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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #239: The part where I come face to face with carnage
So, some several months ago, my dear friend Mr. Czajka came to visit. He was in town to provide a conference hall of bored holy folk with educational materials to enhance some PBS show on religion that is watched by a grand total of 3 people nationwide. His presentation was scheduled for a Tuesday, so he flew in on Saturday to spend a leisurely weekend with the Dalys and his other Windy City buddies.
The weekend held many delights:
The weekend held many delights:
- An arrival during a backyard fete at the Caseys, just in time to roast marshmallows and watch children merrily cavort on my good friend, Lulu the Lion.
- Dinner at the always delightful Pizza Antica with Kristen Freilich, at which we got to ogle the outlines of a naked man showering in an apartment bathroom just across the street.
- A visit to the ever-popular Bong Ho (actually named Cafe Bong) for tunes late into the night.
- A sumptuous breakfast at Walker Brothers Original Pancake House with Ms. Katie Heilman.
- An attempted bus trip to Boys Town, that was stopped by some sort of traffic accident snafu, leading to a leisurely stroll down the Southport Corridor.
- A sidetrip to a resale/retail shop in Boys Town, where I tried on some odd piece of clothing that looked like a cross between a dress and a bathing suit, and would have suited Betty Boop quite nicely.
- Drinks and bar food at Castaways of North Beach (it looks like a boat, but it's a restaurant! Imagine!)
- Attendance at Ms. Freilich's improv show at Second City, joined by Mr. Bryant Dunbar and his sometime swain Rich.
- A trip to Sidetrack, where we enjoyed sights of burly men and '70s disco videos, all accompanied by fruity slush drinks.
- A visit to Northwestern Campus, for a walk down memory lane, and the witnessing of a daring rescue undertaken by a passer-by climbing into the lagoon to free a fish trapped in the rocky breakwater. (It was quite thrilling.)
- Dinner at Gullivers with Mr. Dunbar and the lovely Ms. Carrie Houchins-Witt (one of the ladies from the famed Rochester Odyssey), accompanied by raucous theater and road trip war stories.
But of all these travels -- fascinating and varied as they were -- the most psychologically and aesthetically impressive was our trip to a newly discovered font of all that is fabulous, "Lost Eras." When Mr. Czajka told us to travel east on Howard from Clark to find this fabled storefront, we thought him mad, and we told him as much. Nothing was on that stretch of Howard. Nothing of worth.
But lo to our wondering eyes should appear a remarkable place--a wonderland, really--of vintage antiques, costumes, props, used books, and all other manner of flotsam and jetsam. They rented props, you see, to theater students at Northwestern. $50 to fill a bag with all you can carry.
We perused the front room of antiques; browsed the swords, guns, and other tools of mayhem; examined a wall full of monocles and cigarette holders and pirate hats. Then we wandered through two or three large rooms stuffed to bulging with racks and racks of costumes -- Henry VIII costumes, hippie costumes, superhero costumes, Southern Belle costumes, a dizzying array.
It was only then that we discovered...the downstairs. Rooms and rooms of vintage clothes -- wedding dresses, smoking jackets, christening gowns, tuxedos -- all lining racks in dusty, low-ceilinged rooms. And antique props of every description -- old roller skates, irons, bicycles, and more.
As we perused the ladies' wear, Mr. Czajka and I came upon an alarming rack of white, fluffy suits. Bunny costumes, you see. Scads of them. But the biggest shock was to come, a disturbing vision of horror glimpsed just at the end of the aisle.
I'll never be the same.
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