, referring to her older siblings, Bridget and Brady. "Braaaahhh! Cahhhh wahhh!" she will bellow as she staggers down the street at them, pointing accusatory fingers.
She is also a lady her knows her own mind. This came to the fore just yesterday at the benches. Megan had brought out a delightful repast of mini Nilla wafers, which soon took centerstage as the focus of all attention, wheedling and surreptitious cookie-stealing the main objectives.
"Maaah!! Wahhhh!" Caroline repeatedly told Lisa, holding up a finger to indicate "Mother, I feel that due to my efforts on your behalf, I deserve one meager cookie." This was repeated something like 20 times, at which point, Lisa cut young Caroline off.
Undeterred, Caroline kept an eagle eye out for Lisa, and when it was determined that "Maaaahh" was intent upon a conversation, she sidled up to the bowl and whisked away a cookie, saucer-like blue eyes never leaving her mother.
Of course, I had to rat her out, just for comedy's sake. "She had her eye on you the whole time," I informed Lisa.
"She is cunning," was the reply.
And that is too bad, as this young lady has much potential for mayhem and hilarity. She is Caroline, our resident toddler-ish young lady. I'm awful in guessing kids' ages, but I'm going to estimate that she's in the terrible twos. She is the third -- of four, mind you -- children of our neighbors Lisa and Don Verdon. All of the Verdon children -- four, mind you -- are adorable -- but Caroline has a special, and some might say remarkable, charm.
In looks, she is commercial-grade pretty. Big blue eyes, a flirtatious grin, a sweet shy air. At neighborhood events, I end up taking photo after photo of her because I always seem to catch her just in the midst of Gerber-style adorableness.
But do not be deceived. This little cookie is tough as nails. She stomps around on solid, slightly bowed legs like a little bulldog, barking orders at her siblings in some incomprehensible form of gutteral English I've yet to decipher. "Little Mama" is her moniker in the family. "Go tell them to come in," Lisa will tell her, referring to her older siblings, Bridget and Brady. "Braaaahhh! Cahhhh wahhh!" she will bellow as she staggers down the street at them, pointing accusatory fingers.
She is also a lady her knows her own mind. This came to the fore just yesterday at the benches. Megan had brought out a delightful repast of mini Nilla wafers, which soon took centerstage as the focus of all attention, wheedling and surreptitious cookie-stealing the main objectives.
"Maaah!! Wahhhh!" Caroline repeatedly told Lisa, holding up a finger to indicate "Mother, I feel that due to my efforts on your behalf, I deserve one meager cookie." This was repeated something like 20 times, at which point, Lisa cut young Caroline off.
Undeterred, Caroline kept an eagle eye out for Lisa, and when it was determined that "Maaaahh" was intent upon a conversation, she sidled up to the bowl and whisked away a cookie, saucer-like blue eyes never leaving her mother.
Of course, I had to rat her out, just for comedy's sake. "She had her eye on you the whole time," I informed Lisa.
"She is cunning," was the reply.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #242: The part where Halloween holds new thrills
As is well known, Jack is a bona fide Halloween fanatic. 'Round about May, he starts asserting that Halloween is next week, and suggests that we start planning our costumes and other hijinks.
So when a catalog arrived from a Halloween costume company -- in the high-summer season of late August, mind you -- I knew what to do with this.
"Can I have it?" Jack asked with wonder in his eyes as I handed it off. I assured him he could.
He immediately plunked down under a tree on our parkway with catalog in hand, accompanied by Sam and James. I went on my merry way.
Later, I passed by, only to hear Sam leading the trio in cries of, "Sick! Gross!" I had to investigate.
My inquiry led to a furious whipping of pages, accompanied by "Show her! Show her!"
At last, they lit upon their quarry. It was a photo of a cheery model wearing an adult-sized Wonder Woman costume.
"SICK!" they cried out.
"But that's Wonder Woman!... WONDER WO-MAN!" (This last sung from the theme song from the 1970s TV show.)
"But look what it says!" Sam directed, and I beheld standard-issue costume catalog copy.
I looked at him, puzzled, and he continued, "It says she's sexy."
"Yes?"
"Ewww. That's sick!" Sam asserted, and Jack and James chimed in assent.
There was a long pause. Then, Sam continued.
"What does sexy mean?"
And... scene.
So when a catalog arrived from a Halloween costume company -- in the high-summer season of late August, mind you -- I knew what to do with this.
"Can I have it?" Jack asked with wonder in his eyes as I handed it off. I assured him he could.
He immediately plunked down under a tree on our parkway with catalog in hand, accompanied by Sam and James. I went on my merry way.
Later, I passed by, only to hear Sam leading the trio in cries of, "Sick! Gross!" I had to investigate.
My inquiry led to a furious whipping of pages, accompanied by "Show her! Show her!"
At last, they lit upon their quarry. It was a photo of a cheery model wearing an adult-sized Wonder Woman costume.
"SICK!" they cried out.
"But that's Wonder Woman!... WONDER WO-MAN!" (This last sung from the theme song from the 1970s TV show.)
"But look what it says!" Sam directed, and I beheld standard-issue costume catalog copy.
I looked at him, puzzled, and he continued, "It says she's sexy."
"Yes?"
"Ewww. That's sick!" Sam asserted, and Jack and James chimed in assent.
There was a long pause. Then, Sam continued.
"What does sexy mean?"
And... scene.
Crazy Crap Item #241: The part where Jack joins the dance
It's been very busy of late, and I've not been able to frequent the benches and lounge with my neighbors, as is my wont.
Earlier this week, however, I was able to steal a few golden moments, and headed outside. Before I could even make it out to the benches, I encountered Jack and James, who were loitering on their front steps with a languorous air.
My inquiry into their doings returned the usual "Nuffing" from James, but Jack had things to tell.
"We're looking for Sam and Emmett, but we can't find them. They haven't come out. They're keeping something from us."
At that moment, I happened to glimpse Sam as he poked his head out of his front door, and informed Sam. Jack's cries, alas, were not heard, and Sam popped back inside.
At that, Jack shifted his focus. "Bridget and Claire and Simone are keeping secrets. They keep coming over her, and then I have to chase them."
"Well," I started in, hoping to be helpful, "You could just ignore them. Then they'd get bored with it and leave you alone."
Jack's face shifted.
"Sometimes I like it when I have to chase them."
"Adds a little drama to your life?"
"Yes."
And so it begins.
Earlier this week, however, I was able to steal a few golden moments, and headed outside. Before I could even make it out to the benches, I encountered Jack and James, who were loitering on their front steps with a languorous air.
My inquiry into their doings returned the usual "Nuffing" from James, but Jack had things to tell.
"We're looking for Sam and Emmett, but we can't find them. They haven't come out. They're keeping something from us."
At that moment, I happened to glimpse Sam as he poked his head out of his front door, and informed Sam. Jack's cries, alas, were not heard, and Sam popped back inside.
At that, Jack shifted his focus. "Bridget and Claire and Simone are keeping secrets. They keep coming over her, and then I have to chase them."
"Well," I started in, hoping to be helpful, "You could just ignore them. Then they'd get bored with it and leave you alone."
Jack's face shifted.
"Sometimes I like it when I have to chase them."
"Adds a little drama to your life?"
"Yes."
And so it begins.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #240: The part where I learn a new excuse
As is known by some, I just had a birthday. In the Daly household, birthdays are things that stretch out into experiences of remarkable longness. Birthday, we ask? Nay, birthmonth.
My celebration started the day before my birthday (August 8), and took the form of a friday-night block-party planning meeting. As it was raining, we met inside the Daly household. I provided a delicious Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake, and we whet our palates on a delightful pre-mixed sangria, straight from the box. Such class.
My birthday proper, the following day, dawned sticky, hot, and nasty, so we sealed off the house, turned on the AC, opened out the sofa bed, made a grocery store run for junk food, and spent 48 birthday hours in icy isolation. Delightful.
But the shenanigans did not end there. You see, some time ago, Eamon and I attended a charity fundraiser, at which we won in silent auction a "luxury Chicago weekend": one night at the fabulous Fairmont Hotel, a gift certificate for dinner at the French bistro Marche, and another certificate for $75-worth of spa services at Mario Triccoci. My birthday wish was to add another night's worth of stay and call it a birthday. The Fairmont was all booked up on my birthday (Lollapallooza-ites apparently having swarmed even the swankiest of luxury accommodations), so we opted for the weekend following.
It turned out to be a lucky thing -- a very blessing in disguise -- as the weather was slightly less horribly hot and stinky than my birthday weekend proper, and we had only the moderate crowd spillover of the Air and Water show to contend with, as opposed to swarms of drunken concert-goers.
Behold, the festive times that were had:
* A deluxe CTA bus ride to the hotel from our Edgewater home.
* A complimentary chocolate cupcake-ish sort of thing, with "Happy Birthday" written on the plate in chocolate.
* A delicious nap.
* Attendance at Mission: Red, a cocktail fundraiser for the Red Cross, where we supped on tasty hors d'oevres, browsed the "candy bar" and sipped many a signature cocktail.
* A marathon night of rest, arising only at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch on the outdoor, open-air terrace of Sixteen, the restaurant at the new Trump Tower (the perfect location for witnessing some of the airborne mayhem of the Air and Water Show).
* A stroll through Millenium Park (with a dipping of the toes in the spitting face fountain) and down through Grant Park to the Museum Campus.
* A sumptuous dinner at Marche, capped by our very favorite of desserts, ice-cream filled profiteroles.
* An early evening of hotel lounging and TV watching.
* Late arisal at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch at the Park Grill, located just below the famous Bean (though we were scandalized to learn that they no longer serve my most favorite of cocktails, a sweet blue martini garnished with a silver-plated jordan almond. It went by the fabulous moniker of the "Bean-tini." R.I.P. Bean-tini. You served us well.)
* Considered shooting a game of miniature golf in Grant Park, but were dissuaded by rain and general ickiness.
* Retired to the hotel for a sumptuous afternoon snack of champagne, a flight of chocolates, and a huge chocolate brownie sundae.
All in all, and excellent birthmonth.
But, friends, the weekend was not just one of festivities and hijinks. Great knowledge was also shared. You see, at the charity event we attended, there was ... a tarot card reader. Those who know me well know that I cannot turn down any offer to read my cards. And when said reading is free with admission, well, that just about seals the deal.
And blissful I was, waiting in line for my reading, until it became clear that this reader -- a psychic numerologist, it turns out -- was not kidding around. One would expect speedy five-minute readings at such event. One would be wrong. This scrupulous individual lavished a full 20 to 30 minutes on each reading. Do the math, and you quickly discover that you are in for a very, very long wait.
Once this fact became clear, I suggested to Eamon that I could miss my reading. To which he replied, "What else have we got going on?," alluding to the fact that we would either stand here, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat while we waited, or we could leave the line so that we could stand somewhere else, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat. His logic was unassailable.
So stood we did, some two hours (this is not an exagerration), chatting, nibbling, sipping and so forth. We joked with the fellow in front of us, when he returned from the men's room, that he was not allowed to cut in line. He indicated he understood far too well what sort of dire straits cutting in would cause, and that he would defend the integrity of the line to the very end (well, that was the jist of it, anyway).
And so it went, until a glamorous blond came bouncing up and started chatting with this fellow. Hackles were raised. It was easy to see that her game was to chat her way to the front, where she could bypass the rest of us. I overheard her wheedling with the fellow in front of us who, sweet as pie and dimpling charmingly, indicated that she was shit out of luck.
Still, she hung on, and I rankled as only a plain little brunette can when a frowsy blonde tries to trade on her charms. I expressed my concerns to Eamon, who assured me, "Don't worry, I've got this."
So eventually, some 2 hours plus after first getting in line, we near the very front, and I seat myself on some cushions that indicate you are in the home stretch. The frowsy blond asserts to Eamon, "I'm next!" To which Eamon replies, "No, you're not."
She insists she is with the dimpled fellow in line ahead of us. Eamon laughs (aforesaid fellow had spoken of his absent girlfriend), and assures her she is not with him.
Seeing that her charms are getting her no where, she drops all pretense and queries, "Why do you have to be an asshole?"
Eamon chuckles again, and tells her that we've all been in line for a very long time, that we know she is simply trying to jump the line.
Eamon's assholishness is once again surveyed.
To which Eamon says, "Where are we? At a charity event. How about behaving with some charity?"
It is then that frowsy blonde delivers her coup-de-grace.
"But I'm a cancer survivor!"
To which, Eamon simply laughs and says, "I don't see how that's relevant."
Seeing her wiles, her blonde locks and her most likely fictious hours logged in arduous chemotherapy will get her nowhere in the face of Sir Daly, off she flounces.
(In fact, she makes a beeline for a fellow who had been in line behind us, but gave up to go mingle with the singles, and tells him "That guy stole my place in line," in response to which she received a silent and slack-jawed stare. Apparently, her cancer-survival was no longer relevant.)
I finally did receive my reading, some 2 1/2 hours after getting in line, and my faithful fellow defended my right to psychic insight to the very end.
But all of this raises a question for me. Apparently, cancer survival gets you a free pass to cut in line. I've not had cancer, but I did have benign fibroids removed. What does that get me? The right to pull someone's chair out as they're about to sit down? The ability to push over one senior citizen with impunity? A lifetime of wet willies to anyone who comes within finger-distance of me?
I only want what's coming to me.
My celebration started the day before my birthday (August 8), and took the form of a friday-night block-party planning meeting. As it was raining, we met inside the Daly household. I provided a delicious Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake, and we whet our palates on a delightful pre-mixed sangria, straight from the box. Such class.
My birthday proper, the following day, dawned sticky, hot, and nasty, so we sealed off the house, turned on the AC, opened out the sofa bed, made a grocery store run for junk food, and spent 48 birthday hours in icy isolation. Delightful.
But the shenanigans did not end there. You see, some time ago, Eamon and I attended a charity fundraiser, at which we won in silent auction a "luxury Chicago weekend": one night at the fabulous Fairmont Hotel, a gift certificate for dinner at the French bistro Marche, and another certificate for $75-worth of spa services at Mario Triccoci. My birthday wish was to add another night's worth of stay and call it a birthday. The Fairmont was all booked up on my birthday (Lollapallooza-ites apparently having swarmed even the swankiest of luxury accommodations), so we opted for the weekend following.
It turned out to be a lucky thing -- a very blessing in disguise -- as the weather was slightly less horribly hot and stinky than my birthday weekend proper, and we had only the moderate crowd spillover of the Air and Water show to contend with, as opposed to swarms of drunken concert-goers.
Behold, the festive times that were had:
* A deluxe CTA bus ride to the hotel from our Edgewater home.
* A complimentary chocolate cupcake-ish sort of thing, with "Happy Birthday" written on the plate in chocolate.
* A delicious nap.
* Attendance at Mission: Red, a cocktail fundraiser for the Red Cross, where we supped on tasty hors d'oevres, browsed the "candy bar" and sipped many a signature cocktail.
* A marathon night of rest, arising only at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch on the outdoor, open-air terrace of Sixteen, the restaurant at the new Trump Tower (the perfect location for witnessing some of the airborne mayhem of the Air and Water Show).
* A stroll through Millenium Park (with a dipping of the toes in the spitting face fountain) and down through Grant Park to the Museum Campus.
* A sumptuous dinner at Marche, capped by our very favorite of desserts, ice-cream filled profiteroles.
* An early evening of hotel lounging and TV watching.
* Late arisal at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch at the Park Grill, located just below the famous Bean (though we were scandalized to learn that they no longer serve my most favorite of cocktails, a sweet blue martini garnished with a silver-plated jordan almond. It went by the fabulous moniker of the "Bean-tini." R.I.P. Bean-tini. You served us well.)
* Considered shooting a game of miniature golf in Grant Park, but were dissuaded by rain and general ickiness.
* Retired to the hotel for a sumptuous afternoon snack of champagne, a flight of chocolates, and a huge chocolate brownie sundae.
All in all, and excellent birthmonth.
But, friends, the weekend was not just one of festivities and hijinks. Great knowledge was also shared. You see, at the charity event we attended, there was ... a tarot card reader. Those who know me well know that I cannot turn down any offer to read my cards. And when said reading is free with admission, well, that just about seals the deal.
And blissful I was, waiting in line for my reading, until it became clear that this reader -- a psychic numerologist, it turns out -- was not kidding around. One would expect speedy five-minute readings at such event. One would be wrong. This scrupulous individual lavished a full 20 to 30 minutes on each reading. Do the math, and you quickly discover that you are in for a very, very long wait.
Once this fact became clear, I suggested to Eamon that I could miss my reading. To which he replied, "What else have we got going on?," alluding to the fact that we would either stand here, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat while we waited, or we could leave the line so that we could stand somewhere else, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat. His logic was unassailable.
So stood we did, some two hours (this is not an exagerration), chatting, nibbling, sipping and so forth. We joked with the fellow in front of us, when he returned from the men's room, that he was not allowed to cut in line. He indicated he understood far too well what sort of dire straits cutting in would cause, and that he would defend the integrity of the line to the very end (well, that was the jist of it, anyway).
And so it went, until a glamorous blond came bouncing up and started chatting with this fellow. Hackles were raised. It was easy to see that her game was to chat her way to the front, where she could bypass the rest of us. I overheard her wheedling with the fellow in front of us who, sweet as pie and dimpling charmingly, indicated that she was shit out of luck.
Still, she hung on, and I rankled as only a plain little brunette can when a frowsy blonde tries to trade on her charms. I expressed my concerns to Eamon, who assured me, "Don't worry, I've got this."
So eventually, some 2 hours plus after first getting in line, we near the very front, and I seat myself on some cushions that indicate you are in the home stretch. The frowsy blond asserts to Eamon, "I'm next!" To which Eamon replies, "No, you're not."
She insists she is with the dimpled fellow in line ahead of us. Eamon laughs (aforesaid fellow had spoken of his absent girlfriend), and assures her she is not with him.
Seeing that her charms are getting her no where, she drops all pretense and queries, "Why do you have to be an asshole?"
Eamon chuckles again, and tells her that we've all been in line for a very long time, that we know she is simply trying to jump the line.
Eamon's assholishness is once again surveyed.
To which Eamon says, "Where are we? At a charity event. How about behaving with some charity?"
It is then that frowsy blonde delivers her coup-de-grace.
"But I'm a cancer survivor!"
To which, Eamon simply laughs and says, "I don't see how that's relevant."
Seeing her wiles, her blonde locks and her most likely fictious hours logged in arduous chemotherapy will get her nowhere in the face of Sir Daly, off she flounces.
(In fact, she makes a beeline for a fellow who had been in line behind us, but gave up to go mingle with the singles, and tells him "That guy stole my place in line," in response to which she received a silent and slack-jawed stare. Apparently, her cancer-survival was no longer relevant.)
I finally did receive my reading, some 2 1/2 hours after getting in line, and my faithful fellow defended my right to psychic insight to the very end.
But all of this raises a question for me. Apparently, cancer survival gets you a free pass to cut in line. I've not had cancer, but I did have benign fibroids removed. What does that get me? The right to pull someone's chair out as they're about to sit down? The ability to push over one senior citizen with impunity? A lifetime of wet willies to anyone who comes within finger-distance of me?
I only want what's coming to me.
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