Crazy Crap

Crazy Crap #272: The part where I provide a Puzzlebutt teaser

2011-09-26T19:53:00.003-05:00

For the last year or so, I've been working on a novel. It's about a minor figure from English literary history, who has been dubbed by the code name "Mistress Puzzlebutt" by Eamon. My neighbor Ann is concerned that Mistress Puzzlebutt has so overtaken my brain that I have fallen out of the habit of blogging. (Untrue; it was Facebook that killed Crazy Crap.) She suggested/requested that I post small teasers from said novel, since I am too lazy to both novel-write and blog. I am so lazy, I will take her up on that suggestion/request.

And so, I present: "Mistress Puzzlebutt meets Queen Elizabeth"

If I was unnerved to be ushered so unceremoniously into the royal presence, I was distracted too by the appearance of the queen herself. I had not the nerve to meet her gaze when she entered our gates, and had seen her only from afar before, in ceremonial processions and the progresses she had so frequently made amongst the people. In the great houses I had visited, her image was everywhere, emblazoned in vivid portraits. I knew well her coppery red hair, her alabaster skin, her sharp eye, and superior mien. I had not yet reckoned with the reality of her person. At sixty-four years, she was no longer the Tudor rose of her youth. Her skin was now sagging and lined as crepe, showing spots and discolorations that even a thick plastering of white lead could not conceal. (The queen could not resist cosmetics, and wore them more thickly than any boy player in a scenario. It was a far cry from the artful and sparing application I had received from Mary Fitton.) When she smiled, her teeth were black—a legacy, it was said, of her great love of sweets. They were set off by the bright red tint she had applied to her lips, which made her mouth a crimson slash on the disc of her face. Her red hair was false, I noted, as wisps of white escaped the confines of the netting. She had small black eyes, which in their liveliness belied the edifice of age surrounding them. Her manner with her courtiers was flirtatious, as she alternately batted those lively eyes and coyly rolled them, using her fan to draw attention to her breast, which was exposed low in the manner of unmarried ladies.

Consider yourself teased.

Crazy Crap#271: The part concerning art

2011-09-26T09:23:00.005-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I came home to discover James Casey (just turning 7 years old) on my front boulevard struggling with some boards and a length of string he had tied to my tree. I asked him what was going on, and he told me, “I was going to climb this tree, but then I decided to do something impressive instead.”

I looked at what he was compiling, and asked if it was art, or did it do something. He replied, “Both. It’s art, but art makes people happy, so that’s the thing it does.”

I noted that his construction would be greatly aided by some rubber bands, and would he like some rubber bands? His face took on a glow of unexpected joy, so I took that as a yes and went to find my tin of rubber bands.

I showed him how to wrap the bands several times, and use the power of basic geometry and physics to keep the thing standing. He was quite pleased with our work. Our neighbor Kevin offered to commemorate the new structure, which James dubbed “The Norwood Thingy” with a photo.

James designed not only the structure, but also came up with his pose in the photo. He’s quite the artist and public figure.

Crazy Crap #270: The part where James sums it up

2011-03-12T09:14:00.002-06:00

Sometimes, a Facebook post needs a more permanent home. This comes from Ann, about James, now age 6 1/2:

I'm going to try to live my life more like James. He told me this morning, "today is going to be my best day ever, just like yesterday was." When I asked him why it would be his best day ever he said, "because I'm going to do EVERYTHING!"

Crazy Crap #269: The part where the more things change, the more they stay the same

2010-12-27T14:11:00.003-06:00

Recently, my dad had new carpet installed. The effect was like what happens when you stir a stew that's been simmering on the stove for a good long time -- lots of delightful and surprising things get turned up from the bottom of the pot.

And so it was that a precious cache of old preschool- and elementary school-era documents of Peterson family history were rediscovered. Here, I record one of the most unexpected finds: My mother's "observations" of first my sister and me in preschool, and then me, solo, once my sister had departed for kindergarten. My mother's observations are occasionally punctuated by responses from the teacher. I've opted not to include my own retrospective commentary, but will let the document stand.

ALHAMBRA CITY HIGH SCHOOL DISTRICT
PARENT-CHILD OBSERVATION CLASSES

9/27/1968

Liz: 44 mo.

Kay: 25 mo.

Both girls were excited and looked forward with great anticipation to school. They picked up their room quickly which is unusual.

9am

They both played actively with the toys and mixed well. They painted and then went into the playhouse area which they seem to really enjoy. Good imagination, very busy and industrious cook. Mothers, etc.

9:45am

During story time E[lizabeth] was very good and quiet – Kay was good also but had a little more trouble staying on rug.

After juice (which they drank – will not at home) they returned to room. E immediately went to playhouse area and joined a group of girls there. Kay wandered about enjoying the freedom and different toys. Liz stayed in playhouse and made a friend – Kay started building with large blocks.

10/4/1968

Liz: 44 mo.

Kay: 25 mo.

9:20am

Great anticipation last night and this morning. They were good this morning and Elizabeth almost dressed herself completely. As usual E headed for the playhouse area which she loves so. She is being friendly and sharing well. Kay drifts about doing various things, happy and busy.

Kay became angry today when not allowed to go outside – she did not sleep well at all and has just been terribly grouchy about everything. [Teacher’s note: Well, it was darn grey (?) and the weather ought to be ashamed of itself!]

Outside playtime perked Kay up – better natured – went into rest time real well.

10/11/1968

Liz: 44 mo.

Kay: 25 mo.

9:30am

Both happy to attend – seem to be in good spirits today. They painted and Kay especially enjoyed this.

9:50am

Song time – Eliz. joined in all the action – Kay enjoyed but observed mostly – sat quietly and very good!

I was told they were very good during discussion – Kay slept well last night and it shows!

11:30am

Rest time – Both lying quietly –

[Teacher’s note: Interesting to see Eliz. and Robin “find” each other today. Happiness is making a friend!]

10/18/1968

Liz: 44 mo.

Kay: 25 mo.

9:30am

Again both very happy at prospect of school. E looking forward to seeing Robin.

Kay was very annoyed at having to come inside and consequently didn’t respond to song time, etc. I think I had better try to arrive earlier so she has more outside play time. Other than that – no problem to speak of.

[Teacher’s note: Don’t be concerned if Kay cries. It’s a stable group and can take a few distractions here and there. (Kay wasn’t nearly as distracting today as my silly cold!) If she would be happier sitting on your lap at rest time, why don’t you try that way? Sometimes it helps to let them join the group activities on “their own time.” Also, thank you for being so helpful on the playground with the other children. Every class needs a few who are fast on their feet, and it is appreciated.)

10/25/1968

Liz: 44 mo.

Kay: 25 mo.

9:30am

Elizabeth and Kay both happy to come – Liz seems to be getting much more out of this than Kay. Perhaps she’ll improve as time goes on. She is good in areas now except when expected to quietly conform.

[Teacher’s note: For her age, she does exceptionally well, though!]

Hokey pokey brought her out a bit.

11/1/1968

Liz: 44 mo.

Kay: 25 mo.

9:30am

Elizabeth very grouchy this morning, guess Halloween was too much!

10am

Both were good today – Had our usual battle but Kay did rest today. They both play very well in group activities and get along with children just fine.

11/15/1968

Liz: 45 mo.

Kay: 26 mo.

9:30am

Both girls were so excited to come. I had a talk with Kay and she claimed she was going to nap, sit, etc. We’ll see.

Liz is sad – no Robin today. I am happy to see the girls are both doing pretty well in the sharing department – at least they haven’t shown too much aggression.

[Teacher’s note: “Lady Macbeth” certainly did “ring them bells”!]

12/6/1968

Liz: 45 mo.

Kay: 26 mo.

Every one so happy to come. Pretty good today – Kay is still not very good about “the Rug” business.

12/13/1968

Liz: 46 mo.

Kay: 27 mo.

9:30am

Liz was awakened “rudely” by brother very early this morning & is very grouchy. I think she’ll come to eventually. Kay all excited about coming – in a very silly, wild mood this morning. I see Liz and Robin playing on boat & she seems to be in better spirits. We have a problem with her lately – she is so emotional lately & cries easily.

Story time was an improvement – Kay joined in and behaved much better.

[Teacher’s note: Wouldn’t it be nice if everybody was as happy as Kay today – especially in the MORNING!]

1/24/1969

Liz: 47 mo.

Kay: 28 mo.

9:30am

Both anxious to come today – Kay has promised faithfully to join in rug activities today – we will see!

Week has been very interesting to say the least – the girls play very well together lately – House, dolls, etc. Not too much fighting over toys, but some.

10am

Singing and story time real improvement for Kay – she slept long & well & awake in good spirits today. I wonder too if sometimes the large group overwhelms the small ones.

During discussion both E & K were good natured and played well independently. E made friends with John & they were very busy in play house.

2/21/1969

Liz: 48 mo.

Kay: 29 mo.

9:45am

This morning didn’t go too well – Liz claims she can’t dress herself so Kay follows suit. Very tiresome and really takes a great deal out of me. We also have had some problems with Kay lately for getting into drawers/etc. – She seemed to be all cured of this type of thing so I was discouraged yesterday when she reverted to her old ways.

Seemed to enjoy today though not so cheery today.

2/28/1969

Liz: 49 mo.

Kay: 30 mo.

9am

Liz picked up all the chalk Kay spilled so we could get going. This is a rare thing for Liz to do so you can see how much school means to her.

[Teacher’s note: This class has me completely spoiled. So many “up” people all in one place!]

2/28/1969

Liz: 49 mo.

Kay: 30 mo.

9:30am

So happy to come – both in good spirits and very agreeable today – The rain did one good thing – to encourage more drawing & reading on our part. So happy to see both girls developing nicely in small muscle control. Kay drew a face recently which really impressed me.

All in all a good day!

3/14/1969

[Teachers report: Sat., with smaller group, I could observe each child better and was fascinated to watch Kay playing with the flannel board and letters. She was saying them out loud to herself (not all – but quite a few).

Maybe we should break the news to her that she’s not old enough?]

10/17/1969

Kay: 36 mo.

[Teacher’s note: Kay seems even more grown up, on her own.]

9:15am

Kay was immediately interested in paste – She went right at it – pasted with enthusiasm and stayed with it for a good 10 min or so. She is very good this way and has been a child who could stay with a project for a long time. Kay is very independent – has left Carrie and Andrew to go to playhouse area – Kay is eager to be involved. She watched the painting story closely – really was interested.

Kay has great concentration – during story time she listened and watched intently. Kay is a person who will be involved in what is going on.

[Teacher’s note: Good notes!]

10/31/1969

Kay: 36 mo.

9:30

Kay was so happy to come, school makes her feel grown up as her brother and sister both go.

She was rather naughty at rest time – couldn’t seem to relax as well as usual.

11/6/1969

Kay: 38 mo.

Books and articles read on children and family life: Still reading “Between Parent & Child”

9:15

So happy to come – Today is a physical day – She jumped on a bike as soon as we arrived.

Singing – good and involved. She concentrates so well, it pleases me to see her paying such attention. Kay has few real personality problems, though she is very obstinate at times & can be very difficult with her “no’s.”

[Teacher’s note: Well – she’s going to be such a “dish” in a few years, maybe it’s just as well!]

11/14/1969

Kay: 38 mo.

9:30

Very silly today – happy and eager to come as usual. She really enjoys school and looks forward to it all week.

We have been watching “Sesame Street” this week and I am pleased to see how interested she is in the letters, numbers, etc. – her attention span* never ceases to amaze me – especially after having had one very distractible child.

During story time she is engrossed and listens carefully.

*[Teacher’s note: She really has an incredible attention span. Guess she didn’t “read the book” that sez she’s too young!]

12/5/1969

Kay: 39 mo.

Books and articles read on children and family life: Ha!

9:30am

As usual Kay thrilled at prospect of school. She is determined not to obey lately & we have had some good slaps this week. She is good in so many ways but really needs a firm hand so she’ll eventually realize that I and not she am boss!

12/12/1969

Kay: 39 mo.

9:20am

Kay is always glad to come here as you know. In fact I tell her when she’s naughty that I’ll not take her to school & that carries a lot of weight.

12/19/1969

[Teacher’s note: Sorry I didn’t grasp Kay’s problem faster about the book exchange – and do hope I didn’t start your whole Christmas off with a bad bang!]

1/9/1970

Kay: 40 mo.

9:30am

After Christmas Kay was really ready for school though she woke up very grouchy & we’ll see how she goes as the morning progresses. She has been soooooo talkative lately she seems to have a million things in her head all the time.

[Teacher’s note: It was nice to see the “Grand Old Ladies” today. My, how they’ve come along!]

1/23/1970

Kay: 41 mo.

9:20am

Kay was really flying today & so happy to come. She is wearing one of her “special” hand-me-downs from Carrie. We have noticed the different attitude of children today towards this, they couldn’t be happier with their cousin’s things.

Our stubborn period is still on, Kay really has to be made to understand that I’ll not give in on some thins or all “hell” breaks loose. *

She is eager to help herself in many ways, & is so mature in many areas.

*[Teacher’s note: Well – I guess you know I’m not about to tell anybody to raise the white flag & just surrender – or that there aren’t some legitimate wars sometimes in spite of all, But the natural mental tendency, I should think, after deciding that one was “bossed” a bit by a 1^st child, would be to man one’s battle station for the next ones. It might be worth a try, at least, to stop playing HER game, a little, by giving as few direct commands as possible and just working on the vital ones. This sounds so simple that you may feel like hitting me with a bat, but the fact is that whenever WHATEVER you’re doing isn’t working at THIS time with THIS child, it’s often a good time to change tactics.

You said it: “She looks at me all ready for a fight” (or words to that effect). So surprise her! Why not?

P.S. But when you DO give a necessary command, take her clear to the boards if you have to! Under-mother is what I mean, with the “do this & do that’s” and all the liottel stuff we all pick, pick, pick about at times.

Just a thought, you know – and you certainly don’t have to be polite and agree!]

1/3/1970

Kay: 3 ½ years old

9am:

Things went smoothly today as everyone cooperated and helped us getting out!

She was a bit more sensitive acting, and became upset during hand puppet thing – I think she thought she was going to hold one & when another girl got to she really broke up –

Lately she won’t join the dancing which is really odd for a child who continually dances at home –

[Teacher’s note: And at school last year. She may be bored (we’re doing very elementary things.) We have a rather split group this years – the “fasts” are very fasts and t’other way around. Will try to alternate a bit more.]

2/13/1970

9:30

Very excited ab out coming – no real improvement in behavior, in fact she really acted up in church Sunday loudly proclaiming “I hate church.” She just doesn’t want to do anything she dislikes. Very independent thinker.

2/27/1970

Kay: 42 mo.

9:30am

Liz visited us today and realy is enjoying herself. Happy to see she wanted to sing for the group as sometimes she gets rather embarrassed.

4/2/1970

9:15am

So!!! excited about coming. Really sweet lately though still very mouthy. Her sass really strikes me funny which may or may not be good for her. On the whole just laughing and not getting angry seems to stop it as quickly as anything else.

[Teacher’s note: You know what? – You’ve learned a lot lately. All your work with Michael, etc., shows!]

4/17/1970

9:15am

This morning Liz was so helpful – dressed completely & quickly – she is so good this way and has a side of her personality that loves neatness and efficiency. So different from the other two. Kay woke up OK but has gotten progressively grouchy – she needs her rest and apparently needs more than she had last nite. Kay is quite shy in some ways. I’ve noticed she never asks to speak or have a turn with you – she probably will eventually.

Crazy Crap #268: The part where Google proves its worth

2010-11-24T09:27:00.003-06:00

Yesterday, neighbor James (age 6, for those of you keeping track) asked his mother Ann if Google is smart enough to know his favorite foods. They did a search on "James Casey Favorite Foods" and, of course, got some other James Casey and his irrelevant preferences.

Another neighbor, Kevin, caught wind of this and decided to make it so:

http://web.me.com/kevinwatts/Site/James_Casey,_Norwood_Street,_Chicago.html

Google knows all! You heard it hear first!

Crazy Crap #267: The part where I recount a decades-old story, secondhand

2010-08-12T11:30:00.002-05:00

Today, I luxuriate in the lower left-hand corner of the country, in a snug little beach apartment located above a hamburger stand. It is a summer outing with my husband and father, replete with cocktails, corndogs, jigsaw puzzles, and very loud television watching.

Yesterday, my sister Liz came out to visit, joined by my cousin Carrie. We got on the topic of recalcitrant youth, how to discipline them, and sins committed in our teens. I have shamefully few.

This led Liz to recount an incident in which she had been out late carousing, and the next morning slept in, all the while unaware that the rather large bottle of vodka that had fueled the prior evening's festivities had been discovered by my parents.

She staggered out to the kitchen to the vision of my brother, Mike, who was over 21. In his hand was a very large Bloody Mary--garnished with a large sprig of celery--concocted from the illicit vodka.

"SUCKER!" was the greeting.

In the Peterson household, you snooze, you lose.

Crazy Crap #266: The part where I compose a poem for Eamon

2010-07-27T10:03:00.002-05:00

I have eaten
the muffin
given to you by Caroline.
I was hungry and

it was just

sitting

there.

Crazy Crap #265: The part where James has aspirations

2010-07-15T23:07:00.003-05:00

Sadly, I now crib from Facebook. This is Ann's latest report on James, via Facebook status. It's too brilliant not to report:

James has an idea for a new TV show called "The Just Me Show." He says he would be the only one on the show, thus the name.

He would play himself and several other characters including Goggles (a baby), Scruffy (a dog), and a guy named Jazz Dancer.

Crazy Crap #264: The part where Jack sums things up

2010-06-30T18:27:00.003-05:00

Today, as I was reading in the yard, James came out with a large, inflatable machine gun. He frantically pantomimed shooting and lobbing what seemed to be imaginary hand grenades.

"Who are you fighting?"

"The Japanese."

I expressed skepticism, and explained that the Japanese are our friends. "They made your car," I told him, referencing his mother's Subaru.

"I'm fighting World War II," he clarified.

I asked why he was not instead fighting Germany or Italy. After some consideration, he decided that the Italians would be his target.

Jack, who had just wandered out, suggested that the Germans would be a better target for his brother's hostility. "They made Hitler," he helpfully explained.

I agreed that Hitler was quite bad, probably crazy, and a failed artist.

"And he tried to kill all the Jewish people," Jack added.

I agreed, and, with his prompting, tried to explain anti-Semitism. To an 8-year-old.

We went through several watered-down explanations, variously suggesting that Hitler was crazy, was using the Jews to get his people to support him (my suggestion), thought the Jewish people were to blame for Germany's weaknesses ("Were they?" "No."), and were blamed by Hitler for his own artistic shortcomings (Jack's idea).

"And then Hitler tried to kill all the Jewish people," Jack summarized, "Which was awkward."

Quite.

Crazy Crap #263: The part where Jack shows a good deal of self-awareness

2010-06-14T19:35:00.001-05:00

James Casey is a menace to his own person. First, there was the incident in which the bed caused a horrible accident. Then there was a rogue arrow, thankfully sponge-tipped.

We'd discussed oft and anon how these two incidents had marred James forehead in such a way that he looked like he had horns just about to sprout. "Like a devil," he'd proudly proclaimed.

Just the other day, I encountered young James, cavorting in my backyard, and noted he was now sporting a third red spot, this time in the middle of his forehead. "I'm a three-horned devil!" he announced. "I'm a triceratops!"

I questioned him narrowly about how this had happened, and he gave some vague account of falling and hitting his head. I asked if he'd been leaping about, and he admitted he had.

I noted that he was a menace to himself, and that he always seemed to be hurting himself. He responded with incomprehension, so I pointed out his many injuries, recounting how he had gotten each. "I'd say that you're accident prone."

"What does accident prone mean?"

"It means you hurt yourself a lot." Then, I started to feel bad. Perhaps I was giving this poor child a complex. Perhaps my labeling of him as accident prone would give him a complex. So I softened the blow by pointing out that he wasn't alone.

"Lots of you kids are accident prone. Gavin hurts himself a lot."

James: "I hurt myself more."

"No,Gavin broke his arm. He fell out of a tree."

"I'm more accident prone," he asserted again.

"Jack is..." Then I realized something. "You know, Jack's not accident prone. He never hurts himself." I turned to Jack. "I don't remember you ever hurting yourself."

Jack whispered conspiratorially. "I make better choices."

Crazy Crap #262: The part where I never thought about it that way

2010-05-31T12:37:00.004-05:00

It's Memorial Day Weekend. On Norwood Street, this is a holiday replete with neighborly interactions. Being, as I am, a roller derby widow, I found myself the recipient of much fine hospitality.

While I could expatiate upon the bench-side snacks provided by Megan on Friday afternoon, or the delicious backyard barbecue hosted by the Harris-Wattses, for the purposes of this blog, I will pause only on the impromptu offer of a spare-rib dinner by my dear neighbors, the Caseys.

The dinner, itself, was delightful, garnished as it was by Jim's homemade, ketchup-free barbecue sauce and Jack's many witticisms. But a standout of the evening was a small performance by James, age 5.

In a particularly wriggly mood--and who wouldn't be, with such a scintillating guest as myself present--James enacted some very strange writhings and facial spasms that caught my attention.

Fortified by several glasses of the Caseys' excellent red wine, I said the first thing that came into my head.

"Are you favoring us with your Elephant Man impression?"

In the sober light of day, I realize this is not the question you ask of a 5-year-old, or his precocious 8-year-old brother, who will demand an explanation.

Thankfully, Ann leapt into the breach, describing the disease Elephantiasis and all its accompanying horrors. Naturally I feared the inevitable follow-up, queries about the likelihood of contracting this disease.

As it turns out, this should not have troubled me.

Upon hearing the explanation, James leapt onto his seat, stood with legs apart, fists on hips, and announced, "Never fear, Elephant Man is here!"

Then there was some booty shaking, but I think that has more to do with James himself than the pachyderm superhero he was portraying.

Crazy Crap #261: The part where Jack stumbles on a bit of wisdom

2010-05-18T19:29:00.002-05:00

The boys of Norwood are squirrel hunting. In my backyard. This explains the sticks and rocks that have mysteriously appeared on my garage roof in the past few weeks.

This evening, a flash of white caught my eye as I passed our backyard-facing windows. Young Jack Casey was building a trap. Well, not really a trap, he explained. He had set some bird seed in a small fragment of flower pot, directly beneath a very large and heavy board held up by a stick. A rope was tied to the stick. You do the math.

As we discussed the efficacy of this engine, Jack lit upon a new topic.

"Do lots of people get bitten by squirrels?"

"I don't know if lots do, but some do."

"Have you ever been bitten by a squirrel?"

"No, but I stay away from them. "

"Do people ever touch squirrels?"

"I'm sure they do. Jon Hey does," I noted, referring to our neighbor who is notorious for hand-feeding his squirrels, and, occasionally, inviting them into his house. "But I don't. They're germy."

"So is Jon Hey germy?"

"If he touches squirrels, I guess he is."

"So I shouldn't touch Jon Hey?"

"In general, no."

Thus from the mouth of babes.

Crazy Crap #260: The part where Jack suckers me in

2010-05-16T19:04:00.004-05:00

There are three things you need to know about Jack Casey. He is 8 years old. His favorite show is Bear Grylls' Man vs. Wild. (Incidentally, he does a remarkably adept Bear Grylls impersonation). He has taken the Dangerous Book for Boys as his own personal Bible.

And so it was that this past weekend, when we held a block party in honor of his and neighbor Emmet Calto's first communion, Jack came to me with not-entirely-unexpected request.

"You need to help me make a knife. I have the instructions. It's for survival."

In previous years, I might have jumped in without looking on this one. A knife? Let us proceed. But five years of watching the small ones of Norwood fall from trees, collide on scooters, and endanger each others' safety--sometimes with my unwitting encouragement--has led me to be a bit more discriminating in my indulgences.

So it was that I took the tactic of delay and indirection.

"How would I know how to make a knife?" I asked.

"I have instructions." Jack laid the aptly titled Dangerous Book open on the grass. "It's for survival."

I indicated that I could not participate in the construction of any knife without the sign-off of his mother. Disaster averted.

Or so I thought. Ann's response, "Sure, if Kay's helping you, you can make a knife."

This was unexpected.

So now, I had to make a knife. We examined the two proffered designs. The first, carved entirely from wood, made entirely no sense to me. "Why," I asked Jack, "would they give you directions for an improvised knife that required you to have a knife so that you could carve an improvised knife?"

Jack, skilled logician that he is, immediately grasped the paradox and agreed to follow the other design. All we needed, he pointed out, was something sharp, such as a sharp piece of metal, or a sharp piece of glass. Sighting an empty beer bottle (this was, after all, a block party), he posited that we could simply break the bottle.

"We are not breaking the bottle," I assured him, and steered him to the safer option of searching my rotting, tumble-down, rat-invested garage, now with Emmett in tow.

This promising setting offered surprisingly little fodder for knife building, so I offered that locus of all bounty, my basement. A search of said environ yielded a tile, which I broke into a small piece, and a very promising fragment of plaster which had chipped, presumably, off the wall. Emmett located a paperclip, and suggested it would make a good handle. I gently dissuaded him, as his suggestion in reality, made absolutely no sense. We gathered a few stick-like items, thinking one might serve as a handle, and nice length of rope. Grabbing a roll of electrical tape for good measure, I ushered them outdoors for construction.

At this point, we realized none of our handle options were workable, and the boys scavenged for better options. At last, Emmett brought forth the most wondrous of items--a stick of sturdy diameter and length, cunningly split by the elements at one end. I felt he had redeemed himself from the embarrassment of the earlier paperclip suggestion.

I took Jack's hunk of plaster, wedged it into the split, then wrapped the end of the stick with black tape. Emmett and Jack were duly pleased.

Jack took it from me with a palpable sense of awe, brandished it, then announced, "Let's go attack the princesses!"

"I thought this was only for survival." But I said this only to the back of his head as he skipped merrily and murderously away.

Crazy Crap #259: The part where Nolan is open to suggestions

2010-05-11T22:17:00.003-05:00

The boys of Norwood are dinosaur-mad. "Dinos," they call them.

I try to support this craze by purchasing every tiny, inexpensive twelve-pack of dinosaur toys I can find.

Recently, wee Nolan, but three years old, was displaying to me many of the dinos he had purloined from my toy basket. I asked their names, as is my wont. To my surprise, rather than loudly asserting that animals have no names, and telling me "You're driving me crazy," as is his wont, instead, he pointed to each in turn.

"This is Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, Ducky and Ducky."

I suggested that Cocoa is also a good name.

He pointed again. "This is Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, and Cocoa."

Crazy Crap #258: The part where April is peeping out all over

2010-05-01T17:11:00.005-05:00

Those who have been reading my updates for at least a year know that here on Norwood, we have a hallowed springtime tradition. The Peeps Party. Long has it lived in the lore of the block since last year, when I held the first such event.

It's brilliant in its cunning simplicity:

- I buy a bunch of Peeps.
- I amass a bunch of craft supplies.
- I collect all my shoe boxes.
- I Scotchguard my entire house.
- I invite small children and others over to my house to create dioramas of their own design employing marshmallow peeps.
- Eamon looks gaily on.

And so it was that we held the Second Annual Peeps Party on April 17. We had planned to hold said event in the dining room, where it convened last year. But as the day dawned full and fair, we realized that with a few borrowed tables, we could move the festivities out into the back yard, where the children could bask in the early springtime sunshine, and I could avoid countless hours of sweeping up glitter and scraping adhesive-backed googly eyes off my hardwood floors.

In the now-vacated dining room, we set up snacks of all description, a large basin of wine bottles, and other assorted refreshments.

And thus it was that the day fulfilled the glory of celebrations past. The highlights:
- Somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 kids, with attached parents, descended up our yard for a whirlwind of creative outpouring.
- Neighbor Jim Casey helped feed the masses by bringing over an unsolicited roast, fresh of the grill. Delicious!
- We saw an array of themes in this year's displays, with an emphasis on:
* dinosaurs
* violence
* free-form

We were all tickled by a number of creative and accomplished displays, including the darling Peeps-aria pizza parlor, a peeps garden, a particularly bloody rendition of Robin Hood, a lifelike rendition of activism and civil disobedience, a bleak and heart-rending portrayal of the Civil War, a shooting gallery, and Eamon's cunning re-creation of our favorite karaoke bar, the Bong Ho.

Check all the glorious photos!

Festivities wrapped up around 6:30pm or so, and a small merry band retired to the Harris-Watts benches to bask in the glow of a firepit. For me, the spirit was willing for more festivities, but the body was weak, so I crashed in front an interminable "House" marathon until I lost myself in sleep's comforting embrace.

Excelsior Peeps!

Crazy Crap #257: The part where I wax pithy and historical

2010-04-08T10:13:00.001-05:00

The 5-and-under boys of Norwood are taking tap class, including James, also known as Casey Brother the Younger. There is some shuffling and stomping involved.

This week, tap class is coming one day after a Casey-family visit to the Chicago History Museum, where stove-pipe hats a la Honest Abe were procured. And thus it is that James is taking his hat to tap class.

Quoth I, "Give my regards to Gettysburg."

Crazy Crap #256: Where Sailor Jack is amusing in the middle of the night

2010-03-27T16:48:00.003-05:00

A few days ago, I checked my email first thing in the morning to find missive from my dad, sent at 3:30am. Apparently, rambling emails to one's daughter are a new insomnia cure-all. The last paragraph amused me mightily:

The Pfost's Grandson, Matthew, is marrying next month and much of the energy is directed along those lines. It will be take place in a winery in Temecula. Not even a Catholic winery!

Crazy Crap #255: The part where Ann cracks wise

2010-03-23T14:06:00.004-05:00

Today, I emerged from my den of thesauri and style guides into the bright sunshine. My legs needed a good stretching, and the bathroom needed a variety of supplies, which I figured I could obtain at the CVS.

Upon striking out into the great outdoors, I came upon James and Ann, who were just embarking on their daily walk/scooter to school. I offered to accompany them as school was right on my way to the drug store.

As we wandered, Ann brought up the topic of the signing of the health bill (huzzah), and we rambled onto the topic of how insanely immature and vengeful several members of our government had been in their opposition to said bill, and anything else that didn't square with their personal ideologies.

I ventured the opinion that such people were more invested in acting out with great disregard for personal restraint than they were in their actual dogmas, and theorized that they were actually drawn to dogmas that encouraged and validated such immature outbursts.

Ann had a better theory.

"I think it's because the World Wrestling Federation doesn't have enough openings."

Touche.

Crazy Crap #254: The part where Nolan makes his feelings known

2010-03-10T21:54:00.004-06:00

Last friday, I had the pleasure of attending a neighborhood shindig at the house of Megan, she who gets thirsty. The party was in honor of the traitorous O'Connors, who some years ago moved away from this sylvan paradise of Norwood to the barren outlyings of the Milwaukee suburbs. We mourn them to this day.

So it was we gathered for pizza, snackings, cocktails, and sips from the half-keg of Sprecher's rootbeer (the last thoughtfully provided by the traitorous O'Connors, straight from their new home town).

When not entertaining myself with grown-up chit-chat, I, of course, amused myself with the teasing of small children. Thus it was that Nolan, age 3, and I were were having jolly good times in the family nook. After some cavorting, Nolan took my hand, and told me, quite earnestly, that he wanted to take me somewhere.

"To funky town?" I asked. "Are you taking me to funky town?" Then, of course, I had to sing. "Won't you take me to ... FUNKY TOWN????
Won't you take me to ... FUNKY TOWN????"

Ann Casey, Nolan's mom Mimi, and others joined in, singing us out as Nolan dragged me down to the basement. There, all the other children were sitting slackjawed, watching cartoons on an enormous television.

I stood, awkwardly, for a few minutes, then thought, "Nuts to this, I have a cocktail upstairs," and started to edge toward the door.

This movement caught Nolan's eye, who adjured me:

"Kay! You can't leave funky town!!!!"

Indeed, you can't.

Crazy Crap #253: The part where I hope James is not misconstrued

2010-03-03T10:35:00.004-06:00

So last night, as Jack was undertaking his first reconciliation, James repaired to my house for an evening of cookie-baking and general mayhem. As part of the night's entertainment, I showed him my brand-new Weight Watchers pedometer, and we spent a good amoutn of time testing exactly how good a job it did counting my steps.

Today, I received this missive from Ann, alluding to our evening of fun:

This morning I was getting the boys ready for school. Jack was complaining of being tired and James was saying he wasn't tired at all. I explained that Jack had a big night out while James relaxed and watched cartoons at your house.

James said "I didn't just relax, I walked all over and kept checking the temperature" I was totally confused by this and asked him "what temperature" and he said "the one on Kay's pants."

That is not what one wants to hear about one's babysitter.

Crazy Crap #252: The part where Jack prepares to cleanse his soul

2010-03-02T20:51:00.002-06:00

Jack Casey, believe it or not, has reached the mature age of 8, and thusly has faced the first of many Roman Catholic sacraments, Reconciliation--also known as the scariest of the sacraments.

In preparation for this holiest of events, Ann revealed that Jack had attempted to codify and quantify his sinfulness. She came across a table he had constructed, the left-hand column labeled as "Sins I have done," and the right-hand column labeled as "Number of times." Ann noted that he had nothing written in the left-hand column, but had included a number of mysterious hash-marks in the right-hand column. Apparently, he wants his sins tallied, but not recorded.

Crazy Crap #251: The part where Jack offers sage insights into sibling relations

2010-03-01T10:49:00.002-06:00

I was just about to hunker down and start work on a new project when I was lured outside by the siren song of hockey sticks hitting frozen bricks. The young Caseys, Jack and James, were imitating recent Olympic glory on the brick expanse in their backyard. While I in no way wish to foster any such violent, ER-tending activities, it was quite an amusing spectacle, and required further investigation on my part.

I introduced my coming by demanding to know why they were not in school, and whether they were playing hookey. Strep throat was the culprit, Jack informed me. Inquiries about his current state of pain ("Does it hurt?") received a negatory ("Not right now.")

I watched their rather lop-sided matches, all the while interjecting questions, comments and topics for discussion, such as:

- the fact it was their mother's birthday
- my new haircut, which neither had noticed. Indeed, neither could recall my previous waist-length hair when questioned. I let the matter drop.
- a comparison of our varying levels of involvement in watching the Olympics (theirs extreme; mine minimal)
- a demonstration of a new game, in which Jack blows a designated number of toots on a whistle, which signal to James a series a commands: come here, go away, freeze, etc. When Jack had finally added enough commands to have a 5-toot sequence, I queried how far this system could actually go. To wit, "28 toots mean make me a sandwich." "32 toots mean do my laundry." I pointed out that this way madness lies.
- a series of questions regarding the climate surrounding the Grand Canyon, and whether one could wear shorts in the canyon in the middle of summer.
- a recounting of highlights from a program featuring survivalist Bear Grylls, and estimations of the height of a railway bridge that had in some way threatened his life (anywhere from 25 feet high to 1 million 80 one hundred feet [James' estimate]).
- a concern registered that the very large stick James was wielding was going to poke Kay's eye out, and a suggestion by Jack that if such a tragedy should befall, Kay could always go to the "body shop." A clever witticism.
- a follow-up discussion about colored contacts and the fact that some people have two different-colored eyes.

Eventually, our discussion wound back around to Jack's health, and how he had spent his weekend. It was noted that while Jack had hunkered down with his dad--watching videos, enjoying warm baths, observing the preparation of Italian delicacies by his dad and uncle--James had attended a birthday party and gone to an open gym.

We noted that James attends birthdays nearly every weekend, and I observed that his friends did seem to keep getting older, and that he should look into that.

At this point, Jack volunteered that James had actually gone to the gym at Jack's suggestion. "Sometimes," he noted, "You like to have time by yourself, to spend some time with one of your parents all by yourself."

Cherish these days, Caseys. Soon, there will be nothing but hormones, sass, and angst.

Crazy Crap #250: The part where Norwood Street goes on a field trip

2010-02-23T15:34:00.004-06:00

So, some week's ago, a large contingency from Norwood Street embarked upon what has come to be known as "The First Annual Norwood Street Indoor Block Party." To some, it is known as the time I got a bunch of neighbors to go with me to roller derby. In attendance: the Caltos, the Cavitts, the Caseys, the Harris-Wattses, and the Wallers (sans Genevieve). It is to be noted, sadly, that the youngest Waller, Cynthia Rose, did not wear her Wonder Woman costume, as she had at an earlier derby date.

Notable events:

* Delicious pre-show snacks and drinks with the Caltos and Cavitts.
* A trek onto the track to high-five the skaters before the bout. This is a courtesy extended to children who attend the derby. Eamon asked me to shepherd them. Rounding up my wards, I did a quick head count, so that if any of them got lost, at least I'd know how many children I had misplaced. I had 7 in total, which I feel makes me the Maria von Trapp of the derby.
* A delectable cocktail, which was supposed to be a pina colada, but which upon further investigation appeared to be a mishmash of banana, coconut and oodles of rum.
* The consumption of many snacks by one and all.
* The subsequent sickening of young James Casey who, as his mother Ann noted, had not had a hot dog in many a day.
* The slack-jawedness of many small boys at the vision of our be-skated heroines.
* A foray up into the balcony by small boys.
* A blow-out derby victory.
* The winning-over of many new, small derby fans.

Plans for a second semi-annual indoor derby-related block party are in the works.

Crazy Crap Item #249: The part where Jack has grand plans and projects

2010-01-21T18:37:00.003-06:00

Today, Ann and I went to lunch, and she informed me that Jack had recently announced, "There have been a lot of interesting things going on in my life lately."

Ann asked for more info, and was told about:

Item 1: The Great Grammar School Graffiti Mystery
Apparently, some unidentified person had scrawled on a desk the message "I like Jack." The owner of the desk is currently out of the country, so she has been ruled out as a suspect. Since then, other scribbled messages have appeared, but their author is still unknown. Jack and his classmate/neighbor Emmett are on the job; the investigation is ongoing.

Item 2: Arizona or Bust
Jack and Emmett have agreed to travel to the Grand Canyon when they turn 16. (They are currently 8 years old.) In preparation, they have begun training. When Ann queried as to what sort of training is required, Jack replied, "Emmett did 40 roll-ups last night!!!!"

Ann: "What's a roll-up?"

Jack: "I don't know, but Emmett did 40 of them!"

Crazy Crap Item #248: The part where the Caseys update a holiday tradition

2009-12-02T18:32:00.004-06:00

I have remarked in the past that I have a remarkable facility for hanging on to garbage that later proves useful. Not a pack rat, I. I'm delighted whenever I can jettison needless things that are clogging up my space. But I've grown to respect a certain instinct I have for detecting needful things amongst the dross -- a pang that tells me, "Hang onto that. It will prove its worth."

I was struck by just such a pang recently, only to have it come to fruition mere days later. Raking I was, and tidying my backyard in preparation for the winter. As I sorted through the dregs and ends of vegetable matter, I came across the rather sad, bedraggled remains of an old bird feeder. Installed by the previous owners, it hung from a hook on our porch until the rope finally gave way, its mouldering roof and rusting suet baskets too disgusting even for the local wildlife.

Not too disgusting, however, for the local children, who immediately saw its worth. A barn it could be. A house. A tiny fort. The plastic panes that held the seed in could be endlessly removed and replaced. Thus it was played with until pieces of it began to fall off, and Jack, Sam and company discovered other delights.

As I was raking, it was this sad specimen of avian eateries that crossed my path. I picked it up to pitch it in the trash. Then I stopped. I imagined the next wave of wee ones -- Nolan, Caroline, Brady, James, Miles -- and pondered the fun hours I would deprive them of if I gave the birdhouse the boot. It just seemed to hold still too much in the way of wonderment, so I tucked it back under the porch.

Flash forward a week, and I've just returned from a four-day Thanksgiving sojourn. I check my email, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but this missive from my neighbor Ann:

Hi Kay,

Jack and I were setting up the manger scene yesterday and we thought we'd like to get away from the tin foil this year. We went outside to scout for more natural materials to use. We searched in our garage and yard. The Cancillas invited us to search in their garage and yard as well but to no avail. However, on the way back from the Cancilla's we spotted something under your deck. We apologize for not asking your permission but we just couldn't wait, we got so excited. Check out these photos and you will see why. We will be happy to put it back under the deck at the end of the season.

How was your trip? Restful and relaxing I hope.

Ann

Behold the splendor.

p.s. Those keeping track may recall that this not the first time that the Caseys' nativity scene has made an appearance in Crazy Crap. Behold!

Crazy Crap Item #247: The part where I record a wee tidbit about Chicago living

2009-11-10T11:19:00.002-06:00

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.

Crazy Crap Item #246: The part where I finally recount the doings of our summer block party

2009-10-11T12:27:00.008-05:00

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.

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.

Crazy Crap Item #245: The part where James ensures his own survival

2009-10-06T10:57:00.004-05:00

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.

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

2009-09-13T20:44:00.005-05:00

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.

Crazy Crap Item #243: The part where Lisa offers an apt descriptor

2009-09-04T09:58:00.004-05:00

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.

Crazy Crap Item #242: The part where Halloween holds new thrills

2009-08-26T13:26:00.002-05:00

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.

Crazy Crap Item #241: The part where Jack joins the dance

2009-08-26T09:17:00.002-05:00

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.

Crazy Crap Item #240: The part where I learn a new excuse

2009-08-18T09:47:00.003-05:00

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.

Crazy Crap Item #239: The part where I come face to face with carnage

2009-08-10T10:17:00.005-05:00

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:

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.

Crazy Crap Item #238: The part where I spend the weekend communing with the saints and the spirits

2009-07-21T18:11:00.012-05:00

*** WARNING : This post is LONG. Bookmark it now and plan to return to it later. ***

This story starts a year ago, when I entered into what has to come to be known as the worst summer ever. My dear friend, Mr. Czajka (Chris) experienced the worst of it, losing his partner of 12 years, Jonathan, after a 3-year battle with leukemia.

During those dark times, while waiting for the inevitable in the lounge of cancer ward at Mount Sinai Hospital, Czajka made a vow. "If we make it through this horrible summer," he said, "we will reconvene next summer in Rochester, and sample the many wonders of upstate New York." Rochester, he told us, is more than just his bucolic childhood homestead. It is a stone's throw from the birthplace of Mormonism. It offers the wonders of the nearby Jell-O museum and the further-off splendor of Niagara Falls. And, most tantalizingly, it offers close proximity to Lily Dale, a lakeside resort and home to the American Spiritualist movement as well as many real, live, bonafide mediums. If we survived, sane and intact, the vicissitudes of the summer, all these glories would be ours.

And so it came to pass that in the summer of 2009, a group of us made an journey to upstate New York, confronting the terrors of JFK and O'Hare airports, wending our tired way to the sylvan suburbs of Rochester. What wonders we saw! What mighty spectacles and spine-tingling phenomena! Here, I record it all.

The Prelude

Let us begin with the cast of characters:

Chris Czajka: Czajka (Chy-ka), as he is known, has been a good friend of mine since my days at Northwestern, where he served as stage manager of Sunday in the Park with George and director of Meet Me in St. Louis, two productions in which I appeared. In the late '90s, he and I penned a web-based serial novel, Waylaid on the Road to Riches. He has a number of obsessions, and can be considered an expert on the following topics: The Wizard of Oz (book and movie), Gone with the Wind, Little House on the Prairie (book series and TV show), the sinking of the Titanic, natural disasters of all sorts, and homesteading on the American frontier. He also reads tarot cards. He has made several previous appearances in this blog.

Kristen Freilich: Kristen is also a veteran of the above-mentioned Northwestern productions, where she played (a.) my patient/employer, and (b.) my sister. She is a talented actress and singer on the Chicago theater scene, and has a day job as a web guru. She stood up (and sang) at my wedding. As an interesting side note, she appeared in Waylaid on the Road to Riches as the character "Leia Freitag." She has also appeared many a time in this blog. She is best described as "Carol Burnett on crack."

Billie Lape: Miss Billie is one of Czajka's oldest and dearest high school friends, and still resides in Rochester, where she works in insurance. She has an adorable 4-year-old son named Ian. She was a major linchpin during the dark summer of Mount Sinai, serving a constant vigil during Jonathan's painful last weeks. She is also an English Renaissance freak like myself, and delighted me by knowing of an obscure authoress with whom I am currently obsessed. She also boasts a collection of wee plush figurines of Henry VIII and his wives that I secretly covet. She is not to be trifled with.

Katie Heilman: Like Billie, Katie has known Czajka since his school days and hails from Rochester, although she currently resides, by sheer coincidence, in Chicago. Like Czajka, Katie is given to obsessions, her chief one being Russia, about which she knows everything. She can tell you anything you need to know about Rasputin and the Romanovs, and has served as host to important diplomats from Russia. She owns an antique samovar, which she received as a high school graduation gift from her father upon her request. She exudes the air of a Victorian lady trapped in the wrong century. This is not an insult, merely a observation.

Kelly Demaret: Kelly is also a Northwestern crony, but was unknown to me until the worst summer of all time. She is a glamourous NYC actress, and recently made an appearance on TV's Law and Order. She once stole a shower (see below) and, with Carrie (see below), tried to sneak into David Koresh's Waco compound as a Spring Break lark.

Carrie Houchins-Witt: Also a member of the Northwestern theater mafia (as it is known), Carrie shares a fascinating history of travel and adventure with Kelly, with whom she spent a year rambling around the country attending annual events and festivals and stealing showers (too long a story to be recounted here; soon to be recorded in a blockbuster book, if I can get them to dictate it to me). Currently she resides in Chicago with her husband and two darling sons, where she makes her own yogurt and picks up pin money participating in focus groups.

In preparation for our journey, we were given two bits of required reading, both of which I highly recommend:

Under the Banner of Heaven, by John Krakauer
A thrilling history of Mormonism interwoven with an account of recent outbreaks of violence in extreme LDS splinter groups. Includes a full account of the founding of Mormonism, the early phases of which take place in Palmyra, NY, not far from Rochester.

Lily Dale: The Town That Talks to the Dead, by Christine Wicker
A journalist's insights into the town that serves as the center of American Spiritualism, as developed over a series of visits and interviews. Very entertaining light reading.

The Trip: Arrival

And so it came to pass that on July 17 in the year of our Lord 2009, I embarked upon a none-too-roomy United Express jet and hurtled eastward to the Rochester airport. Mr. Czajka arrived in the same locale (from his westward hurtling embarking from JFK) mere minutes before me, and gave me a quick tour of none-too-bustling Rochester terminal en route to ground transportation.

We were picked up by the venerable Billie, and I was introduced to 4-year-old Ian, of whom I had heard many tales prior to this. I told him as much, to which he replied, "Everyone knows my name."

As the venerable Billie taxied us along, Mr. Czajka provided a dandy nickel tour of his hometown burg -- pointing out an outpost of the Underground Railroad and a doll museum -- accompanied by the tuneful strains of one of Ian's favorite songs, "Little Red Monkey."

Upon our arrival at Czajka's childhood home, we were treated to delightful conversation and a tasty repast of pizza, chicken wings, and cookies by Czajka's parents, Barb and Duane. As Ian's bedtime approached, we piled back into Billie's car and were squired to her home, where I was treated to a glimpse of the fabled plush Henry VIII dolls and a Sesame Street-style puppet approximating the Statue of Liberty.

And so it came to pass that poor Billie was very tired, and asked if I had a drivers' license. When it was ascertained that I did, it was determined that I should squire her vehicle back to the Rochester Airport where we would pick Kelly up from her 11pm flight. Aside from nearly backing Billie's car into a ditch as she looked on helplessly from the top of her uncannily dark driveway, the trip went off without a hitch. With Kelly in tow, Mr. Czajka and I headed back to Casa de Czajka, where we rendezvoused with Kristen, Carrie, and Katie, who had all taken the late flight in from the Windy City.

I will pause to note that everyone on this trip, with the exception of the venerable Billie, has a name that starts with a "K" sound. There is no significance to that fact. It's merely interesting.

At this point, any sane individual would go to bed to rest up for a full weekend of enlightening and enlivening experiences. This is not, however, what came to pass. Instead, we stayed up, along with Barb, till some wee hour in the morning -- 3am, I think -- discussing the history and theology of Mormonism. As it turns out, such a discussion was necessary, as -- ahem -- some of the participants had not done their required reading! Shocking, I know.

As we reviewed the various ins and outs of the LDS church -- the battle of the Nephites and Lamanites, the mystical Urim and Thummim (I imagine them as some sort of 3D glasses such as you get at the movies) that Joseph Smith used to read the "Reformed Egyptian" of the original Book of Mormon, the fact that Indians are red because they are 'evil', the violence of Mormon persecution and the horrific Mountain Meadow Massacre -- Kristen kept a tally of everything she 'had a problem with' by holding her hand aloft with her fingers keeping count.

We also discussed our earlier broached plan to masquerade as a husband and 6 sister wives, and bemoaned the fact that we had not found matching gingham dresses to wear. It was determined that we would designate the order of sister wives according to the length of time we had all known Czajka: Billie, Katie, Kelly, Carrie, Kristen, Kay. This means that I, despite being the oldest of the group, hold the position of "hot, young wife" about whom the patriarch still holds some glimmer of sexual attraction. Funny, that.

It was also noted that in penning the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith clumsily adopted many pat phrases cribbed from the Old Testament, including the utterly superfluous transition "And so it came to pass."

Finally, Kristen announced that Katie must take her home as she was about to pass out from exhaustion. I concurred. We three retired to Katie's parents' home, some blocks away, where we would be lodged for the duration of the trip. Kelly, Carrie and Czajka presumably headed to bed at this point, though I wouldn't put it past them to stay up yet longer.

We slept in on the following morn, and reconvened at Chez Czajka for a delightful afternoon of bocce ball, barbecued chicken, and a lovely beverage known as "Yellowbird." We were joined by Czajka's brother Jeff and his girlfriend, the always charming Aunt Bev (another stalwart from the worst summer ever) and her son Andy. Throughout the afternoon, Ian entertained us by singing the "Little Red Monkey" song, playing a keep-away game called "Monkey in the Middle," and offering a lively rendition of the classic children's tale Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business. It was an afternoon replete with monkeys.

The Trip to Palmyra

And so it came to pass that approximately 4:30pm in the afternoon, we had had our fill of chicken and yellowbirds and thirsted instead for spiritual fulfillment. Ian and the Venerable Billie loaded into their car, while the remaining K-named individuals piled into a large van rented especially for this occasion, and we all embarked, caravan-style, on a trip to Palmyra, NY, the birthplace of Mormonism.

To pass the time on the trip, Mr. Czajka prepared a diversion -- an audio game involving a CD of appropriately themed music and related trivia questions. Participants were invited to shout out their answers to the questions about the songs as the answer struck them. The first person to bellow out a correct answer -- determined by Mr. Czajka -- would receive a small toy farm animal, dispersed from a stylish purple sack. The contestant with the most farm animals at the end of the game would win a gift bag full to the brim with gifts appropriate to the journey. The game was to be a two-day affair, starting with Mormon-themed songs and questions for the car trip to Palmyra, and finishing with Spiritualist-themed songs and questions for the trip to Lily Dale.

It is with great pride that I announce that at the end of the first of half of this game, I was far and away in the lead with 12 farm animals, dazzling my fellow K-named individuals with answers including "The Mormon Tabernacle Choir," "Marie Osmond," "The sinking of the Titanic," "Thanksgiving," and "Bringing in the Sheaves." Kristen launched her own coup, randomly shouting out the correct answer of "Nearer My God to Thee" before the song had even begun to play. It was not enough, however, to overtake my monumental lead.

Upon arrival in Palmyra, Billie and Ian parked for a nice nap at the site of the Hill Cumorah Pageant, while the K-van sped on to the historic Joseph Smith Family Home and Farm. It was here that would take in many sacred sites of the LDS Church, including:

* The sacred grove where young Joseph Smith was visited by Jesus and God, who told him that he should not adhere to any faith as there was one true religion that would later be revealed to him. I was intrigued by the sacred wasps' nest, which was pointed out to us by a church elder. It was later surmised by the K-group that it was a fake, planted to keep tourists such as ourselves from wandering off the path.

* The holy visitors center, where we checked out some kind of spooky-looking paintings of the various high points of Joseph Smith's revelations and where Mr. Czajka was asked where our "family" was from. We all looked confused, and I fear the cat was out of the bag that we were not a God-fearing Mormon family. That, and Czajka's beard, since facial hair is forbidden to men of the LDS faith.

* The hallowed restroom, where all the ladies except me took a pee. I ascribe my lack of need to pee to the miraculous workings of this most holy of sites, as I have the tiniest of bladders, and usually am the first to declare the need for a pit stop.

* The venerated log home, or rather, a reconstruction of such, where the angel Moroni appeared to Joseph Smith and told him something important that I can't quite recall. We make a short-lived attempt at taking a picture in the famed attic of us quailing in fear at the site of the angel, but were interrupted by some devout visitors and felt it would be disrespectful to be caught in such an act. We all agreed that the missionary/tour guide at this stop seemed like she was ready for fight, and looked uncannily like Kirsten Dunst.

* The blessed but rather stuffy frame house, where the Smiths later lived, and where they stashed the gold plates that held the original Book of Mormon when pillagers swept through and tried to take them (for reasons that are yet unknown to me). We were given a preamble to the house by a Mormon elder, who recounted how the Smiths bought and later lost these farmlands, an exchange I found confusing, as it seemed to suggest that a lender can simply say, "You have only two payments left on your mortgage, but I want them now, so you lose your farm." I'm still not sure how that works.

* The sanctified but not very compelling barn, which did not hold enough appeal to make us stop, so we passed it on by in our zeal to get a good spot at the Hill Curmorah Pageant.

One thing to note before we leave the historic home and site: It was here that we were introduced to an interesting, seemingly institutional quirk of Mormon tour guides and ambassadors. After providing the standard tour-type info of the site in question, each guide finished with a sort of testimonial to the truth of Mormonism, introduced by the phrase "I know." To wit: "I know that the scripture of the Book of Mormon to be true, and that the angel Moroni appeared on this very spot." It was unnerving and a bit Stepford-ish.

The Hill Cumorah Pageant

And so it came to pass, after browsing the many states represented on the license plates in the historic farm parking lot (Massachusetts, Ontario, Quebec, West Virginia, Michigan, New York, and, of course, tons of Utah), we piled back in the van and headed to our second Mormon site, the Hill Cumorah.

To those unfamiliar with Mormon lore, let me explain. The Hill Cumorah is the site where Joseph Smith was reputedly directed by the angel Moroni to dig, and where he uncovered the famed golden plates upon which are recorded the Book of Mormon. Each summer, there is staged a vast, spectacular pageant that acts out the high points of this book of Scripture on an outdoor stage. Did I mention it's free?

We arrived, and noted many fundamentalist protesters gathering to dissuade the faithful. Mormons, it seems, are like poison to fundamentalist Christians, a fact of which I was not aware. Since we had access to the intertrons by way of many a phone and Blackberrys, we quickly consulted the two websites we were directed to: http://www.josephlied.com/ and the rather bulkier URL, http://www.whatmormonsdonttell.com/. Neither was terribly satisfactory. We also noted the excellent level of parking-lot guidance, in which we were situated in the lot based upon which direction we would be heading after the pageant. This excellent service, we noted, was provided by almost exclusively bearded men -- thus not members of the LDS church.

And so it came to pass that by providential guidance we found Billie and Ian nearly immediately, and repaired to the spot they had marked out for us on the grassy field behind the seats of the pageant area.

At this point, all the K-folk headed toward the visitor center, as we had been promised a glimpse of a talking Jesus statue. Along the way, Carrie -- who it was later revealed has never met a stranger -- encountered a woman wearing a t-shirt commemorating Carrie's mother's high school. A short chat uncovered that the woman and her friends knew many of Carrie's relatives and that -- wonder of wonders! -- Carrie's mother's cousin was actually in attendance at this very pageant. And lo it was that the Hill Cumorah reunited never-before-acquainted members of the Houchins family.

Next, we finally arrived at the visitors center, and after a short wait, were ushered into a rotunda that featured a large statue of Jesus surrounded by small divans. We were given small cards upon which to inscribe the names and addresses of any friends and acquaintances that we wished to receive a visit from representatives of the Mormon faith. My friends and acquaintances will be relieved to know that I did not submit a card.

I regret to report that the alleged talking Jesus statue did not talk at all; rather, it simply stood there as a piped-in voice recounted some speech attributed to the Son of Man in the Book of Mormon. It was disappointing in the extreme. Next came an address by a young, perky missionary, who stuck to the "I know" formula of all such tour addresses. She polled the audience for our responses to the talking Jesus and, after receiving none, awkwardly acknowledged that such feelings were very personal and hard to share.

And so it came to pass that we were ushered into a small screening room, where we were told we would be presented with a short film about the experiences of Joseph Smith. The perky missionary noted that boxes of tissue would be posted in the front and back of the room for our convenience. I was puzzled by this until the elderly lady began dabbing her eyes almost as soon as the opening titles began to roll.

After the film, which I am pleased to report was produced according to fairly high standards of the cinematic arts, we passed into the museum area of the visitors center. Here, we gazed upon a real, authentic replica of the gold plates, which looked -- as Mr. Czajka had promised up -- like a Trapper Keeper wrought in gold tin foil. After much fuss, lost companions, regained companions, and trips to the restroom, we departed.

We repaired to our spot on the lawn, where we had set up chairs and a cunning table for our comfort. En route, some of our clan stopped for a photo with the Old Testament-costumed cast members who were now prowling the audience. Katie and I, bashful as we are, put our heads down and walked on.

Upon our arrival at our picnic spot, we remarked upon the good luck that we had brought so many blankets, as it was unseasonably cool for July. And this it was that began to feast on many tasty comestibles, thoughtfully packed for us by Duane and Barb, including : Doritos, Pringles, cheese and crackers, Twizzlers, cherries, Jell-O (a Mormon favorite), and M&Ms. As we supped, we enjoyed the spectacle of our young, Sephardic-looking Ian as he romped and played with blond, blue-eyed Mormon children.

As twilight approached, we in turn were approached by two cast members: a be-wigged fellow who looked uncannily like the father on Malcolm in the Middle, and his similarly clad wife, who announced with relish that she was to play "an evil woman" in the evening's pageant. They were a friendly but vaguely unsettling couple -- a strange cross between straight-laced Mormon and dewy-eyed flower children rhapsodizing about Woodstock. They asked Czajka the ubiquitous opening question of Mormon country -- "Where is your family from?" -- and informed us this was their third year in the pageant. Their three kids were also in the cast, and they had all been sleeping in a tent for the last 21 days.

The husband seemed torn between twin impulses: to proselytize his beliefs and to advertise his role in the pageant and the fact that he knew the guy who played Jesus. Eventually, he took a knee, cracked open his Book of Mormon, and showed us the scene in which he appeared. He segued seamlessly from a discussion of scripture (the familiar phrase "I know" eventually came out), and he noted that performing in the pageant provided a sense of intimacy with the savior that was touching and inspiring. His wife agreed, and told us the pageant was really something, and that it was amazing when they lowered the savior down on wires from 50 feet above the stage. "Well, it's not 50 feet," her husband scoffed. "He comes down from 50 feet, and it's really something!" she repeated. "Not really 50 feet," her husband countered. We chatted a bit longer, and the husband asked if any of us had the book of Mormon. With our varied and unconvincing answers, he seemed to sense we were not worth the effort, quickly stood, yanked his wife up, bid us adieu and went on his merry way.

As darkness began to fall, it came to pass that it was time for the pageant to begin. Then it was that we were treated to many a spectacle, including fire effects, explosions, waterfalls, the aforementioned descending Jesus, the building of a ship, the battle of Nephites and Lamanites, the horrible inhumanity of man to man, the intractable wickedness of even the favored and sometimes pious Nephites, the burying of the story of the Nephites by Moroni, and the discovery of said plates on this very spot in the 19th century.

More on the pageant: it features of a cast of nearly 750 volunteer actors on a mammoth platformed stage perched on the summit of the Hill Cumorah. All audio is piped in, and the actors simply mouth the words while gesturing wildly to ensure those of us even way in the back can tell who is talking. It really is a wonder of stagecraft, special effects, directional acumen and people management. The Theater Department of Brigham Young University should be very proud.

Another note: The music for the pageant is rather odd and, in parts, sounds much like an MGM musical. The opening strains quite distinctly echo Gypsy, and a grand scene of baptism was accompanied by strains recalling The Wizard of Oz.

During the pageant, it seems the miraculous expansion of the tiny bladder failed me, and I had to pee. Knowing that it would be nigh unto impossible to access the can after the pageant when the throng of humanity was pushing toward the parking lot, I opted to head out during the final battle of the Nephites and Lamanites, which due to its graphic nature, spread sufficient illumination onto the lawn. Sadly, plot and lighting failed me upon my return, as Moroni buried the plates in a single pinspot, and left me on a plain darkling. I had to edge along, foot by foot, on uneven, pitch-black sod, sidestepping groups of the faithful as I went. My fanny hit the seat again just as Joseph Smith made his fateful discovery.

Leaving the pageant, we found the parking lot crowded but fairly convivial. The fact that we were waved into the flow of traffic as quickly as we were is a testament to the fact that Mormon doctrine, if it teaches nothing else, instills its members with nice manners. As we departed, Mr. Czajka noted that the young actor who had played Joseph Smith in the movied we had watched was "totally gay."

The Journey to Lily Dale

And so it came to pass that it was a good thing that we all went straight to bed after the pageant as Sunday, July 29, in the year of our Lord 2009 was to be a full one.

After an early arisal, we left the house at the bleary-eyed hour of 8:30am to meet Billy at the local Ted Horton's. Coffee, donuts and breakfast sandwiches obtained, we hit the road for Lily Dale, the center of American Spiritualism.

En route, we continued our audio game, this time answering questions relating to the realm of the spirits, and identifying music from Poltergeist, The Lady in White, The Amityville Horror, and Ghostbusters. It must be recorded that I did not turn in as stellar a performance as I did on the previous day, but due to my staggering lead, I still managed to win. My prizes included:

* A CD containing all the songs used in the game
* A t-shirt commemorating "Rochester, NY, Lilac Capital of the World"
* A refrigerator magnet in the shape of New York state, with Rochester prominently marked
* My very own copy of the Book of Mormon
* A DVD of the PBS series The Mormons
* A book entitled Devil's Gate: Brigham Young and the Great Mormon Handcart Tragedy
* A book entitled The Reluctant Spiritualist: The Life of Maggie Fox
* A pencil stolen from Lily Dale

As we pulled off the expressway after more than two hours of travel, Mr. Czajka adjured us that it was now time for a few moments of quiet reflection. We had scheduled private readings with one of Lily Dale's registered mediums, Marti Hughes, and she had directed Czajka that we should "pack our trunks" with our dead so that there would be much for her to unpack in our readings.

Just as we launched into this moment of reverie, Katie caught sight of a Bob Evans, and launched into a vituperative tirade upon the poor quality and value of the food at said diner. After several minutes, it was noted that this was to be a moment of silence. Undaunted, Katie continued her rant, noting that everyone had told her how good Bob Evans was, but that it really wasn't, especially for the money you pay, and why would you go there anyway. Just as she started to settle down, someone in the car, it might've been Carrie, inquired as to some particularity of Bob Evans, and the rant renewed. I commented that we would undoubtedly encounter the spirit of Mr. Bob Evans in all our readings.

Despite Katie's outburst, I managed to ponder who I would "bring along" to my reading. My life is surprisingly unencumbered by dead people. The most recent ones I could think of -- namely, Jonathan and my neighbor Dolores -- seemed unlikely visitors. I couldn't imagine either had anything to say to me (apart, perhaps, from Dolores inquiring whether I was still enjoying her hand-me-down tupperware), and I was not special enough to either warrant an appearance. Going back further, I knew grandparents were my fallback option, but I wasn't particularly close with any of them. It struck me, however, that I might like to hear from my maternal grandmother, as she suffered from the same late-in-life health issues my mother currently suffers from, and I thought she might have something to say on the matter. So I dedicated a few minutes thinking of her, even though I was not convinced that mediumship consists of anything but a great ability to read subconscious cues and provide vague guesses.

A few words on Lily Dale and the surrounding area: it is a small community on the shores of a lovely lake surrounded by sylvan splendor. It was founded in the 19th century, during the height of the craze for spiritualism initiated by the rappings and tappings of a famous family of psychic siblings, the Fox sisters. The Rochester/Buffalo region, in fact, is frequently referred to as the "burnt over district," as waves of religious passion and evangelism passed through country in the mid 1800s. Spiritualism, Mormonism and the Shaker movement are among these waves. Lily Dale hit its apex at the turn of the century, and has sagged a bit since. It's really a rather charming little community, boasting quaint, peeling Victorian houses, a hotel, library, museum, and a big, general-use auditorium -- a fantastic open-air structure that looks like is should be housing a carousel.

To hang out your shingle as a medium in Lily Dale, you must past a certification process -- testing and such -- though some scoff that it's "all political." Some claim there are "vortexes" in the region -- centers of spirit that put the "other world" in closer contact here. There is also "Inspiration Stump," a site of "profound spiritual energy" in a nearby forest clearing where mediums provide messages from beyond twice a day during the summer. Did I mention it's free?

But while the message services are free, entry to Lily Dale is not, and so it came to pass that we forked over $10 a head and entered the hallowed gates. From there, we located Marti Hughes' home, where she does her readings, and then repaired to one of the community's three gift shoppes, where I purchased my very first pack of tarot cards.

Our private readings were scheduled throughout the day, and interspersed with other, otherworldly experiences. I wasn't in attendance for any of the private readings but my own, so I'll capture a few recollections and recounted details here (I regret that my account of details from my reading are, naturally, the fullest):

* At the start of Czajka's reading, Marti told him there was a young man standing in the corner, arms folded, looking annoyed. We assume this was Jonathan, who had been to Lily Dale once in life, and had declared it a "dump." During the last horrible summer, he assured Czajka that he would never make an appearance there. During the fall of last year, Czajka made a visit to Lily Dale with Billie and had an uncanny experience during a private reading which suggested that, if such things are possible, Jonathan had changed his mind and showed up. But he swore he would never return. Hence the spiritual annoyance.

* Marti described Czajka's two grandmothers in such stunning and accurate detail, he was shocked.

* Marti told Czajka he was "worth his weight in gold" to his current employer -- a palpable truth -- and told him he had a job there forever, which both encouraged and dismayed him.

* In my reading, she started by noting she sees me teaching, but not in an academic setting. She also noted that I had no trauma in my life (largely true) -- that she usually spent her days helping people deal with traumas, but that I had none. My life, she said, generally works out for me (echoing, uncannily, a former roommate, who once called me "Fortune's darling"). I live "a life of preferences," choosing what I wish to do, and filling in the blank canvas of my life. She told me that in my work, I probably never had to look for clients; they just come to me. All this, largely true. She said I need to keep being grateful for this.

* She also told me that I'm "very open to guidance from the universe," but that I'm not aware of it. Things, she said, just come to me when I need them. I always am prepared and have what I need, but I never consciously do this. Anyone who knows of my basement knows this to be true.

* She identified one individual who was with me, and surmised it was -- ahem -- my maternal grandmother, who was presenting me an old-fashioned layer cake. A lemon layer cake. She asked if this particular grandmother was "old-fashioned." As it happens, she was -- my other grandmother was kind of stylish, voguish lady, but mother's mother was a classic 1930s-style grandma with white hair and housedress. Her message, Marti said, was that like the old-fashioned cake, she was an old-fashioned lady, and for all my modern ways, I was an old-fashioned girl. True that. (And, one week before, I sang "I'm Old-Fashioned" at Davenport's Open Mic Night.)

* Much to my surprise, Marti told me there was also a "gentleman" present, and that he rolled his eyes when she said "gentleman." She indicated it was Jonathan. I was surprised, as I didn't think that -- if spirit visits were possible -- Jonathan would stick around for me. Either Marti picked up on this, or Jonathan felt the same, as she then reported that when she asked what message he had for me, he "shrugged his shoulders." She said, "That never happens, it's a conundrum." Then she laughed and reported that he said, "Conundrum, that's a good word." Which actually seemed like something Jonathan would say.

* Marti also correctly identified that I had recently been through a "long night of the soul" in which I had given up faith and, in her most vivid evocation, flipped off God. This is true.

* I was less convinced later in the reading, when she told me that Jonathan felt I should not only sing in a group, but should take to the stage solo and "strut my stuff like a hot mama." "It's all in the shoulders," she said he said, shimming his spectral shoulders. This strikes me as drawn more from the sack of homosexual male stereotypes than from our actual Jonathan, unless the ectoplasm has gone to his head or something.

* Kelly was not impressed with her reading, which she felt was full of cliches and counseling, and not much that could be counted as "otherworldly."

* Billie's reading opened with the identification of two men who were protective, who Billie felt were her father and uncle. Marti noted they were confused and scratching their heads, and then asked, "Who is the mystery baby?" Billie was amused, as her son Ian is the produce of IVF by way of an anonymous donor. "They want to know why you didn't do it the old-fashioned way."

* Marti also informed Billie that Jonathan had his two cents to add, and some choice words about the handling of some of her personal affairs. Jonathan, Billie described it, "yelled" at her. According to Czajka, these sentiments were totally consistent with our dearly departed's feelings on this matter.

* As Billie was leaving, Marti noted that Jonathan pointed to his feet, and noted that he was now not wearing socks. In life, Jonathan never went barefoot, so noting the change was meaningful. He also noted that he "now wears loafers," a sharp departure for the living Jonathan.

* Kristen, like Kelly, was not terribly happy with her reading, as none of her dead relatives showed up. She thought it felt like run-of-the-mill counseling, and was confused by a tangent about how one could teach a course on theater online.

* Katie, like some of us, enjoyed a visit from Jonathan, but it was, as she put it, "an uncharacteristically nurturing Jonathan" who didn't yell at her at all.

* Carrie felt her reading was "all misses." Marti asserted that she had had a difficult pregnancy when, according to Carrie, her pregnancies were "textbook." Marti also asked, "Who's the butcher?" When Carrie asserted that she knew no butcher, Marti kept asking about it -- a ploy, Carrie felt, for covering up a patent miss. She also asked Carrie about someone who knitted in the family. Misses all, Carrie told us. More on this anon.

* Marti also told Carrie not to "drive too fast" after we left Lily Dale.

And so it came to pass that we enjoyed the all the many pleasures Lily Dale affords, including:

* Not one but two services at Inspiration Stump, where four mediums come out for 15 minutes of cold-reading of people drawn from the audience. These range from the eerily dead-on ("Your aunt's name is May." "Yes.) to the pathetically vague and inaccurate ("There's a spirit from the mother's side of the house and she wants you to know she's so proud of you.")

To our grave disappointment, no one in our party received any messages at either service. This led us to surmise that perhaps there were all sorts of angry spirits and negative energy hovering around us, since our required reading had taught us that the mediums of Lily Dale would not convey negative messages.

We were also struck by the strange verbal formulations of the readings -- rather like the interpolation of the "I know" statements by the Mormon tour guides. One medium interspersed "please" throughout her messages ("There's a man here, please, who was hit on the head, please, and his name starts with J, please"). Nearly all mediums ended there stump messages with the phrase, "I leave that to you with God's Blessing," which became the refrain of the rest of the trip.

* A visit to the Lily Dale museum, where we browsed bent spoons and brass trumpets that had been levitated by mediums of an era past.

* A viewing of a film, "Welcome to Lily Dale," at the library, which unfortunately coincided with my private reading, so I am unable to convey its contents.

* Luncheon at the Sunflower Cafe, not worth reporting on.

* A guest lecture at the auditorium on the difference between choices and decisions given by a resident psychic, directing us to consider with each decision how we will be impacted in 10 minutes, 10 months and 10 years. This led to the repetition of this formula for nearly ever decision made on the rest of the trip.

* Yet another message service following the guest lecture with a medium who was uncannily dead on in many of his pronouncements. To wit, the woman who he identified as wearing her mother's necklace, which she was.

At the end of the afternoon, it came to pass that Kristen departed with the venerable Billie, who spirited her away for an evening flight from the Buffalo airport. The remaining K-folk embarked upon a tour a mysterious Lily Dale attraction called the "Fairy Trail."

What we expected was a trail in the forest where fairies are reputed to be seen. What we got was a forest trail bestrewed with offerings for said fairies, constructed largely from bird houses, glitter, figureines, and sequins. As I told Mr. Czajka, I could live the rest of my life there. We resolved that on our next visit, we would construct a multiroom house to be left on the fairy trail, and that each participant would be required to decorate one room with fairy fancies. A contest, you see. For another valuable gift bag.

We Flee to Canada

And so it came to pass that we departed Lily Dale and all its gauzy wonders and headed west (!) to Canada and Niagara Falls. Along the way, Kelly read to us from intertrons on the subject of fairies, about which we now had many questions.

We arrived on the U.S. side of the falls, and headed to a nearby casino, where we dined. During dinner, Carrie again bemoaned the fact that her reading was so full of misses, including the laughable statement that she had a difficult pregnancy.

Kelly, who had not yet heard this detail, chimed in, "But you were in labor for 36 hours and had an emergency C-section."

"Does that count?" Carrie asked. We assured her it did. Score one for Marti.

Dinner was a leisurely affair, not concluded until 10:30pm. At this point, we had to flee to the falls, as we were not sure when the lights would turn out for the evening. An inaccurate casino employee told us the bridge to Canada was a five-minute walk away. He lied. Thankfully, suspicious heads prevailed, and we cabbed it to the bridge, then to the famed "Horseshoe" on the other side.

As we gazed upon the sliding waters as they fell inexorably away, I mused on the fact that this entire weekend had been a meditation on the subject of suggestibility. Our trip to Palmyra raised the question of how one could believe that the age of miracles was still with us. Our foray into Lily Dale teased us with hits and misses, daring us to believe, then chiding us for our gullibility. Now this natural wonder was working its magnetic force, beckoning me over the edge in a way that speaks not so much to self-annihilation as to wanting to join a mighty force already in play.

And then, we visited a gift shoppe, and I joined the flow of commerce by purchasing a puzzlingly ugly commemorative shotglass. After a few misturns, we found our way back over the border, and Carrie made yet another friend with the border agent, who hailed her on account of her West Virginia t-shirt.

And it came to pass that the entire remaining K-crew, with the exception of myself, enjoys the gaming tables, and so remained at the casino for 15 minutes of gambling as I dozed on a lobby chair. It was now 1:15am.

To ensure that Carrie remained awake during the drive home (she being behind the wheel), Czajka decreed that we would play a game inspired by the cabaret open mic I had attended earlier that week. We were to go through the alphabet, naming shows for each letter, then singing full out a song from each show. We did very well, but unaccountably had trouble coming up with a good "T" show (we chose Tommy but realized no one knew any of the words).

Thanks to "Officer Krupke" (or perhaps to Katie's rant about how awful a song "Officer Krupke" is), we managed to miss both Rochester exits, and swung a bit out of our way. As we left the expressway to backtrack, we heard the unmistakable sound of cars crashing. On the underpass below us, there was a collision, and two cars had spun out. Carrie, whose reflexes were unexpectedly spry for 3am, spun a u-turn and parked us on the side of the road behind one of the cars. Czajka ran to check, and discovered the driver of one car injured and pinned by his airbag. The other driver, a young woman, was undeniably drunk. Kelly dialed 911, Kate gave the operator directions. We waited till the police arrived, who told us to leave, as we had not witnessed the crash.

We mused that it was lucky that we were not going, as Marti Hughes had warned us, too fast, or we might have been part of that accident. Or we might have missed the chance to help.

And so it came to pass that exhausted but exhilarated, we were soon safe in our beds, 'round about 4am. I arose at 7:30am, was cheerfully driven to the airport by Katie's charming father, and arrived home some time around 3:30.

Coda

Later, we all received the following missive from Carrie:

Wanted you all to know that I spoke with my mother. Her Aunt Judy was a butcher her whole life. My mother said "She would be the one person I would have wanted you to hear from" in Lilydale.

Did I mention that Aunt Judy was also a knitter?

I leave that to you with God's Blessing. Thank you.

Crazy Crap Item #237: The part where my basement expands to next door

2009-07-21T09:42:00.004-05:00

Oft and anon, I've noted that everything I need is located in my basement. Neighbors have marveled how fabulous stuff, stuff I don't even know I own, leaps forth from this wonderland of discarded goodies, seemingly at the bidding of unseen hands. Just recently, my neighbor Jim asked whether I had any of "that spongey shelf paper, the kind with holes in it." I produced it (the product is known, apparently, as "grip liner"), and his wife Ann asked, "Was it in your basement?" It was.

So, just this morning, I emailed the local listserv, Ruth's List, because I needed a notary public for some financial papers. I could go all the way down town to Charles Schwab and have them notarize it, but that would necessitate leaving my house, something I avoid at all costs. Minutes after hitting send, I received the following email from Ann:

Jim is a notary but he's out of town. He could bring his seal home on Thursday night if that's not too late for you.

Once again, what I need is just under my nose, as the boundaries of my basement expand to next door.

Crazy Crap Item #236: The part where Jim Croce follows me wherever I go

2009-07-16T10:00:00.004-05:00

Lately, my life has been a veritable whirlwind. I've been researching and writing about Iceland, Italy and Scandinavia for various and sundry travel brochures. I started on a new pro bono project with Taproot Foundation. I've been girding my loins for a weekend away with Mr. Chris Czajka and company for a tour of all upstate New York's most glamourous phenomena, including attendance at the annual Hill Cumorah Pageant (a fabulous outdoor presentation documenting the founding of Mormonism; I've got my fingers crossed for the Angel Moroni suspended on fishing wire); private medium consultations with a psychic at the center of American Spiritualism, Lily Daly, NY; and (yawn) a visit to Niagara.

This last weekend alone was a maelstrom of activity. After a Friday night on the town, I sang at a Saturday night concert by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio, followed by zany karaoke hijinks at our favorite dive, Cafe Bong (affectionately known as "The Bong Ho"). First thing Sunday morning, we met for brunch with James Eason, an old friend of mine from high school, then sped out to Pilsen for a soon-to-be-disclosed art project of epic proportions.

Given all the mayhem, it's no surprise that I had failed to follow up on the strange arrival in our household of a stray Jim Croce CD.

Now, I know Mr. Croce of old. I grew up in the '70s, after all. Many's the time my mother would dance about the kitchen, crooning of bad, bad Leroy Brown ("Badder than old King King,/ Meaner than a junkyard dog"). I have not, however, had any contact with the works of Mr. Croce since then, or ever expressed any desire to own his greatest hits.

Despite this lack of interest on my part, there it was: "The Greatest Hits of Jim Croce," courtesy of my father. I assumed my father had meant to have this item sent to himself, but had a pre-set address on Amazon for my abode. I thought nothing more of the matter.

On Monday, despite my tornado-like weekend, I ventured out to Davenport's Piano Bar. This fine establishment boasts a cabaret open mic night, an event which my must have been invented solely for my own amusement. A fantastic accompanist and a bunch of friendly folk singing showtunes, old pop songs, standards, original compositions, you name it. (This is not to be confused with Petterino's Monday Night Live, which is a much more formal and daunting affair).

So, there I sit with my good friend Lindsay, nursing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and contemplating my next tune, when a fellow gets up and sings a song about being in love with a roller derby queen. This is, of course, amusing to me, as Eamon is an official for Chicago's women's roller derby league, The Windy City Rollers. I text him about the song, and like magic, he walks in the door (mere coincidence -- he as actually at derby practice that night, which is not far from Davenport's). I recount this mystifying bit of synchronicity.

The week plods on, and I finally chat with my father on Wednesday. He asks if I received the Jim Croce CD. Memory jogged, I exclaim, "I've been meaning to ask about that. Did you send that to me on purpose?"

Yes, he assures me. "Number 14 is for Eamon."

After we hang up, I hunt down the CD and check the song list.

#14: "Roller Derby Queen"

Jim Croce and the derby girls, they follow me.

Crazy Crap Item #235: The part where I tend to a long overdue memorial

2009-07-04T11:49:00.006-05:00

I told myself I wouldn't let a year pass before I tended to this, but here it is, a year later, and I've yet to post.

What I'm referring to is a sad event that transpired one year ago today: The passing of Dolores McDermott.

Please don't misconstrue the long delay. It's not that Dolores' death passed unnoticed, or that her absence wasn't mourned. It's just that tributes are always hard to write, and particularly so when the person you're memorializing took on mythic status. That's the case here.

In a way, this entire blog serves as Dolores' memorial. What else can be said about someone who appeared so often in these pages?

But it's not just a matter of frequency. Any account of 1500 Norwood would be incomplete without the tales of Dolores. She was a fixture, an icon. "The lady in the lawnchair," the first harbinger of spring whose habitual appearance seated in the folding chair in her driveway signaled that the fine weather was finally here.

She was the "mayor of Norwood," constantly observing, always with a bit of news about this neighbor or that. Passersby would stop to say hello; sometimes cars would even stop. Anyone who doubts the ominpresence of Dolores need only visit Google maps, and take a street view of our block. Dolores sits there to this day in her lawnchair, enshrined in Internet glory.

It's only on a block like 1500 Norwood that you'd have a Dolores -- the sometimes sweet, sometimes crotchety old lady who knows everyone and everything that's happened in the last 40 years on this block. What's more, she assumes you know them as well -- "You know, Bill on Glenview. He was the one who lived in the blue house when the dime store caught fire..."

I don't even know how long Dolores had lived on Norwood, but it was a long time. I estimate it must've been at least 100 years. In my mind's eye, I see her in a 1930s housedress, Marcel waves in place, calling in the kids to listen to "Little Orphan Annie" on an enormous wood-paneled radio. That's all wrong, of course; Dolores would barely be a baby in the early '30s. But there was something so undeniably old-tyme about Dolores, so Depression-era, so much of deep roots and cherished traditions, the image feels right. She was like a throwback, an icon of old-ladyness from another time--not unlike her block, a throwback to the old-fashioned Chicago neighborhood.

In fact, I'd say it's not simply that you cannot describe 1500 Norwood without mentioning Dolores. I'd suggest she herself was a sort of emblem for everything that's special about this block. She embodied the permanence of a neighborhood where people don't move away, and where old ladies stay in houses that are too big for them long after many would retire to the nursing home. She was a living example of the shared memories, the traditions, that makes community on such a block coherent.

She wasn't just sweetness and light, some latterday Aunt Bea. She was Chicago life, warts and all. She got crabby and complained about her relatives to anyone who would listen. She spied. She harbored a long-time feud with our other neighborhood stalwart, Bernadine.

But she also held up the pillars of community by keeping tabs on all our neighborhood doings. It was she, long-term readers may recall, who revealed who stole my Autumnal pumpkins, and who pooped on my lawn.

There was a certain shamelessness to Dolores that was the hallmark of old-ladyness, the privilege of living into your 80s. She never hid the fact she spied on you; she blithely proclaimed she had watched you doing thus and such. Often, she skipped a greeting altogether, and launched into her latest complaint instead--the fact that her grandkids hadn't washed the dishes or that someone had looked at her squinty-eyed--followed by an exasperated rolling of the eyes.

But her shamelessness was coupled with an oddly circumlocutionary way of addressing matters. She was paradoxically direct and indirect at the same time, skipping the niceties of normal human discourse. I fondly recall the time I came home, and as I pulled up to the curb, she beelined straight for me, waddling into the street on her characteristic blue Crocs. "I'm going to a wedding Saturday, and I need a dress. I wanted Ray to take me to the store, but he's not home. He said he would but he's not there..." To know Dolores was to realize that what she was really saying was, "I want to go dress shopping, I want to go now, and you're going to take me." Who was I to disagree?

But she was also generous. Nothing gave her more joy than discovering she had something she could give you. One time, she complained of a deli-quality meat slicer that was taking of space in her pantry. "Does your husband like meat?" Soon, we had a meat slicer. And bags of tupperware. And a tub of frozen cookie dough.

In the few years I knew Dolores, I got small glimpses of her life before old age. Once she told me of how she loved to sing when she was a little girl. She laughed at herself, showing me how she'd sit tipped back in a chair in her backyard, crooning to the moon.

Another time, she told me about how she'd take her many (8? 9?) kids to the dime store, which was at that time located about a few blocks north of us on Clark. She described leading them down the street, and how they'd have to stop and inspect each and every gangway. The trip would take hours, she recalled.

But these were only snapshots, and after she passed, I was delighted and surprised to get a fuller image of Dolores from the remembrances of her children at her wake and her funeral. Dolores loved to dance. She was committed to family traditions, particularly at the holidays. She raised her children with love, joy and energy.

Finally, it must be recalled that it is thanks to Dolores that Eamon and I ever came to Norwood. After viewing our house, we loved our house so much we decided to go all in. We made an offer of the highest amount we could pay, knowing it was still under the asking price. Our offer was politely declined. Later, mysteriously, it was accepted. Dolores later gave her version of the story. She'd met Eamon when he came back to see the house, and took an immediate liking to him. When she heard that our offer had been declined, she told the owners--the O'Malley kids who had lived across the street from her nearly all their lives--that we were nice people and they had to sell to us. We were the sort that needed to live here. The rest, as they say, is blog history.

So that's Dolores, our Lady of the Lawnchair, Mayor of Norwood. As a final farewell, let us pause to recall her legacy:

Crazy Crap Item #6: The part where my pumpkins go missing

Crazy Crap Item #61: The part where I see the first robin of spring, Norwood Street style

Crazy Crap Item #94: The part where we light the torch on the summer block party tradition

Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living

Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring

Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Delores experiences an upgrade

Crazy Crap Item #234: The part where Miles is not amused

2009-06-24T12:00:00.002-05:00

As I have mentioned before, my young neighbor Miles is a budding expert on dinosaurs. Recently, he was also attempting to tell riddles. I have dwelt upon the capacity of the 5-and-under set to tell riddles before they truly grasp the concept of humor. As may be recalled, this attempt is not always successful or sensemaking. Miles, I discovered, was similarly ill-adept. I thought I'd help him along by inventing my own dinosaur-themed riddle.

Kay: "Hey, Miles. What happens when two dinosaurs run into each other?"

Miles: [Dull silence]

Kay: "It's a riddle. What happens when two dinosaurs run into each other?"

Miles: [Blank stare]

Kay: "Tyrannosaurus wrecks!"

Miles: [Palpable discomfort]

Kay: "Get it? Tyrannosaurus wrecks! Do you like that one? You think it's funny?"

[Long pause]

Miles: "No."

Wit is wasted on the young.

Crazy Crap Item #233: The part where I go dumpster diving

2009-05-16T10:42:00.005-05:00

This morning, I was enjoying my habitual repast of cinnamon toast and strawberries and reading about an obscure 17th-century poetess, when the phone rang. It was my lovely neighbor Ruth.

"I thought you should know that there's a full-size stuffed lion in the alley behind the Walters' house. They're throwing out a bunch of stuff."

"I'm on it."

Mere minutes later, and I am in possession of said lion -- a glorious, free-standing example of toy-making at its finest. As I stroll through my backyard with this lion -- I think I'll call him Frazier -- hoisted up on my shoulder, I hear Kevin and Sam call to me from their backyard, some four or so houses down. They wave a small toy monkey that they have rescued from the selfsame pile. I suggest our next block party should be jungle-themed.

Now, with Frazier safely stowed in my basement for whatever future adventures may await him on Norwood, I realize that I could easily go to bed now at 10:30 in the morning, as my day has already been as fulfilling as it could possibly be.

Crazy Crap Item #232: The part where I add an addendum

2009-05-14T13:49:00.003-05:00

This is a follow-up to the story about the Caseys' very bad day. So if you haven't read that, read it first.

One thing I forgot to record in my account of the day of drama and trauma on Norwood is the actual cause of James' trip to the ER.

I first learned of it when Sam joined Jack and me to await the outcome. Jack was concerned it was his fault. I asked what happened, and he said it was his fault because he was the one who had told James to jump from one bed to the other -- the incident which resulted in the noggin-cracking.

"Accidents happen," I told Jack, who I felt didn't need a "Didn't-your-mother-always-tell-you-not-to-jump-on-the-beds?" lecture at that precise moment. Plus, it seemed like a pretty self-evident lesson.

Today, to help bolster recovery of both James and the entire Casey clan, I whipped up one of my now-world-renowned batches of brownies. When I delivered said treat, James' uncle was visiting, and asked James, "Whose fault was it that you hurt your head?"

Without missing a beat: "The bed's."

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I like the way that kid thinks.

Crazy Crap Item #231: The part where the Caseys have a very bad day

2009-05-14T11:49:00.002-05:00

[NOTE: No children were harmed in the posting of this story. Though the story itself was the source of some harm.]

Yesterday was full of drama and trauma on Norwood. Around 5pm, I was putzing around the entryway, after investing some considerable time in a new entryway-beautification project. What to my wondering ears should appear but my neighbor Ann calling to me.

I opened the door to find her out on the lawn holding James. She's a very laidback lady, so it took me a few seconds to realize that she was in full-on panic mode. It's not initially very far off from regular Ann mode, except that in panic mode, she doesn't finish sentences.

It also took me a few seconds to notice a lot of blood on her shirt, at which point, it very slowly dawned on me that something was terribly wrong. I cut her off in mid-sputter. "What happened?" She started to say something about how she had called Ruth because James had a cut on his head, and could Jack come over, and Sam too, since Ruth was going with her to the ER. I said of course, and called to Jack to come in.

The poor kid was extremely freaked out. He was just crying and asking, "Is my brother going to be OK?" I told him I knew it was scary, and did he want to talk about it? He said no, that would make it worse, so I suggested chocolate milk and cartoons. He thought that seemed ok.

As we sat on the couch looking for a good kid-type show, he broached a few comments about how worried he was about his brother. He seemed very concerned that it was just going to take too long for the ER folk to help James. As Jack is a logical, detail-oriented kid, I told him about triage, and how they screen patients to determine who needs immediate care. I recounted my last trip to the ER. In response to his worries about James feeling pain, I described the medicines they have to make pain go away.

Finally, we got to the big question.

"Is he going to die?"

I answered, "No. No, he's not. He is not going to die from this. He's going to be fine."

I've never seen such a visible sign of relief.

Then Sam came over, and they snacked on cheese, and played with some army men I just bought from the dollar bin at Target. Then we went outside and made swords out of styrofoam. Later, Sam's dad Kevin arrived home from work his son, who was miffed that Jack got to stay at the Dalys (the tenor of his complaint seemed to be something about how Jack gets all the fun).

By about 7:30, Jack, who had been waving off snacks for the past 2 1/2 hours, suddenly announced he was "starving." I hustled up some grub, and Jack, Eamon and I had a nice supper of chicken, corn and Scooby Doo cartoons.

Ann and Jim finally got James home by about 8:30. He ended up having 11 stitches, including 3 stitches deep in the wound, as the cut went all the way to the skull. But Ann said James didn't cry at all; everyone in the ER was amazed. And when they came to get Jack, James insisted on coming in, then leapt all over my livingroom, banged on my electric piano keyboard, climbed on the back of my couch, and, like his brother, was very reluctant to go home.

Ahh, the resilience of youth.

Crazy Crap Item #230: The part where Jack and James wax pious

2009-05-12T13:43:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, Ann announced that Jack (age 7) and James (age 4) took it upon themselves to write a letter to God.

Apparently, Jack did all the actual writing (a skill he's been honing in first grade), while James added helpful suggestions. To wit:

- "Add some crosses there."

- "And stars. Jesus loves stars."

We inquired of Ann what the boys could possibly be writing to God. "A general proclamation of their love," it seems.

They were also concerned that if they stored it in a drawer overnight before mailing, God might show up and take their unfinished draft. This was, apparently, a great concern.

I suggested that Ann spirit the letter away in the night. Mimi added that she could leave a cross behind.

I suspect she did no such thing. So much for the true fun of parenting: messing with your kids.

Crazy Crap Item #229: The part where I play catch-up (Part 1, Cookie Party)

2009-05-09T10:37:00.003-05:00

So it seems I have not been diligent enough in recording the doings on Norwood, as is attested to by the nagging of some of my readers (I'm looking at you, Ann). So here is my first attempt to hit rewind and record some of the events I neglected to document before.

Part 1: Cookie Party

For two years now, Cookie Party has been a hallowed annual tradition here on Norwood. Cookie Party consists of me making many sugar cookies in holiday shapes and obtaining an embarassing amount of holiday-themed embellishments. The final piece slides into place when I invite the small children of my neighborhood over to decorate these cookies by smearing frosting and applying sprinkles to both the sweet treats and themselves. Drop cloths assist in easy clean-up.

Last year's first annual cookie party was a grand success, and cries for a 2008 edition soon followed.

Applying the lessons of last year, I made a few changes in this year's plan. These included:

* Taking advantage of modern freezer technology to make and store cookies a few weeks in advance of said party to avoid pre-party preparation crunch.

* Slip-covering the diningroom chairs in cut-up plastic tablecloths to avoid the spilling of colored frosting and (yes) red wine on their cream-colored cloth seats.

* Purchasing even more supermarket gel icing squirters, since these seemed to be such a hit the year before.

* Making it clear in advance to all parents that I was very much OK with the idea that the post-cookie-sugar-crash would provide an excellent transition into parent-oriented happy hour, with the aid of some kid-style movies that could be lent by aforementioned parents.

* Removing all death- and injury-inducing items from our livingroom (pocket knives, laser pointers, nail clippers, cigarette lighters, cat o' nine tails, etc.), and placing all crystals, porcelains, and other valuables out of reach of small hands.

* Obtaining multitudinous toys from the dollar bin at Target, to be placed under the Christmas tree for general merriment and take-home gifts.

These preparations in place, the day of cookie party arrived attended by great excitement and a monumental snow fall. The latter led to yet another, hopefully soon-to-be repeated tradition, the transformation of the Caseys' front steps into a sledding hill. (See alternate sources for a full-photo record and video 1 and video 2 of this event).

After sledding, I returned to my cozy home to finalize preparations. Guests began arriving after 3pm, and festivities were soon well and truly underway. Highlights included:

* The new cookie-decorating efforts of young Anika, who displayed a determination and focus seldom seen in a such a tiny girl. She sat, fascinated for hours, emptying tube after tube of gel frosting onto a single cookie. When, at intervals, her tube would run out, she would hold it up to me with brow furrowed, as if to say, "What the hell?"

* The repeated, worried question "Can we eat them when we're done?", which repeatedly garnered the reply of "Um, yeah, I'm not planning to make a cookie art gallery with them." This followed by greedy gobbling, greedy gobbling, and more greedy gobbling.

* The constant tug-of-war between two schools of cookie decoration: the commitment to "cookie as art" versus "how much crap can I load onto one cookie?"

* The decision by some artisans to don protective eyewear to avoid the dreaded "jimmies in the eyes" risk.

* The retirement of parents to the livingroom for uninterrupted adult snacks during the first wave of decoration.

* After cookie decoration, the grand migration of kids into the livingroom for movie-watching, dancing, skipping, and general merriment, to be replaced by parents, snacks and many bottles of wine on the diningroom table.

* A visit by block favorite Jon Hey, who entertained the crowd with carols on the keyboard.

* The slow and steady drunkening of parents as children undergo a similar stupor of sugar-crash.

All in all, a grand success. To many more cookie parties!

Crazy Crap Item #228: The part where Miles waxes authoritative

2009-05-04T11:38:00.004-05:00

If there's one thing I truly enjoy, it's the capacity of small children to completely make crap up on the fly, then explain it to you with an air of certainty, authority, and -- yes -- condescension that I can't seem to muster even when I know what I'm talking about.

To whit, young Miles on the topic of dinosaurs. Miles, four-years-old, is son to Mimi and Amanda and brother to the floppy-curled two-year-old Nolan. They reside on the dreaded 1400 block, but we try not to hold it against them, as they are so delightful.

Miles is a very serious young man. A greeting usually gains reciprocation by way of a very sober, non-gaze-meeting and highly formal "hello." It generally takes a good hour or so for Miles to respond to teasing with anything but puzzlement.

Thus, from Miles, I've come to expect "just the facts." It was in keeping with this general tenor that Miles sought to educate me on the topic of dinosaurs.

"This is diplodocus," Miles intoned with an air of matter-of-fact sobriety as he waved a plastic dinosaur figure at me. "He's a plant-eater. His teeth are short and dull."

I nodded and repeated the fact several times.

Later, he returned to the topic.

"This is T.rex. He's a meat-eater."

"Oh, does he eat ham sandwiches?" I inquired.

"No," Miles replied with furrowed brow. "Hes a meat eater."

"But ham is a meat," I reasoned. "Doesn't he eat ham sandwiches."

"NO," Miles asserted, with a touch of impatience. "He doesn't eat ham."

"But why wouldn't he eat ham? Ham is a meat."

With nary a pause and a tone of certainty, Miles replied, "He only eats skin meat."

I am schooled.

Crazy Crap Item #227: The part where I record yet another utterly perfect Norwood day

2009-05-02T20:53:00.003-05:00

Those of you have dipped into my record of life in my little corner of the world have probably already heard too much about the utter perfection of a little block I like to call 1500 Norwood. To you I say, too bad; you're going to hear more.

Today, as it happens, was one of those hearts-and-rainbows, ponies-and-unicorn days in which all the glory of Mayberry comes out in full flower just outside my front door. On 1400 Norwood, life is sorrow. On 1300 Norwood, they eat naught but ashes and drink naught but tears. But on 1500 Norwood, all is bliss.

Here's how it went down:

10:30am: I depart my abode to head up to Highland Park for one of a million follow-ups on my poor beleagured jaw. What with unforeseen forestallments and emergency surguries galore, my appointment is pushed off, delaying my return considerably. During my my transit, I discover it is a rare, beautiful spring day in Chicago, and I contemplate a delicious fried egg sandwich, necessary fuel for one who has skipped breakfast.

1:00pm: Upon returning home, I prepare aforesaid sandwich and ponder where to consume said meal. "Outside would be bliss," I thought, "but what fun would it be without my delightful Caseys?" -- The Caseys being, of course, my next door neighbors; more specifically, Jack (age 7) and James (age 4).

I peek outside, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but two small boys cavorting.

I head outdoors, sandwich in hand, only to be peppered with requests for shovels. I explain that I must eat my sandwich first, but the great sadness I witness convinces me that sandwiches can wait. I make with the shovels, and retire to my back steps for the duel delight of egg sandwich and an extravaganza of earth removal.

2:00pm: Basking in the spring sun, I realize that I have yet to consume some coffee, and excuse myself to go make a pot. Jack is scandalized -- where on earth could I be going??? I explain I will be right back.

As the coffee brews, I take it into my mind that I desire a nice hunk of blueberry cinnamon coffee cake. Thankfully, I have a recipe for said cake, and all ingredients on hand. I whip up the batter, slap pan in oven, and return to the back steps with coffee, no one the wiser about my improvised baking.

3:00pm: The coffee cake is done! But, oh, too hot to handle. So I grab a magazine, and sidle out to the benches so thoughtfully provided on the parkway down the block. Our neighbors, the Watts-Harrises (Kevin, Ruth and son Sam) have selflessly sacrificed the grass on their parkway so that all may bask in communal lounging. I plunk down with coffee and magazine.

3:30pm: I sense, from half a block away, that my coffee cake is now cool enough to cut. I sidle back up the block, and consider what to do with this bounty of cake. After all, I'm only one small girl, and this is a gi-normous 13" x 9" cake.

The first hunk goes to neighbor Lisa, who is laid up from recent childbirth and surgery. As I deliver it, her 2-year-old Caroline (one of four -- count 'em, four! -- children) eyes me with a mix of suspicion and flirtation.

En route to Lisa's, I pass by the venerable benches, where Megan has settled in. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Delivering coffee cake," I say. "I'll bring some out. Want some?" She does.

But first, I must make my second delivery. It goes to Nancy. Ah, Nancy. Shameless, irrepressible Nancy. A fixture on the block, Nancy has lived here since the '70s. Before that, she was in the convent. I like to think of her as a sort of Scotch-soaked Maria von Trapp. After leaving the nunnery, she taught at a school for autistic children, and eventually met the love of her life, Bill, an ex-priest. Now in her 80s, Nancy shacks up with Bill, goes for daily strolls, distributes chocolates by the fistful, and brings joy to the block with her Christmas lights, which are lit year-round.

Nancy and I forged a bond over physical therapy. She was recovering from knee replacement surgery; I was rehabbing a crotchety hip. We had two weekly dates for nearly 6 months, and have been fast friends since. When the mood strikes me, I toss tasty comestibles in a ziplock and tottle down to Nancy's for a visit.

So on this fine spring day, I set out with coffee cake in hand, only to find Nancy in conversation with a passerby. We are introduced. This person -- who, I suspect, is transsexual -- is walking a small, vivacious poodle. Apparently, she has been accosted by Nancy before, and decided to swing by for a chat. After fussing over her poodle, Sunshine, we make our way to Nancy's, where we enjoy a short visit. We are soon joined by Manny, a former neighbor, now residing in a local nursing home. He has returned with his daughter for a visit. We watch the preamble to the derby.

3:30pm: I excuse myself, explaining I have promised Megan some coffee cake. On the way home, I pass back by the benches, and re-assert to Megan, who is now joined by Ruth (proprietor of the benches) and Kim (a refugee from the much-despised 1400 block), that I will be bringing coffee cake.

But first, I realize, I must deliver a hunk to the Caseys. I carve off a hunk, foil it up, and traipse next door. I ring the bell, and realize I have interrupted violin practice. Jim and Jack seem to welcome a break and usher me in. I'm treated to several tunes by the deft-fingered Jack, including a duet with Jim. James totters in and whispers in Jim's ear. He, too, it seems, wants a go. Jim produces what I consider the smallest violin in creation (though Jim assures me there are much smaller ones, even in that very house), and James launches into a song entitled "Perpetual Motion," his 4-year-old fingers flying. I'm treated to several encores.

4:00pm: I depart the Caseys, and am accosted by shouts from the bench of "where is that coffee cake?" I explain that I had been ensnared by the Casey's siren song, and that I will be out in a second. I slice up the last quadrant of cake and take it out to the ladies.

4:15pm: We partake. Sam, Jack and James inflict serious damage on each other with light sabers. Ann comes out and models the stylish outfit she has donned for a fundraiser that evening at the local Catholic school. Megan departs to make her preparations for the same event.

In front of the McDermott house, a flock of children skip rope, draw with chalk, and do other things that children do at a first communion party.

Across the street, the Brenner twins roller skate.

Kevin joins Ruth and me at the benches, and we speak of this and that.

The Caltos leave for the fundraiser.

The Cancillas leave for the fundraiser.

I comment pitiously that I feel like I'm being left behind on prom night.

"Come to dinner with us," Kevin says.

"I was going to stay in," I reply, "But I like you people."

6:00pm: I pop inside to change clothes and slap on some eyeliner. When I return to rejoin Ruth and Kevin, I find that Jim has ventured outdoors with his guitar and serenading the block. We listen to a few tunes, and after the Caseys leave for the fundraiser, Kevin brings around the car, and off I go for a delightful repast of tacos and tequila.

And thus ends a perfect day on 1500 Norwood.

Crazy Crap Item #226: The part where I like the way James thinks

2009-04-28T16:07:00.004-05:00

So, thanks to global warming, Lake Michigan, what have you, we experience a very chaotic version of spring here in Chicago. To wit: one day it will be 40 degrees with driving rains; the next will be 80 degrees and dry. Bizarre.

As a result, we have learned to take to our front lawns whenever the sun peeks her face out in the month of April.

It was during one of these sunny 15-minute windows when I happened to witness some sort of chase game occuring on the Caseys' front lawn. James was the quarry. Jack, Sam and Emmett were the predators. Mayhap it was cops and robbers, or cowboys and Indians, or Jedis and clones. All that matters for the purpose of this story is that James was being chased.

The merry band wound its way along the front parkways and sidewalks, until James, seeking to evade capture, sharply cut back along the west side of his house, an area which is strictly prohibited.

"James!" Jack hollered to stop him. "You can't go back there! You know you can't go back there."

James looked thunderstruck.

"Then why did YOU chase me there?"

Touche.

Crazy Crap Item #225: The part where James offers a definition

2009-04-23T18:07:00.001-05:00

James: "If you get all wrapped up in black tape, then you're a mummy."

Kay: "What is a mummy?"

James: "A mummy is 100 years old. He is covered in bandaids."

Crazy Crap Item #224: The part where art appears on my doorstep

2009-03-30T16:00:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, Eamon and I indulged in a pull-out-the-sofa-bed, eat-jelly-beans-for-breakfast, watch-trash-tv Sunday. It was delicious.

Around about 4:30, our doorbell rang. As is my way, I allowed Eamon to answer. I overheard the exchange, snatches of which included "poster," "anything you want," and "50 cents."

Eamon shut the door and returned, informing me that he had just purchased art. Our neighbor Calvin, roughly 8 years old, was going door to door with a friend peddling custom-made posters. Any subject you want, 50 cents apiece. To be delivered in 15 minutes. Eamon ordered two.

Some time later, the doorbell rang again, and we received said art, reproductions to be seen here and here. For their efforts, I paid our young artist-entrepreneurs the lofty fee of $2 ($1 for art; $1 tip). How lucky we are to live in a neighborhood where masterpieces are delivered to your very door!

Crazy Crap Item #223: The part where I publish an open memo to dog owners

2009-02-25T14:53:00.002-06:00

First off, I know it's practically a mortal sin in this country to say anything negative about dogs. So let me be clear: This letter is directed to dog owners, not dogs themselves.

Secondly, this memo was not sparked by the actions of any dog owner I know personally. So, no, this is not a hint directed at you.

With those two caveats out of the way, it must be said:

Just because your dog is a "people dog," that does not mean I am a "dog person." So please, don't assume that I like being sniffed. Or nudged off a sidewalk into a mud puddle. Or climbed upon.

This is particularly true if your dog stands four feet from front paw to the top of the shoulder.

I know you think your dog is adorable. But, seriously, keep it in check. That's why God invented leashes.

Memo ended.

Crazy Crap Item #222: The part where the dead are seen to rise

2009-02-22T10:37:00.003-06:00

In my grand tradition of pirating others' amusing stories to pad out my own observations, I include this exchange as reported by Jorge, brother to my good friend Roxi. Jorge is a speech therapist who works with children. This is an excerpt from a recent conversation with one of his students:

Jorge: Ok, Johnny, let's hear your report on Ulysses S. Grant.

Johnny: Ulysses S. Grant was our 18th President. He ran against Barack Obama.

Jorge: Wait, no, Johnny. Obama is alive today. He is our president now. Ulysses S. Grant has been dead a very long time.

Johnny: YOU MEAN HE'S A ZOMBIE?!

Crazy Crap Item #221: The part where Jack shows himself to be a bottom-liner

2009-02-18T17:34:00.003-06:00

As is well known, neighbor Jack is a fiddler. He's been playing violin since, I don't know, perhaps the womb, and is quite adept.

He's also learned to revel in the limelight, particularly during one of my favorite annual events: busking at the Andersonville Somerfest.

For those unaware, "to busk" is to perform some sort of act in public, with a hat, jar, or instrument case out for the collection of contributions. Sometimes such actions are frowned upon. Rarely are they disputed, however, when the busker is in the 5-year-old age range.

That is what we learned when Jack busked a few years ago, with his friend and contemporary Sam adding a dance interpretation, and netted quite a handy pile of cash. He generously used his earnings to buy ice cream for us all.

Last year, he did a repeat, and earned enough to buy himself some knickknack I can't quite recall.

Well, recently, his younger brother James has also taken up the bow. I was a little concerned. Would Jack resent his spotlight and thunder being stolen.

I was relieved when I asked about future busking plans, and his response was, "James can do it too this year. We'll make about a billion dollars."

Clearly, Jack knows which is worth more: ego, or cold hard cash.

Crazy Crap Item #220: The part where I gather more lore of the famed O'Malley house

2009-02-18T17:17:00.002-06:00

I have spoke oft and anon of the fabulous house I live in, located, as it is, on the best block in the universe: 1500 Norwood. We have, for example, many fantastic block parties. Neighbors organize "meal trains" when anyone is sick or has a baby. We gather for impromptu parties, gather for cookie parties, have backyard camp-outs, and watched the election of Obama in a huge 2-yard viewing extravaganza.

I can't help to think part of the fabulousness of this little community comes from the years of fabulous people who have gone before us, imprinting a path of fun that's as deep in the road as the potholes in our street that never seem to get fixed.

Today, I got yet another glimpse into that long legacy. My neighbor Florence recently had hip replacement surgery. Tonight was my night to bring over dinner. When I called to drop off lasagna, I had the chance to chat with her daughter, who is in town to help care for her during her recuperation.

"You're in the O'Malley house," she said. "I grew up there."

I looked puzzled, as she was clearly not an O'Malley, and she explained that she played there all the time.

"We used to have spitting contests off the back balcony," she revealed.

I also learned:

-- the funky room in the basement, with its shelves and paneling, was once, as I have always suspected, a Greg Brady-style oldest son's bedroom.

-- the dining room was formerly used as a den, with TV perched on the built-in breakfront.

--the dining room also housed a keyboard that was NOT TO BE TOUCHED, as it belong to an O'Malley uncle who played organ at Wrigley Field.

I revel in all these legacies, and look forward to the day when I, too, can host spitting contests off the back balcony.

Crazy Crap Item #219: The part where I receive a pretty authoritative vote of confidence

2009-02-18T17:11:00.005-06:00

Well, not to crib again from the annals of James Casey, but his mother Ann just sent along another anecdote that must be shared. To wit:

After swimming today James and I were in the locker room and he says "When we get home we should ask Kay to come over and build us an indoor pool"

me - "why would we ask Kay?"

him - "because Kay came make anything"

me - "is that right?"

him - "well, I HOPE so!"

Crazy Crap Item #218: The part where James demonstrates his knowledge of things spiritual

2009-02-17T22:20:00.003-06:00

I crib this story from Ann, James' mother. James is 4.

James wanted to read a story so I told him to go pick out a book. He came back with one and I told him "This is a book about what happens after you die". (It's a picture book that Rose gave us when the boy's grandfather died called "The Next Place".) James said "I already know what happens after you die, they make a statue of you and put it in church.........................or you become a ghost and fly around a castle".

Crazy Crap Item #217: The part where James sums things up quite nicely

2009-01-31T11:28:00.004-06:00

Recently, my neighbor Ann had to go to the dentist to get a crown. She asked if I would hang out with James (age 4) while she did so.

I cherish any time I can spend with either or both of the Casey boys under any circumstances, so I readily agreed.

Most of the hour or so were spent with him demonstrating his many toys, making my knight battle his (I always lose), and with the eating of snacks. But we also steeped ourselves in philosophical discussion. To wit:

James: What comes before 4 and 102?

Kay: I don't think I understand your question.

James [said with greater emphasis]: What comes before 4 and 102?

Kay [not wanting to have to count from 1 to 101]: Well, every number before 102 is what comes before 1o2.

James: Yes, and 1, 2, 3 come before 4.

Kay [relieved]: Yes, that's exactly it.

James: 1 you wear diapers; 2 you wear diapers; 3 you wear underpants; 4 you wear underpants.

Kay: Yes. And what comes after 4? What do you wear then?

James: After 4, it's all underpants, all seasons.

And....scene.

Crazy Crap Item #216: The part where I share important information

2009-01-31T11:22:00.003-06:00

From Elizabeth's England: Everyday Life in Elizabethan London, by Liza Picard

"Farting, like pissing, should ideally be done when alone, if at all possible, but if it is not possible to withdraw, 'let a cough cover the sound', which is not the whole answer to the problem. In all this, one has to remember that there were few lavatories, public or private, to which one could withdraw. The unfortunate Earl of Oxford farted as he bowed before Queen Elizabeth one day. He was so mortified that he left the Court for seven years. On his return the Queen greeted him reassuringly. 'My Lord, I had forgotten the fart.'"

Crazy Crap Item #215: The part where I am delighted by my homecoming surprise

2009-01-31T09:56:00.005-06:00

OK, so I just returned from Banning, blah blah blah. Aside from being seated next to the WORLD'S ANGRIEST TODDLER for 3 hours of my trip, the trip was fairly uneventful.

Just prior to my return, Eamon posted a most enticing Facebook status update:
Eamon hopes Kay likes her surprise!

Well, I'm always someone who likes to come home, but this little missive really sealed the deal. But before I reveal said surprise, I must back up a bit.

I, dear friends, can charitably be called a "picky sleeper." I started developing insomnia in college, and committed myself fully to this endeavor by graduate school. My good friend, Mr. Czjaka, was always amused by my capacity to awake for no good reason at all, and stay awake for hours. "Are you like Jane Eyre," he'd ask. "Were you awakened by a shaft of moonlight breaking through your curtained window?"

This eventually led to a phenemenon I like to call "migratory sleeping." Fed up with my inability to sleep in one location, I'd move to another--a couch, the floor, whatever came to hand as a reasonable sleep surface.

My restlessness has also led to a phenomenon my brother has recently dubbed "pillow madness." It started as an attempt to pin myself down. I found that after tossing and turning for several hours, putting my pillow on top of my head would secure me in place and, sometimes, anyway, allow me to drift off.

Later, I discovered that a pillow laid along one side of me only helped matters. And then one on the other side.

It was only when I met Eamon that I was introduced to the greatest invention mankind has yet to create: the body pillow. For the unenlightened, this is an ENORMOUSLY long pillow that runs the full length of the body.

So, for those of you keeping up, at this point in our story, I am sleeping with:
-a pillow under my head
-a pillow over my head
-a body pillow on one side
-a pillow on the other side

As if this weren't insane enough, then came the physical woes. Chronic shoulder pain. Chronic hip pain. On opposite sides of the body. This means, of course, that I cannot sleep comfortably on either my left or my right side. (Later, I developed a carpal tunnel-esque condition that seemed to kick in when I lay on my back ... cruel irony ... but I've managed to get that under control).

So, anyway, to properly bolster all my body parts, I found I needed:
- aforementioned pillows over and under head
- body pillow with additional pillow on it when lying on side opposite my sore shoulder (so as to prop it up)
- two pillows laid end to end on the other side, so as to bolster my sore hip when lying on that opposite side

I call it the Kay Daly Sleep System (tm). Patent pending.

Clearly, I'm now taking up enough bed space for three stout souls. Eamon and I can no longer fit in our queen-size bed. Add in my migratory sleep patterns, and I'm soon permabulating from one guest bedroom to the other. In the wake of my recent nervous breakdown, I finally settled into our haunted guestroom. It's dark and soothing, quiet as a tomb, and has a mattress I quite like.

But I miss, you know, my actual bedroom, and the guy I share it with, so this makes me a bit sad.

Which brings us to my SURPRISE.

Upon arriving home from Banning, I'm escorted to the bedroom where Eamon has contrived THE BIGGEST BED THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN. It's bigger than a King-size bed. It's bigger than a California King.

He has moved out our previous bed, a queen-size Comfort-aire, which had always made me feel like I was sleeping in a hammock, no matter how much I filled my side with air. It now lives in the haunted guestroom.

He has moved the double bed that I like from the haunted guestroom into our bedroom.

He has moved an old twin bed from our basement up two flights of stairs to our bedroom.

He has cunningly pushed these two beds together to form one TITANIC SUPER-BED.

He has purchased new, high-quality sheets for each of the components of this new bed (unlike the nasty, low-thread-count affairs I usually cheap-out with).

He has purchased coverlets and decorative pillows to match the brown pillowcase I had chosen for my body pillow.

And thus it is, we now own the largest bed in the western hemisphere, and I am the happiest of girls.

P.S. I'm also a sheet stealer. But we found a solution for that as well.

Crazy Crap Item #214: The part where I rechristen the cat

2009-01-29T12:31:00.003-06:00

Well, not to beat a dead horse, but I'm currently in beautiful Banning, Ca., home of my parents, assisting as my father recovers from a broken arm.

Local lore says my dad was felled by a small tabby kitten. Aforementioned feline had been purchased in the hopes that she would provide some nice distraction and amusement for my parents, whose range of activities have become a bit more constricted of late.

We, you see, are cat people. Worry not: I shall not digress into some cliche about "dog people" versus "cat people." Instead, I will note that throughout the years of my growing up, we owned somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 cats. Not at once, mind you. The most at one blow was five, and that was because of the birth of kittens, which were quickly dispersed to good homes.

And let me say, in our defense, we actually sought out only very few of these cats. Rosie, our first cat, was picked up, I believe, from a "free kitten" box at the local Gemco. She was promised to my sister Liz--her sole pet. Liz soon proved too young to take on such a responsibility, and was manipulated into making Rosie the "family cat" in exchange for what was termed a "knickknack doll." I'm not sure what a "knickknack doll" actually is, but it is family lore, and must be reported accurately.

Of our other cats, I recall selecting a feisty white kitten with orange tail, dubbed Boris, from a local pet shop, in later years. I believe our two Petunias, Petunia 1 and Petunia 2, were also deliberately acquired.

But more typically, our cats found us. There was Blue Eyes (named for her blue eyes), who I believe was found on the shoulder of the freeway and taken home. Also, there was Bones (a quite skinny cat, you see), who, emaciated and weak, wandered out in front of my mother's car as she drove down the street. My sister leapt out to put him back on the curb, only to have him wander suicidally back into the road. Into the car he went.

Then there was my personal favorite, "Little Kitty" (by this time, we'd given up trying to come up with names). She simply wandered up on our front porch and peered in the front window (a large, plate glass affair). My dad opened the front door, and inquired, "What do you want?" She skipped merrily in, and we had ourselves a cat.

Sparky, a feisty, fire-engine red kitten who later grew to a lazy, grumpy, strawberry blond, similarly wandered into our yard, and lodged himself under our house. Several claw swipes and one big bite to the thumb (my brother's), and he was ours.

I'll omit the rest, except a brief mention of Roger (who turned out to be a girl) and Jubilations, a wild tom cat who never really "belonged" to us, but rather lived off the bounty of our offerings of backyard snacks.

In fact, I've always rather suspected that we operated something like the underground railroad for cats. I've imagined whispered mews in back alleys, consisting of, "If you're ever in trouble, hit up the Petersons." Perhaps they even had a code of hobo symbols that had been scratched into the olive tree in our front yard. "Endless kibble, guaranteed home, moderate teasing."

But I digress. Back to the main topic, the borderline-insane kitten who currently makes her home in Banning. Like Roger, she looks like a boy to us all, but she is in fact a girl. Due to her boundless energy and penchant for flying around the house as if the very devil were on her tail, she has been named "Zipper."

It was during one of these wild sprints that she careened into my dad, knocking him off balance on a slippery kitchen floor. The result: one broken arm (not the cat's).

So, it was assumed, the cat was a very bad idea. A menace, one might say.

Subsequent to this, my dad had yet another fall, non-cat-related, and was taken to his doctor. In the waiting room, he fell again. Since there were now no cats to be implicated, it was decided that further investigation was required.

A trip to the emergency room later, a check-in to the hospital, and a very thorough exam by a wonderful intern named Dr. Haddad, and some interesting results developed. My dad, it seems, has sky-high sodium levels. He is chronically dehydrated. His kidneys are struggling. His blood pressure is a perilously low 60 over 40 (normal is 120 over 80).

Dr. Haddad looks at his entire medical record and concludes that the approximate 412 water pills they have him taking (an exagerration on my part) are EXCESSIVE IN THE EXTREME. His current doctors (seen for a variety of issues) have simply not gotten on the same page, and by not looking at the big picture, have created a whole parcel of new woes.

So, given my dad's extreme dehydration, weak kidneys and low blood pressure, it's no wonder a kitten could knock him over.

In fact, one could argue that if it hadn't been for our small spastic tabby friend, none of these issues would've been uncovered. The broken arm put my dad in a position to receive thorough and comprehensive treatment--something he apparently had not been receiving.

Given all this, I've decided Zipper needs a new name. I have thus dubbed her: "Lucky Break." "Lucky" for short.

Crazy Crap Item #213: The part where Mom hits the nail right on the head

2009-01-26T14:23:00.003-06:00

Currently still with parents in Banning, Ca. A recent conversation:

Mom: So now, will your husband take you out to dinner tonight after you take me home?

Kay: No, mom. I'm staying with you tonight. I live in Chicago now.

Mom: Chicago! Why did you come all the way out here?

Kay: To help with dad's broken arm.

[pause]

Mom: Well, no offense, but I think we'll want to see a doctor for that.

Crazy Crap Item #212: The part where I make a totally predictable discovery

2009-01-26T14:17:00.004-06:00

Still in lovely Banning, Ca., that bastion of the 55-and-older set, and enjoying the quirks of a community that has molded its offerings entirely around the needs of those in the autumn of their years.

At a recent trip to the grocery store, I thought to myself that since I'm here for the semi-long haul, I'll purchase some foods that suit my discriminating palate and fit well with my beleagured jaw. Hummus, I thought. That delicious puree of the chickpea, so favored by those of the Middle East. Surely, this most cosmopolitan of communities would offer such a delicacy.

No such luck. Ranch dressing they had. Salsa by the tub. Spinach dip. But hummus, no siree bob.

Not such a surprising revelation, but an unfortunate oversight. I think hummus and dentures would be a natural pairing.

Crazy Crap Item #211: The part where I benefit from being such a pill-pusher

2009-01-26T13:59:00.007-06:00

So, as many know, I am currently in Banning, California, assisting my father, who broke his arm while doing mighty battle with a small tabby kitten.

While packing for this trip, I was a little alarmed to realize that I had packed far more in the way of pharmaceuticals, home remedies, over-the-counter tonics, and physical therapy equipment than I had clothes. Healthy I will be. Healthy and naked.

Once here, my hypochondria had an unexpected benefit. My dad was released from the hospital one day after surgery, and I whisked him homeward. My greatest concern was to get his prescription for pain pills filled, so that he'd have relief on hand ASAP.

I didn't, however, want to leave him and my mom alone with him fresh from the hospital, and while my sister Liz was hot-footing it out to join us, she was still about an hour out. What to do?

So I asked, "What is this painkiller you need?" The prescription listed a mouthful of chemical gobbledy gook which meant nothing to me, and on a whim, I double checked the doctor's original order. The alphabet soup name turned out to be the generic. The brand name: Vicodin.

As luck would have it, as I packed my many, many remedies, I had tossed in a bottle Vicodin I had left over from my recent jaw procedure. I don't take them, but as I packed, I thought, "Why not?"

So all was solved: Dad had his Vicodin -- or at least an interim bandaid -- until I could get out to fill his official prescription.

Hypochondria: we salute you!

Crazy Crap Item #210: The part where I share beard lore

2009-01-21T09:41:00.004-06:00

Well, I'm about to head out to Southern California. Sailor Jack has fractured his arm -- and injury encountered in a violent brush with a kitten, or so I'm told. I think he just regularly breaks or replaces body parts to ensure I come out to visit.

Before I go, however, I must share two recent beard-related phenemona.

Phenomenon #1: Eamon's out of control facial hair
As many know, Eamon has ceased removing any hair from his head. No hair cuts, no beard trims, nothing. This has been going on since August.

Me, I'm cool with it. I've enjoyed tracking the various characters he takes on as the hair grows. These have included:

-- A young Santa Claus
-- A cast member of Cats
-- A Greek god
-- The Gorton's Fisherman (from Gorton's of Glouchester)
-- A Russian mobster
-- Rasputin

His two latest favorite phrases have been, "Go ahead! Tug on it! It's strong!" and "It's like wearing a mink on my face."

Recently, he decided to memorialize his growth in fantastic collage entitled "Things my beard can lift." The set of photos also include closeups of various components he is lifting.

Phenomenon #2: A wonderful new ode to the beard and what it goes with
We do not know the master songsmith who created this ditty, but we were directed to it by Mr. Chris Czajka.

Crazy Crap Item #209: The part where Sailor Jack cracks wise

2008-12-18T10:01:00.003-06:00

In a recent email, my father updated me on the latest in his California homefront:

Today, rain, snow, (SNOW!) 32 deg. temp., and 15 MPH wind. Throw in a crooked governor and we'd have Chicago.

Love to both,

^^^^ SJ ^^^^

Crazy Crap Item #208: The part where I marvel at the gall

2008-12-16T11:03:00.003-06:00

Okay, so, as many will recall, I just spent the worst summer and fall ever, which included six weeks of physical therapy for mis-diagnosed and mis-treated TMJ syndrome.

Last week, we finally got the bill.

Today, I got a call from her billing service to "remind you of your balance."

I'm like, yeah, we got the bill A WEEK AGO.

So I guess they're not so good about diagnosing and fixing ailments, but really good at demanding payment.

Crazy Crap Item #207: The part where Piatt and Eamon quip

2008-12-15T10:11:00.004-06:00

Last Friday night, Eamon and I found ourselves at the Bong Ho, our favorite local Korean karaoke dive bar. Shiow, a long-time friend of young Roxi and the original source of knowledge about this oasis of off-key singing, was planning a birthday celebration behind the mic. So how could we not go?

Though he doesn't know Shiow, I invited our good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, theater editor extraordinaire and all-around man-about-town. He has taken up the mic at the Bong before (his "Mac the Knife" always brings down the house), and knows well the allure of this stinkiest of nightspots. (Yes, that is pee you smell. Pee and Raid ant spray.)

After reviewing two shows and enduring a commute that involved no fewer than three CTA buses, he arrived at midnight, just as I was preparing to leave. So, of course, my plans changed.

He'd missed my dazzling rendition of Billie Holiday's "Come Rain or Come Shine" and my signature show-stopper "Cabaret" (a la Liza), but he was lucky enough to catch my eerie evocation of Leslie Gore ("It's My Party) and Petula Clark ("Downtown").

Finally, as I finished a gut-wrenching "Hopelessly Devoted to You" (Olivia Newton John, Grease), he turned to Eamon.

Piatt: How does it feel to be married to a gay icon.
Eamon: In some circles, I'm considered a gay icon.

And ... scene.

Crazy Crap Item #206: The part where my father taunts me

2008-12-11T13:04:00.004-06:00

I just received this email from my father:

DBK [Doctor Baby Kay],

Your governor is corrupter than our governor. (to the tune of Nya-Nya)

^^^^ SJ ^^^^ [Sailor Jack]

Crazy Crap Item #205: The part where Roxi weighs in on a proposed charitable act

2008-12-10T16:55:00.004-06:00

I have not cut my hair for a year. Last holiday season, I decided, in a fit of tipsy philanthropy, that since my hair was just sitting there, doing nothing, I should harvest it for Locks of Love, an organization which supplies wigs for kids who, due to medical reasons, can't grow their own hair.

I've had long hair in the past. It's been straggly, thin. In a word: unfortunate. So I was not looking forward to this.

But lo and behold, it's grown out rather nicely, lovely layers and all. Which led young Roxi to say to me, just last night:

"Screw the kids with cancer. You look great with long hair."

God bless us, every one.

Crazy Crap Item #204: The part where I attempt an essay on a seemingly arbitrary topic

2008-11-27T09:42:00.003-06:00

So, today is Thanksgiving. And I suppose I should compose some paean to the day--thanks for our many blessings, mullings over the sacrifice of the pilgrims who founded our great nation, panegyrics on founding fathers and fruited plains.

But instead, I feel like writing about a topic that just keeps popping up in my life over the last few weeks. And if it doesn't initially seem like it's a topic relevant on a day of national thanksgiving--of celebrating the plenty in our lives, the traditions we share, the communities that bring us together--then stick around. You might just be surprised.

The topic is hair. Specifically, black hair. Now, of course, I have black hair (see profile photo), but that's not what I mean. I'm instead referring to what we used to call "African American hair." Someone told me recently that "African American" is over, and now it's all about "black," but I may be confused on that point. So for the sake of this exercise, I will stick to the term "black hair" to refer specifically to hair on the heads of black people--those of African American descent. I just can't see typing "African American" over and over and over on a holiday.

But to resume my theme: I'm embarrassed to admit that it wasn't until I was well into my 20s--teetering, in fact, into my 30s--that the idea that black hair was significantly and fundamentally different than white hair entered my consciousness. It's not that I hail from some snooty, all-white suburb. San Gabriel, Ca., my home town, was integration-central, but in our neck of the woods, the idea of "race" entailed the almighty triad: white/Latino/Asian. And I think, in terms of demographics, the Latinos were winning. There was a small handful of black kids in our school; few enough that, paradoxically, the fact of their blackness was incidental. So my exposure to black America was slight, at best.

So fast forward to--gulp--graduate school. One afternoon, I stop by the apartment of my friend Nicole. We had plans later that day, and since I was killing time, she told me just to stop on by. When I arrived, she had some mysterious cream smeared along the roots of her hair. She said, "Sorry, you caught me in the middle of an African American hair ritual."

This is the embarrassing part: It had never before entered my mind that Nicole straightened her hair. That OF COURSE she straightened her hair. That her hair, which always was so carefully coiffed, didn't just grow out of her scalp that way.

Now, this realization was strange and embarrassing because, although I did not grow up in a neighborhood replete with black kids, I had somehow picked up the knowledge that black people generally have curly, kinky hair. That cropped close, it makes tight little curls. That grown long and picked out, it makes wild, wonderful Afros that I've always secretly coveted. In fact, as a child, I purchased at a local flea market a little fashion doll that was black, and I always loved her tight little 'fro. I used to pat it lovingly after dressing her up for a night on the town. So, clearly, I had lurking in my brain a basic knowledge of black hair and its characteristics.

So it was with great mortification that I realized not just how remarkably ignorant I was--but how unable to see what was right in front of me. And trust me, that's an unsettling realization.

Fast forward about six years. I'm out of graduate school. I'm part of the work force, taking the Red line downtown everyday to work. During my commute, sometimes I'd read, sometimes I'd gaze out the window. But sometimes, I'd just stare at the heads in front of me. And since Chicago--though still shockingly segregated--holds a healthy mix of black and white, often the heads I found myself staring at were black.

It was at this moment that little kernel of realization planted by Nicole and her hair-straightening ritual took root. I started to notice--really notice--the remarkable variety in black women's hair and how they had dressed it. I became aware of the many options they were choosing from--straightened, au natural, extensions, colorings. And wigs! Why had I never noticed how many black women were wearing wigs?

Next, I began to reckon with the sheer amount of effort that went into these creations. The straightening alone, I knew, must be time-consuming, annoying, and must be done with steady regularity. But then there were pasted-down curls and squiggles of hair, arrangements of braids, careful interweavings of hair, natural and synthetic.

Dear God, I thought. How much time must that take? Hair-wise, I've always been pretty darn close to au natural. There was a spiral perm in the late '80s, but that was never repeated. My entire first year of graduate school, I stopped getting my hair cut at all, just to see what would happen. Turns out, it got really long.

My main point is, besides washing, cutting, blowdrying, and a very infrequent spritz of hairspray (for special occasions), I don't really spend a heck of a lot of time on my hair. And I resent the small amount of time its maintenance does require.

As I pondered the hair of my train-mates, I began to appreciate that, given how little inclined I am to dress and attend to my hair, I'm lucky I've got white-girl hair. It's straight. It's durable. It grows ridiculously fast, and it can be easily coaxed into just about any style. Or it can be pulled back in a ponytail and ignored.

So I mused on this fact, and decided I needed to learn more. Pushing aside all apprehensions about being one of those annoying liberal white folk who want to appreciate the "black experience" as a way to show how enlightened they are, I gingerly instant-messaged Nicole. My message was something along the lines of: "So, this black hair thing, it takes a lot of work. What's up with that?" But, I hope, with more grace, tact, and clarity.

Nicole, being a patient and amiable soul, helpfully enlightened me. She opened my eyes to the world of black hair maintenance. The regular visits to the neighborhood salon that take up the entirety of one's Saturday. The painful process of cornrow braiding. The ongoing, never-ending toil to keep one's hair up to code. (Believe it or not, I still have the transcript of the conversation saved in a Word file. It was that significant to me.)

But she also gave me a glimpse into the culture of the black hair--that when she used the phrase "African American hair ritual" so many years before, she wasn't being glib. She was referring--tip-of-the-iceberg style--to a rich, complex node of community life and culture. She told me how the local salon or barbershop was a neighborhood institution. One spends so much time there, one can't help but make it a center of shared culture.

Her account put me in mind of a salon that Eamon and I used to pass when we lived in Rogers Park that advertised "Styling, Weaves, Braiding, Neighborhood Folklore." We'd always loved that sign; now I felt I actually, in some way, understood more fully its significance.

So, I decided, I wanted to learn more. Mind you, this was before the outbreak of Barbershop, Salon, and Hair Show movies. This was before Tyra compassionately explained to a white girl contestant on America's Next Top Model that, yes, extensions hurt like the bejesus, and you have to pat them so you don't scratch your scalp and cause more problems down the line. So really, I was ahead of the white-folk curve, I like to think.

Naive and presumptuous as I was, I thought maybe I'd try to write an article about this phenomenon. I did a little research to see what else was written on the topic, and ran across an exhaustive book about the history of black hair. I was so blown away by the book that, paradoxically, I have kept no notes from it, not even its title. Googling like a fiend just now, I suspect it was Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America, by Ayana Byrd and Lori Tharps.

How, you may wonder, could I have failed to keep note of the book title--especially considering I kept an entire transcript of my IM conversation with Nicole on the same topic? The truth is, as I read the book, I could not escape the dawning realization that any role I'd try to play in recording or reporting on this cultural phenomenon was pretty suspect. Who was I? The great white translator of black experience? Did I think black writers couldn't sufficiently describe, analyze and celebrate this tradition on their own? And who was my audience? Clearly, black folk already know about this stuff. So I'm just talking to a non-black audience, which once again raised this spectre of the great white translator. Ick.

So while I pored over the book, intrigued by its scrupulous tracing of the history of black hair culture, stemming back from its African roots, through centuries in America, and up to today, I realized this was a conversation I needed to enjoy as audience, and keep my big, blabby mouth out of. As a result, I took no notes. Not even the title. Dang.

But the topic has stuck in my head. And in the last few weeks, it just keeps coming up. A friend of mine who is a teacher in the public school system was recently bemoaning the fact that she only just learned about the need to "pat" new cornrows to lessen the pain till they loosen up (revealing, in her mind, her ignorance about her students' experience). I've mulled over accounts I've read of cross-racial adoption--in which white parents must educate themselves in hair maintenance for their child, and how hard it is to cross that cultural line.

And then last night, Nicole posted as her status on Facebook the following: "Nicole is looking forward to the meeting of the White House and the hot comb."

As I drowsed into consciousness this morning, all these notions stewed in my brain, and I began to ponder the paradox at the heart of black hair culture. As was explained in that wonderful book I read, black hair culture grew out of the need to try to conform blackness to whiteness--to force kinky hair into straight silky locks--as a way, if not to gain the power of the dominant race, at least to align oneself with it aesthetically. At best, it was a means to get a toehold into that power. But at the least, it was a way to avoid calling attention to one's "difference"--a difference that could, as history all too clearly attests--be deadly.

But there's more to the story. This drive to conform, of course, starts as a sort of imposition from without. But soon enough, it's internalized. Black culture forms its own rules about how one manages one's "difference" via hair. There develop standards within the culture itself for the proper upkeep of one's hair--standards the dominant culture (white America) hasn't a clue about. It becomes self-policing.

And if that sounds grim and disappointing, there's actually a flipside to consider--one that's far more encouraging and even inspiring. In creating these internal standards, black America creates its own law, its own identity.

This can lead to concrete power. As recounted in the regrettably untitled book I consulted, the development of black hair culture both drove and was fed by the rise of black-owned businesses that served a black market, a chief example being Madame C. J. Walker, a pioneering entrepreneur in the field of beauty products designed especially for black women.

So some blacks gained real power--financial, political--from the industry that arose around black hair care. But hand-in-hand with this--and probably with more impact on the lives of everyday blacks--the culture of how one cares for one's hair provided a powerful community-building force: the neighborhood barbershop and/or salon. As Nicole had recounted to me so many years ago, the trip to the salon was like a weekly hajj to Mecca, and that many women travel miles to return to their childhood salons after they've moved out of the neighborhood. And where salons weren't plentiful, an aunt's house or Grandma's kitchen could fulfill the same purpose.

Mulling over this, I think back to my own childhood. I had a close, loving family. I was briefly a Girl Scout. (Hated it.) I was a member of several choirs. My family went to church. But I can't say I had a "community." If anything, I'd say my experience was "anti-community." We belonged to one parish, but another church was closer, so we went there. We weren't "joiners." I never felt a love for my Alma Mater. I've yet to go to a football game at the two universities I've attended, and can't even imagine going to an alumni event. Hell, I didn't even attend any of my three college graduations (undergrad, masters, doctorate).

Only now, as an adult, do I grasp what it means to be in a "community." I live on a fantastic block. As I've often recorded, whenever possible, we gather at the benches in front of Ruth's house and while away the hours sharing recipes and gossip. We keep an eye out for each other, and lend cups of sugar.

It's in experiencing this sense of "community"--and how it's formed by some accident of habit or behavior or geography--that I feel like I begin to experience something like the black hair thing. Here on 1500 Norwood, "community" has formed around the ritual of the sitting on the benches in front of Ruth's house and the fact that 6-year-old boys need to spend at least 3 hours a day simply running around and shooting fake guns at each other. For black communities, it's the fact that every week, you must spend hours tending to your hair.

I have no doubt that black hair experience has caused psychic scars for many--the push to conform, the belief that one must alter one's appearance to be acceptable. But I know that it's also provided strength and cohesiveness, a sense of shared experience that has empowered millions. I have no doubt that the civil rights movement found its impetus in the barbershop chair or while a small child wept from the sting of chemical straightener on her poor, red scalp.

And that's the weird, rich paradox of America and of human nature. Don't think any phenomenon will have a single, predictable outcome. Oppression become conformity becomes solidarity becomes a dream of power.

And then, suddenly, you've got hot combs in the White House. Amen.

Crazy Crap Item #203: The part where I prove to be a girl of small ambitions

2008-11-19T15:38:00.004-06:00

Lately, I've noticed a strange trend in my dreams. No, not the unearthly appearance of spirit visitors that lately garnered such attention.

Rather, I've discovered an uncanny ability to realize I'm dreaming while in the midst of my dreams, and to react to the situations around me armed with this knowledge. I chalk it up to the fact that I've taken to the habit of arising at a normal hour, then rolling back over for an extra hour or so of sleep. These strangely reasonable dreams tend to occur just before I arise for good.

Here's an example: I recently had a dream that I was on a business trip (clearly a sign I'm dreaming), and was taking a work-out in the hotel gym. As I step on to the exercise equipment, I notice I am wearing my very costly silver watch. So I remove it and fling it to the ground. I hop on to exercise, and almost immediately realize that this is not a smart move. One does not simply fling one's fancy watch onto a gym floor, where it could be broken or purloined!

I hop off said equipment, and begin to search for my watch. I quickly discover that nearly everybody in this gym has done the same thing, so there are watches everywhere! How, oh, how shall I ever find my watch!! How could I be so stupid as to do this?

At which point, another part of my brain chimes in and says, "You wouldn't. Nobody would. This is clearly a dream. You can look all you want for that watch, but when you wake up, you can check your jewelry box, and it'll be there." I realize that this is probably true. I regret I can't somehow go check right now, but I assure myself this makes perfectly good sense. I abandon my search and go on my merry, dreamy way.

(For anyone who's interested, my dream-self was correct. The watch was in my jewelry box.)

So this morning, a similar thing occurs. I dream that I'm on my way to some sort of rehearsal, and realize that I need to grab a meal first. I stop in at a very seedy fastfood joint. Zany hijinx ensue--too disjoined to try to recount--but I end up ordering a chicken sandwich, a donut, and a diet Coke.

As I wait for my order to come up, it suddenly strikes me that I have no idea if I have any money to pay for this meal. I pull out my purse, which--as it turns out--is a triangular, "Hello Kitty"-inspired affair, made of transparent plastic and trimmed in pink. Since it is transparent, I quickly see that my big black wallet is not inside. It is totally empty.

But before I can even worry, that same, oddly rational part of my brain says, "This is a dream. You make it go any way you want. Just put your hand in the purse and pull out a $10 bill. That should cover it."

I do, I pay for my meal, and go on my merry, dreamy way.

It's not till later this morning, as I'm recounting this dream to Eamon that I realize I could’ve told myself to reach into my purse and pull out …. A $100 bill. A credit card. The Hope diamond. A gold-plated tiara.

But, no, I pull out a $10. Because that should just about cover it.

Dream big, little lady. Dream big.

Crazy Crap Item #202: The part where I spin a Halloween yarn

2008-10-26T14:39:00.003-05:00

It seems my attempt to exorcize all the cobwebs of the worst summer ever has worked, as I am now able to document some more appealing events, appropriate to my claim of having crazy crap happen to me nearly every day. So let me return to quasi-normalcy with a tale quite befitting the season.

Some of you may recall a past episode which made my hairs stand on end. Dear friends, I admit, I love a good ghost story. I love thinking there's something mysterious there, just out of reach--something pointing to larger spheres we can't even imagine.

But let me be the first to say it: I am not one of those invested with the gifts of a sensitive. Besides occasionally thinking of someone just as the phone rings with a call from that very same person, I am utterly non-psychic. Profoundly so. I do not feel creepy presences. I do not sense "being watched." I do not glimpse eerie movements out of the corner of my mind which cannot be dismissed.

And yet, just the other day, I had an experience of such sheer uncanniness, I've been unable to shake its sense of otherworldly ookiness. And since it's nearly Halloween, it seems more appropriate share the wealth than keep it to myself.

So here it is: Kay's Uncanny Experience

Let me preface by saying, as revealed with such endearing candor in my previous post, I'm in the recovery phase from a good-old-fashioned, Valley-of-the-Dolls style nervous breakdown. So, goodness knows, there are some funny, funny chemicals oozing around my synapses. And I'm recovering quite nicely, thank you very much. I typically awake sometime between 6 and 7:30am, pop a soothing doll, and snooze for a few hours more. I chalk it up to my body really, really needing sleep, and am simply reveling in it.

So this morning, this typical transaction occurs. Pop a doll, back to bed.

At some point, I think I'm awake, but so woozy and sleepy, I don't want to get up. I'm absolutely certain I hear someone come in the room. My brain decides it's my mom, who is concerned that I need to get up, but doesn't want to wake me. I make sure not to move, and hope she'll just leave, because I just want to sleep and don't want to be roused further--kind of the way you lay very still when you've fallen alseep in the car on the way home so your dad will carry you in.

At this point, I should add that I'm currently sleeping in one of our guest bedrooms. It's dark and quiet, and allows me to flop about without disturbing Eamon. It's a disheveled little room, with a threadbare carpet and a kind of sad-making patch of plaster on its cracked, robin's-egg blue walls. Because of its dreary condition, I've always jokingly referred to it as "the haunted bedroom."

The haunted bedroom opens out onto the second story of our disgracefully dilapidated porch. When we first viewed the house, the door was marked with a sign that said, in daunting letters, "DO NOT STAND ON PORCH." We do not.

So back to our scene. I'm still drowsing, eyes shut, head under pillow, my usual sleep mode, and I sense that my mom is moving toward the door to the porch. It crosses my mind I should tell her not to go out there, as it's dangerous.

But I'm drowsy, and if I stop her, the jig is up, she'll know I'm awake, and I'll have to get up. At the very least, the sheer effort of exertion will rouse me past returning to sleep, and I really want to sleep. I let myself off the hook, thinking the odds of the porch suddenly collapsing as my mom puts her tiny frame on it are infinitesimally small, and she'll so enjoy the view. I swear I hear her going out there. She steps out for a minute, then comes back in. And I think, see, she was just curious, and everything's fine.

I remain as still as possible, as I just want her to leave so I can go back to sleep.

Then, at some point, something weird happens. It almost feels like the quilt by my face is jerked up slightly, or maybe it was that I had one of those weird sleep shudders one sometimes has--where you're drifting off to sleep and you suddenly jerk to action. I'm not sure if this happened right away or later ... but I do recall looking down toward my chest as I lay on my back, and seeing that my quilt was tented up so I could see under it. And what I see/sense is a kind of dull yellow glow. And I remember thinking, "That is just not right." And thinking I should really investigate further, but just being too sleepy to do so.

I also recall, and have no idea of the chronology in terms of when I was sensing all these things, realizing that there is no way my mother could not possibly be in the room. My mother lives in California. And I get this strange flash -- not really a vision, not really a thought -- a sort of weird sense of just "old lady" -- a stooped, white figure. Maybe white hair. Dolores, my recently passed neighbor, I muse. Or maybe Babe O'Malley. But those are really the most deliberate logical thoughts I had in the whole experience. Like that's the label I'm putting on the generic "old lady" essence that was the original impulse.

Later after this, not sure if it was few minutes or longer, I became aware of really loud irritating sounds that I couldn't make out. Eventually, I decided it was my brain trying to process the noise of workmen working on my neighbor's house ... only I realized later that those guys finished the job weeks ago. So I don't know what the hell that was.

And then, at some point, I am dead certain that someone hear someone else coming in to "check on me." I am sure it is Eamon, and again, I stay quite deliberately immobile because I don't want to get up. I want to go back to sleep.

But I give up. At this point, I think, what with the loud, irritating noises earlier, and the weird sensations, I might as well get the hell up. Besides, I can just catch Eamon to say goodbye before he leaves for work.

Only his car is gone. And when I look at my computer, I see he's online, which means he's been gone for at least a half hour.

So that's my creepy story. Serotonin run amok? Grandmotherly figure from the Other Side worried that I'm oversleeping. Who's to say?

Crazy Crap Item #201: The part where I open myself up to the accusation of TMI

2008-10-21T15:17:00.003-05:00

Dearest reader:

No doubt you have noted a serious decline in both the quantity and quality of my installments of insanity in the Daly household. Some have even asked: "Why no entries? Has nothing crazy happened in your life?"

In actuality, much crazy has happened. Unfortunately, the "bad" crazy has far outweighed the "good crazy," leaving me little energy or inclination to document even those blessed beneficial moments of insanity that have occasionally wafted down upon me like unto manna from heaven.

I had originally planned to weather the storm, await the return of a larger proportion of good crazy, and proceed with my labors as if the summer of 2008 had never happened.

I'm finding, though, as summer turns to fall, that celebrating the joyful crazy crap without first giving due place to the difficulties of the past few months seems somehow... dishonest...? Levity, I like to think, is my habitual frame of mind, but until I discharge this past summer's flat-out badness, any show of fun feels forced and false. And you, dear reader, deserve better than that.

So here's the deal: What follows in this post is a description of my worst summer ever. Many of you have heard part or all of this saga -- say, if you are a denizen of 1500 Norwood or have ever been to my house to watch the season premiere of Ugly Betty and eat empenadas. Those of you who have not heard the tale may simply not want to veer off the path of crazy crap comedy. If you number yourself among them, please feel free to wait for my next, hopefully more cheerful posting.

The point is, I'm sharing too much here. I know it, and I own it. So here goes: my account of "Crazy Crap Gone Bad: The Summer of 2008":

June: A fine afternoon, I prepare a meal of hummus and veggies. As a precursor, I pop a handful of Beano in my mouth. I chomp down. I feel brief pain. I chew. One tablet will not dissolve. I ponder the matter, and realize that I've actually broken a tooth.

Thankfully, my dentist can see me immediately, fits me for a crown, and glues in a temp. Two weeks later, I have a permanent crown. It doesn't feel quite right. I start to notice discomfort in my cheek. I return to the dentist and have her adjust the bite. No relief. I ask her to do it again. She tells me the bite is fine; I need to see someone about TMJ syndrome.

In the meantime: Eamon and I consult a friendly neighborhood fertility specialist vis-a-vis the baby-having (you may recall, he looks like Bob Balaban). He works up all sorts of tests, sonograms, probings and so forth. It is discovered I have not one but two uterine fibroids which require yanking. (I have recorded this bit before).

My surgery is scheduled for July 11, so I decide that I will delay doing anything about the TMJ. I know it will require weeks of physical therapy, which I won't be able to do, so we'll just wait till afters.

July 4: Eamon and I take a delightful walk on the beach, and return home to find a block party on the dreaded 1400 Norwood block. As we chat with local denizens, I'm approached by a neighbor who informs me that Dolores McDermott -- she of song and story -- has passed away suddenly. We are all stunned and saddened.

July 11: I go in for surgery. We were told to expect it to be about 2 to 3 hours long. In truth, it takes 6 hours. One of the fibroids measures 8 centimeters. I've been under anesthesia so long, they can't release me the same day, as we had expected. I spend an utterly sleepless night in the women's hospital (seriously, it's called that), counting how many seconds it takes for my decompression boots (which ensure no blood clots form) to inflate and deflate. Over and over.

Eamon gallantly offers to sleep in a recliner beside my bedside, but I send him home. He picks me up the next morning, and we arrive to the welcome of our summer block party, which I cannot attend, as I find I can barely sit upright due to the four incisions in my gut.

Recovery is much worse than I had anticipated. Pain pills seem to do nothing, my jaw pain continues, and I must lie almost exclusively on my back. And I develop some pretty severe insomnia.

My jaw pain is still troublesome, so I drag myself to the dentist a few days after surgery. She's amazed I'm standing. She suggests soft food and ibuprofin. I tell her, due to surgery, that's pretty much what I've been doing. She says after I'm recovered I should go to an oral surgeon.

Five days after surgery, I learn a project I've been working on needs a revision NOW. I manage somehow to put in something like 10 hours of work over the next couple of days, and decide to knock off when STABBING PAINS develop in my gut. Fun.

Two weeks after surgery, we receive very sad news. Our dear friend Jonathan, who has been fighting leukemia for more than three years, has received his final treatment, and it has failed. We organize with friends of Jonathan and his partner Chris to come out for support. We arrange a schedule to ensure that someone is always there to help. Eamon and I will be leaving in 2 days time, and will stay for 8 days. When we leave, we will be replaced by another friend.

July 29: We arrive in New York, and in the cab on the way to Mt. Sinai, we learn via cell phone that Jonathan's condition has suddenly declined. All friends have been summoned to New York. As such, many friends will be staying at Jonathan and Chris' apartment. We call our dear friend Michael, who lives up in Washington Heights, who selflessly offers us his bed.

I won't recount much about our time in New York. It was very, very difficult. We ended up staying 12 days, as Jonathan's condition continued to decline. We had some blessings during that time, too. A testament to Jonathan's and Chris' character is the remarkable group of friends they surrounded themselves with. Many of them I knew from my time at Northwestern University (where I met Chris), but I also met friends from other parts of their life as well as Jonathan's family. If I ever find myself spending 10 hours a day in a hospital lounge for nearly two weeks, looking on as one friend suffers and another grieves, these are the people I'd want to do it with.

August 10: We returned home. That night, at about 3am, we received the news that Jonathan had passed away.

Once the dust settled, I decided to return my attention to various of my physical ailments. As many know, I am the physical therapy queen. In the past couple of years, I've experienced chronic pain in my hip and shoulder, and done something like a year's worth of physcial therapy treatment to try to get them under control. This past summer, I got add a new ailment -- stabbing pains in my forearms and elbows that particularly hit just as I would lay down to sleep. So another trip to the orthopedist. Who sends me to physical therapy.

At PT, I learn that my PT insurance coverage for the year has been all used up, and in fact, was used up a few months ago, so I'm already paying for several visits out of pocket. I learn some nice stretches and techniques for my forearms from my therapist, and tell her, I don't think i can prioritize this now. She understands, and tells me to continue with the exercises, and come back for a check in some time if I wish.

So I cue up my next ailment: TMJ. It's now quite severe. My dentist sends me to an oral surgeon. He questions me for 3 minutes, and refers me to a physical therapist, "a miracle worker," her calls her. I see her twice a week for a month. And yes, I'm going to be paying out of pocket. She reduces my visits to once ever other week. Then she says, "Well, we have one more visit, and we're done!"

To which I say, "But I still have symptoms." And she explains that I seem to have plateaued, so in her experience, there's no point in continuing. We do my exercises. She joggles things about. I go home. And I brood. So I decide to call her an clarify.

"So," I ask her on the phone, "Am I going to be in pain for the rest of my life?" And she explains that people thing therapy is a cure, but it's not always, and though we want therapy to help, sometimes it doesn't. I ask her if there's anything else I can do. She says if I continue with my exercises, I can keep further damage from being done.

I am upset. What I'm hearing is, "yes, you will be in pain for the rest of your life." It is now September. I've been tolerating this basically never-ending pain since June.

And it is at this point that the entire deck of cards which was once my mental and physical state comes crashing down. I have been exercising about 2 hours a day for my various pained parts. I have done my TJM exercises every 2 hours for 6 weeks. And now I am to understand that none of it matters, as I will be in pain for the rest of my life.

Oh, and on Monday, I'm supposed to start fertility treatments, which entails self-injecting hormones every day and driving out to suburbs every few days to have my blood tested.

And all the while I'm thinking .... How the fuck am I going to do this.

So this is the when the uncontrollable sobbing starts. And the intense anxiety. I spend the weekend sleeping little and eating less. I somehow manage to sing at a wedding .... not sure how I pulled that off.

The weekend ends, and Monday morning, I've had something like 2 hours sleep. So Eamon and I talk. We decide to defer fertility treatments for a month. I'm supposed to see a periodontist later in the week about a gum tissue transplant I need (oh, did I forget to mention that?), and he says, "Let's see if he'll see you today." He also urges me to see my GP, who I had an appointment with later that week anyway.

The periodontist tells me to postpone the tissue transplant. He offers to do some research for specialists I could see about the TMJ.

I talk to my shrink, who insist I demand anti-anxiety meds from my GP.

I see my GP, who gives me all sorts of delicious drugs, all of which help, with the sleeping, with the eating, with the thinking, with the not sobbing constantly, which is nice.

I cancel my final appointment with my TMJ physical therapist, as it was to be a follow-up to the gum tissue surgery which I'm now not having. I receive a very effusive phone call in which she insists that she thought I had improved and that she never would've closed the door on me, and all sorts of other things that completely contradict the tone and content of our earlier conversation. I conceded I perhaps did not communicate my discomfort clearly enough, but inwardly wondered why, in our previous phone call, the questions "Will I be in pain for the rest of my life?" didn't ring any chimes for her. I let her know I will "think about" her offer to continue treatment with her.

In the interim, I call the oral surgeon who treated my mother-in-law for TMJ years ago. His assistant says he can't see me till December. He only sees patients every other Saturday. I say, fine, I'll take it. I tell her I'm hoping to become pregnant, so should I do xrays now, in case the blessed event occurs. She says I can come in for xrays any time!

So I do the next day, and a miracle occurs. By the time I get home, I have a message from the receptionist saying she explained my situation to the doctor, and that he said if I'd like to come in that night at 8:30pm, he'd see me then!!!! Calloo, Callay!!!! I happily agree.

I meet said doctor, and he is everything the last oral surgeon was not. He is kindly. He is leisurely. He wants to hear my whole story. He pats my arm reassuredly when I speak of my trip to New York. He examines my bite, moves my jaw around, pokes and probes.

His conclusion: the right side of my jaw, which has been hurting, and upon which I have lavished treatments and exercises is not the problem. It's actually the left side which is immobilized. The right side hurts because it's being over-extended.

Which simultaneously makes me want to shout for joy and scream in anger.

He recommends a treatment -- an injection of saline into the immobilized joint to wash things out. The rub: it can't be done if I'm pregnant. So... logistical headache....

Finally, I muster some clarity. I get an MRI so the doctor can confirm his suspicion. I consult my calendar and do some reproductive-related calcluations. I call doctor's office, explain situation again. Thankfully, it's the same receptionist, so she gets it. I explain that I want to go ahead and schedule the procedure, if I'm "blessed," I'll cancel it. So we schedule it.

And that brings me to now. Delicious drugs have tamped down the jaw pain and evened the mood. Decorating for Halloween has had the effect of basket-weaving on inmates in the asylum. I still sob occasionally, and have wrestled with the guilt that Eamon had to miss Roller Derby Regionals in Madison, Wisconsin, to stay home with his crazy, enfeebled wife.

But it's getting better. And now that I've enforced this catharsis on you all, mayhap we can all look forward to a finer brand of crazy crap in the future.

Crazy Crap Item #200: The part where James learns to spell

2008-10-09T10:52:00.003-05:00

This latest item from my neighbor Ann, regarding a dialogue with her son James, age 4:

This morning James said upon waking up ,"I know how to spell teeth, t-o-n-e." I told him that that doesn't spell "teeth."

James --"What does it spell?"
Me -- "It spells tone"
short pause....
James -- "Oh, then I know how to spell tone"

Crazy Crap Item #199: The part where James offers a definition

2008-09-22T16:28:00.002-05:00

Young James asked if I know what an Indian. I reply that I do, but what does he think an Indian is?

The answer: A guy who wears only pants.

Crazy Crap Item #198: The part where everything I need I find in my basement

2008-09-18T11:55:00.004-05:00

Yes, it's been a long time since I've added to this account of my daily doings. Suffice it to say, for now, anyway, that this was a bad summer. A very bad summer.

But summer is done, and as the leaves begin to turn, we, in turn, turn our attentions to the 1500 Norwood Fall Block Party.

The Theme: Renaissance Faire

A splendid theme. Grandiose. Inspiring. And, I have found, strangely do-able.

Yes, I did my doctorate in Renaissance English literature, so perhaps this period of history and culture is just a bit more intuitive for me than for some. But really, my ease with planning and executing my Renaissance theme is mainly due to my large and strangely abundant basement.

To wit:

- I desire a costume. I begin to poke in some storage boxes. Within a half-hour, I have a full costume, which brings together an old elf costume, yesteryear's English style riding boots, and a Victorian blouse I wore in a wedding when I was 14 years old.
- My neighbor Ann and I are planning a maze of knightly obstacles in my backyard. My basement yields a multitude of large, capacious cardboard boxes, perfect for towers and hallways.
- We muse that it sure would be swell to have a full-length skeleton to hang, dungeon-style, on a trellis. While poking around for a completely different item, voila!, I find a plastic skeleton I forgot I had.
- Eamon asks me to look for an old beard from block partys past to use for his costume. It fails to materialize, but as I search, I find a full-length black hooded robe, never used.
- I decide I wish to append a drawbridge to the front of my house. Rooting around, I find not just a board but an actual, fully constructed, very sturdy ramp, which runs exactly to the height of my first step. A little paint, some rope, and I have a faux drawbridge.
- I make a mental note to by tidbits to disperse as prizes for the kids. Searching for more bits of costume for Eamon, I run across a box full of goody bags filled with toys, again, from a block party past.

This is just getting weird.

Crazy Crap Item #197: The part where Jack demonstrates his knowledge

2008-06-26T10:47:00.004-05:00

So, since surgery for me is looming, and since it so perfectly coincides with our upcoming block party, I felt it was prudent to prepare my young friends for my lack of participation in said festivities. I'm hoping to muster, post-fibroid-removal, at most a hearty lawnchair sitting. And since James, who cannot see me in the vicinity of grass without demanding that I spin him around or hoist him upon my shoulder, I decided a few weeks of knowing such frolics were not forthcoming would be advisable.

I would be going to the hospital the day before, I explained. There were some nasty sores they needed to take out of my belly. Then I would come home, but I would have to rest a lot, what with all the doctors having been in my belly and all.

James looked concerned. "How will they go in your belly without hurting you," he queried.

"They have special medicine," I explained, "that keeps it from hurting."

"Oh, yes, medicine." Jack intoned, with a blase-ness one never quite expects from a six-year-old. "Morphine."

Oh, how fast they grow up.

Crazy Crap Item #196: The part where Sailor Jack cracks wise

2008-06-25T15:32:00.002-05:00

My dad, for an old duffer, is an unstoppable email machine. Early and often, I receive missives from him, updating me as to daily doings and offering observations as they strike him.

To wit, today's email, which comments upon an old WWII film:

DBK [his nickname for me. It's short for "Doctor Baby Kay"],

Watching "They Were Expendable" I noticed all the officers had nicknames. There is Rusty, Shorty, Lucky, etc. I can see a poor ensign showing up later in the war and asking "Why do I have the nickname Poo Poo Head? And they would say "You waited until all the good ones were gone". Happy Gay Pride Day parade.

Love to both.

Dad

Crazy Crap Item #195: The part where James clarifies

2008-06-24T10:30:00.004-05:00

This past Sunday, I had the pleasure of passing some time with the Casey boys, all three of them. It was a blessedly lovely evening--the air newly pummeled from earlier hail storms--and the Casey ensemble was attending to their remarkable tomato patch.

As Jim (big daddy) focused his attention on the binding of chicken wire, James (age 3) entertained me with his ever-popular "Woofy Dance," while Jack (age 6) undertook to transform every item within reach into a form of firearm.

As we chatted of this and that, Jim announced that James had learned the song "Puff the Magic Dragon." I indicated that nothing would please me more than to hear his rendition.

With gusto, he started in:

"Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea."

Then concluded his performance with a loud, conspiratorial stage whisper:

"It's about dragons."

Crazy Crap Item #194: The part where I am brimming with useful suggestions

2008-06-24T10:17:00.003-05:00

Once again, Eamon is marching in the Gay Pride Parade. Faithful readers will recall that this is not his first such experience. I speak, of course, of last year's entry, with the Windy City Rollers, as a robot.

Today, he tells me that he is again set to march. This time, their team theme is "Sailors." What should he wear?, he asks.

I suggest he clad himself in one of those enormous mock-derrieres one sees so often at Halloween parties, and go as a rear admiral.

I am ostracized.

Crazy Crap Item #193: The part where Kristen cites a reliable source

2008-06-20T23:27:00.006-05:00

As many know, the last few years can be thought of as "Adventures in Baby Delaying" for Eamon and myself. And me, well, I'm not getting any younger.

So it was that Eamon and went in for a battery of tests to determine what's what and get an expert to help us nudge things along. The news was largely good; all our nibbles and bits seem to be in good working order. Upon closer examination, however, it was determined that I am harboring some not very felicitous uterine fibroids. Not to go into grisly detail, it seems these little benign nub-ules are pushing into my baby sleigh, and making things just a bit too crowded for all concerned (or at least, that is the suspicion). So yank 'em out, the experts say!

And, it seems, the experts need a helping hand to make things happen. A robot to be precise. Seems that wee, tiny robots are all the rage in fibroid-removal circles, and me, I'm never one to miss out on a fad. So robots it is.

I conveyed as much to my good friend, Ms. Kristen Freilich. Good friend that she is, Kristen did some scrupulous research, and sent me this encouraging email of support:

Subject: Good News!

Hi kay. after i found this in USA Today I started to feel better about your surgery. i think you are going to be just fine!

And below her message, she included the following:

Which led to this exchange:

kaydaly88: USA today?
krispe22: i made that part up
kaydaly88: yeah.
krispe22: but otherwise i was afraid you woudln't take it seriously

That's what friends are for.

Crazy Crap Item #192: The part where I overhear a notable conversation

2008-06-09T09:01:00.002-05:00

Our block party was this past Saturday. I will comment more later upon that matter. In the meantime, I'd like to share a snippet of conversation I overheard involving a group of three girls, ages 6 through 8.

It was a steamy day, our block party saturday, so I offered to hook up my fabulous Pirates of the Caribbean sprinkler. Three small girls agreed this would be a good idea.

They were dazzled by my sprinkler, with its menacing, spinning skull, crossed swords and genuine fake doubloons. They asked where on earth I could've purchased such a treasure.

Target, I revealed, was the place where I had achieved such an item (for the low, low, not-to-be-missed price of $3.00).

Girl 1: I love target!

Kay: I love it, too.

Girl 2: I like the toy department at Target. They have the best toys there.

Kay: That's true. They do have great toys.

Girl 1: Why don't parents let kids have all the toys they want. They never give them everything they ask for.

Girl 2: I always want everything at Target, and my mom says, "No, no, no, you can't have that."

Kay: Well, your parents don't want to give you everything you want so you'll learn to appreciate the stuff you have.

Girl 1: Yes. People just always want everything. They can be so greedy.

Girl 3: Yes, that's true. Even I can, and I'm a princess!

And.... scene.

Crazy Crap Item #191: The part where Eamon and I toast the long-delayed arrival of summer

2008-05-31T09:13:00.005-05:00

The scene: Memorial Day morning

The mood: Lackadaiscal, at best.

Our guest bedroom (where I am sleeping due to ongoing hip/shoulder/elbow aches) is graciously outfitted with a television, so as I drift into consciousness, I turn on the TV, and remain supine. Eamon joins me. I discover that there is a "Law and Order" marathon running. We comment that the day is thus well and truly shot for us.

Eamon asks how I wish to break my fast. I answer noncommittally. He suggests pancakes, waffles and the like. I wonder how such a feat will be achieved during a "Law and Order" marathon.

We realize that the episode we've just been sucked into is an expansive, gripping three-parter. Which means it will not be resolved until noon. Which opens, once again, the breakfast dilemma.

"We could move operations downstairs," Eamon suggests.

"What benefits would accrue to us?" I ask.

"To be closer to the kitchen, and be able to pause the show while I run in to flip pancakes."

This seems reasonable to me, and I am never one to turn down cakes of any kind, least of all cakes of the pan variety.

We marshall ourselves, only to have Eamon discover/realize that, through a long-neglected glitch, the channel feature "Law and Order" is not under the jurisdiction of our DVR device, and thus cannot be paused.

We moan. We wail.

I suggest that we move our electric griddle into the living room, and construct breakfast while watching the "Law and Order" triathlon. I am assured that if any such thing occured, the world would well and truly end, for we are not such trashy, low-end folk as to make breakfast in the living room just so we wouldn't miss any minute of a "Law and Order" marathon.

Personally, I find this stricture overly rigid, but after some contemplation of Lenny's witty zingers and his hot Latino partner's hot body (which they took every opportunity to display), I suggest that if we switched gears and considered the construction of French toast, this might be more manageable. French toast, you see, doesn't entail comlicated batter construction or the 1-hour resting time required for pancakes. I envisioned beating eggs, milk, sugar and vanilla at the commercial break, soaking bread during the show, adding to grill during the next commercial break, flipping them at the next commercial break, and so forth. Lengthy, cumbersome, but doable.

Eamon responded to my suggestion by noting that we had leftover French bread from a dinner party earlier in the weekend. I acknowledged that this point had occurred to me, and had figured significantly in my thought process.

With this silent assent, I retire to the kitchen to amass the fixings. During such doings, Eamon slinks into the question with a strange look on his face. Evil is too strong to describe it. Mischievous, perhaps. Impish.

I inquire what he's about. He answers not a word, but silently -- and impishly -- unplugs the griddler and begins to transport it. Wordlessly, I pack my fixings and move them to the coffee table.

Eamon sets up the griddler on the radiator, and the rest follows as one would expect, all done to the Eamon's sung refrain, "WE'RE WHITE TRASH! WE'RE WHITE TRASH."

The resulting breakfast, dubbed "Law and Order Toast," is delicious, satisfying, and media saturated. I'm instructed to never speak of it again.

Crazy Crap Item #190: The part where I am not alone

2008-05-08T10:16:00.003-05:00

Yet another county heard from re. chapter 1 and and chapter 2 of Ambien madness. Apparently, sleep-texting is not uncommon, according to this article thoughtfully provided by Roxi.

Crazy Crap Item #189: The part where Charlie Gibson cracks wise

2008-05-06T20:58:00.003-05:00

Tonight, on the news, there was a story about a violinist left his Stradivarius in a cab. In recounting its recovery, anchorman Charlie Gibson was heard to quip, "And voila! Or should I say, 'violin'?"

No, Charlie. You should not.

Crazy Crap Item #188: The part where Sailor Jack weighs in

2008-05-06T20:54:00.004-05:00

Today, my dad and I were watching the news, which reported on the ongoing battle between Obama and Clinton.

My dad, a lifelong Republican, said, "I hope Obama wins. I'd like to see a president with a name like Obama. Not some Anglo Saxon 'Ward' or 'Howe.' 'Obama.' I'd like to see that."

And then I glanced out the windows, and the pigs, they were soaring by.

Crazy Crap Item #187: The part where I prudently proofread before hitting "send"

2008-05-05T11:24:00.007-05:00

As I may have mentioned before, this is a bit of a stressful time. I'm in Banning, caring for a recuperating father, and negotiating the many needs of a household in low-key, senior citizen crisis.

As may be expected, there have been some lapses in my usually razor-sharp mental acuity. Many of you have already learned of the great Ambien fiasco of 2008.

This morning, I experienced a similar lapse. I was responding to an email from a client, who was apologizing that a project we had started had been repeatedly delayed.

I thought I'd answer with a bit of literary flair, opening my email with

"Hey, Tony -- The best laid plans of mice and men... etc."

Which would be very zippy. However, what I actually typed was:

"Hey, Tony -- The best laid men... etc."

That's me. Crafting porn-inspired emails to send to important clients.

Crazy Crap Item #186: The part where I share another story of Ambien-induced hijinks

2008-05-02T20:55:00.003-05:00

So, it seems my story of what happens when Kay takes Ambien in lieu of Synthroid has rung some chimes with readers. My dear friend Lindsay shared this second-hand tale of Ambien-induced hijinks:

"a super sarcastic 29 year old, married mommy from sun prairie, who just took a leave of absence, secondary to her extreme and unhealthy weight loss following baby number 4, said she woke up one morning with part of a melted ice cream cone stuck to her face. "

And don't ask Linday what she did on Ambien. Just don't.

Crazy Crap Item #185: The part where I attract male attention

2008-05-02T19:37:00.004-05:00

Still in Banning, and making many a trip to the grocery store. Ice cream and wine, they must be purchased on a regular basis.

On the way home from a recent trip to the hip doctor, we stopped at the store to pick up some baby back ribs, strawberries and dishwashing liquid. As we left the cashier, my mother and I caught sight of a very small redheaded fellow. Like Ron Howard in The Music Man, he was.

My mother pronounced him quite adorable, and as we passed him, he locked eyes with me.

"You're pretty!" he shouted.

I thanked him, and replied that he was quite handsome.

"Feel my muscle," he offered, holding out his arm in a strong-man pose.

I felt it, and commented on its massiveness.

You know how redheads blush? To the very scalp? He did. And then some.

Crazy Crap Item #184: The part where my subconscious appears incoherent

2008-05-01T15:21:00.005-05:00

So, this morning, I pulled the bonehead moves of all bonehead moves. Upon arisal, I knocked back my every-morning pill (Synthroid), only to realize as it was sliding down my gullet that I'd actually knocked back an Ambien. As in "sleep now for 8 hours."

Since I've never been good at inducing vomiting (as is testified to by my curvaceous frame), I explained the situation to my parents, curled up in bed, and looked for some website to play me some entertaining tunes till I slipped back into dreamland, all the while cursing myself for screwing a perfectly good day.

Now, I've heard countless tales of people who respond to Ambien by performing various and sundry acts in their sleep. Sleepwalking. Sleepeating. I even had a friend who bashfully admitted to a bout of "sleepscrewing." I've never noticed any of these behaviors in myself.

So I snoozed, the delightful accompaniment of showtunes and occasional interviews on Playbill's all show-tune radio.

At noon, my mom awakened me to help find my dad's pills, and feeling vaguely spry, I decided it was time to get up, Ambien be damned. I ate donuts, sipped coffee, cruised the intertrons and generally entertained myself.

All was well, till Eamon texted me thusy:

(1:14:33 PM) eamondaly1110: so was that actually you this morning?
(1:14:38 PM) eamondaly1110: you were kinda freaking me out.

I inquired precisely what he meant. He responded with this record of an earlier exchange:

(10:46:18 AM) kaydaly88: IUUUU
(10:46:35 AM) kaydaly88: IUYYRF
(10:46:43 AM) eamondaly1110: do tell!
(10:46:51 AM) eamondaly1110: are you sleeptyping?
(10:47:51 AM) kaydaly88: IIIIUUUUUYYYYYYRTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWSS
(10:48:20 AM) kaydaly88: HAVE ON PLAYBILL RADIO
(10:48:38 AM) kaydaly88: SHOWTUNS
(10:49:00 AM) kaydaly88: V, ANNOYED
(10:49:03 AM) eamondaly1110: WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING?
(10:49:37 AM) kaydaly88: FDYBBBU
(10:50:23 AM) kaydaly88: SO ANNOHING

Sure, some people act out their libidinous impulses when under the influence. Me, I sleeptype. Sexy.

Crazy Crap Item #183: The part where I see a sign of the impending apocalyse

2008-04-30T12:28:00.008-05:00

Currently, I'm basking in beautiful Banning, California. My father has undergone hip replacement #2, and I'm helping! For those of you who are paying attention, you will recall that this is my second hip-related journey to the sun-drenched Southland, my first such visit being last September.

Things have gone swimmingly this time around, much smoother than last time, and Dad came home a mere three days after the surgery, and has been hotdogging around on his walker ever since.

Our main pastimes have consisted of (1.) supping on the two megatons of coldcuts my sister thoughtfully provided before my arrival; (2.) alternating helpings of wine and ice cream; (3.) partaking of my mother's very favorite form of entertainment: court television.

My mother is a woman who loves her court TV. It's the perfect retired-person diversion: teeny, sordid, three-person dramas that never last more than 15 minutes. And lots of yelling, which ensures that you'll always be able to hear what people are saying.

It was during one of these marathon viewings that I encountered ... Judge Hatchett. She's sassy. She's opinionated. She's not afraid to heap disdain on the plaintiff and defendent alike.

And what kind of lawsuit does she preside over? Paternity suits. Paternity suits, paternity suits, paternity suits, all the livelong day. Baby momma comes on. "Baby Daddy is the daddy of my baby." "No, I'm not." "Yes, you are." Much debate as to morals, ethics and standards. Judge Hatchett pulls out a red envelope that has the outcome of a DNA test. Case closed. Bring out the next Baby Momma.

I've said it before, I'll say it again: We are a culture in decline.

Crazy Crap Item #182: The part where I infringe on all sorts of copyright laws so I can share a fart joke

2008-04-22T09:46:00.005-05:00

Lately, I've been reckoning with the heavy influence Julie Andrews had on my early years. At age 6 or so, my parents took me to the re-release of The Sound of Music. In case you aren't aware, that tune-infused biopic is a cinematic marathon, clocking in at 3 hours long. As I recall, the theatrical release including an intermission.

And yet, I recall quite clearly sitting rapt on my mom's lap, nary a squirm or complaint.

I became a child obsessed. My sister and I endlessly played the soundtrack. I dug through my parents' record collection, and came across two more Andrews' masterpieces, the original soundtracks of My Fair Lady and Camelot. For many years, everything I knew about medieval and Edwardian England, I knew through Julie.

Later, we added the Julie Andrews Christmas album to the collection, and in grammar school, I stumbled across Julie's first children's book, Mandy, which I read and loved.

Then I grew up, and poor Julie became kind of passe. Sure, I'd later marvel to her freakishly flutelike 19-year-old voice in The Boyfriend, but I'd moved on.

So it was with some delight of rediscovery that I happened upon an interview with Ms. Andrews on NPR, in which she was plugging her new book, Home: A Memoir of My Early Years. Despite her reputation as the sugar-coma queen, Julie came across in interview in a way I'd always supected she would. Very humble, realistic, practical, and good-humored. As she talked about her fairly brutal childhood (alcoholic parents, overwork, poverty, London blitzes), she projected a remarkable air of blithe survival. I knew I really had to read her book.

And so it is that I discovered that our Miss Julie also has a healthy love for potty humor, bless her soul. And so it is that I, in defiance of copyright law, print my favorite excerpt, which I hope and trust is still well within the parameters of "fair use." Enjoy.

Not long into the run [of My Fair Lady], I became aware that Rex had a rather windy stomach. I expected that much of his balletic "dancing" stemmed from attempts to clench through gaseous moments.

One night his timing was impeccable.

In the penultimate scene of the show, Eliza runs away to Higgins's mother's house. Higgins barges in and confronts Eliza, and she launches into a long speech about the difference between a lady and a guttersnipe; i.e., it is not how she behaves but how she is treated. All Rex had to do at this point was pace up and down at the back of the scene. He didn't have to say a word.

On this particular evening, as I finished my speech, Rex released a veritable machine-gun volley of pent-up wind. Members of the orchestra heard it--every musician looked up to the stage in bewilderment; even the first few rows of the audience heard it. There was a shocked silence, and at that precise moment, Cathleen Nesbitt, as [Higgins' mother], had the line "Henry, dear, please don't grind your teeth."

It was outrageously funny. The orchestra roared with laughter. I could not look at Rex, and every single line I uttered in the scene after that had a double meaning.

HIGGINS: Eliza, you ungrateful wretch, you talk about me as if I were a motor bus.
ELIZA: So you are a motor bus; all bounce and go and no consideration for anyone!

...Eliza's song "Without You" follows this dialogue, and I could see the lyrics coming at me before I sang them: "No, my reverberating friend, you are not the beginning and the end!"

I took so many pauses in that scene trying to contain myself that the show ran over by about ten minutes.

I found myself punching Rex during the curtain calls.

"How could you do such a thing?"

He pulled at his tie and straightened it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was always a windy boy--even when I was young."

Crazy Crap Item #181: The part where I can see my house from here

2008-04-16T21:12:00.004-05:00

So Eamon IM's me with a URL and a note:

"What is in our backyard?"
http://maps.live.com/default.aspx?v=2&FORM=LMLTCP&cp=qzyq0w7ptwrn&style=b&lvl=2&tilt=-90&dir=0&alt=-1000&scene=11370564&phx=0&phy=0&phscl=1&encType=1

An aerial shot of our house from some new online directory. A little spooky, no doubt. But there is definitely something in our backyard. I squint. Could it be?

Apparently, this aerial shot was taken on the day of our annual block party, two years ago. And there, for all to see, is an overhead view of our contribution to the block party theme--the Olympics. A Mexican Triathalon.

Viva, la satellite!

Crazy Crap Item #180: The part where we can't go wrong at the Bong

2008-04-16T20:06:00.006-05:00

A few weekends ago, Roxi attended a wee gig at a local coffeehouse. My friend and fellow Faces-for-Radio-er Jackie Matejko was singing. It was a lovely evening, and we mused as to what we could do for afters.

Kay: We could wander over to Clark, and see what tickles our fancy in Andersonville.

Roxi: Agreed.

Upon arriving at Clark Street, we mused. We were stuffed from snackings at the coffeehouse, the bars were crowded, and when I suggested perhaps a browse at the local bookstore, Roxi informed me she needed a new book like she needed the proverbial hole in the head.

Kay: Perhaps then, we could wander to my house, which is a mere 20 minute walk or so, and partake of a film or some such cinematic entertainment.

Roxi was amenable, so off we set on a northward course up Clark Street.

I mused it was a pity there was no good karaoke in Andersonville, and what was that about anyway?

It was then that Roxi made a fateful suggestion.

"We could stop by the Bong Ho. It's on the way."

A Korean-owned hole-in-the-wall. Delightfully divey. And according to Roxi, home to some of the most insanely fun, surreally strange karaoke in existence. She reported how she learned of "The Bong" from a friend, who insisted on a birthday celebration there. She regaled Eamon and me with tales of the delightfully welcoming and ludicrously inebriated owner. She recounted the remarkable karaoke song collection, the strange videos that accompanied them, and the fact that she and her small party had the run of the place for hours on end.

Intrigued, Eamon and I had tried the Bong. Which had just changed hands. And was dreary, dark, stinky, sad, and -- worst of all -- completely karaoke-free.

I told Roxi as much.

Roxi: "I heard the old owner bought it back."

This, I thought, was promising. I suggested we stroll by, since it was on the way to my house. We could peek in. If there were signs of karaoke, mayhap we would stop.

So stroll we did, nonchalantly passing the open door where a thirty-something-ish woman stood guard and smoked a cigarette. We took a few steps past the door. We peeked back. A karoke screen.

Roxi: Oh, my god. I saw karaoke.

Kay: Me, too. Let's check it out.

So, making no attempt at nonchalance, we spin on our heels and trot up to the doortender. Who, it turns out, is also the bartender. And is also the only person in the entire place. Except, now, for us.

This will not last, I thought. This cannot be fun. This was a very bad idea, and after one or two extremely awkward and uncomfortable attempts at songs, we will leave, feeling like idiots.

But while I am still processing this thought, Roxi asks the bartendress for the karaoke book.

And she hands us something. Perhaps it was once a book. Now, it is a pile of crisp, yellowing pages. They have clearly been dowsed and dried many times. There's a strip of heavy cellophane tape that holds a few of the pages together. Imagination supplies that it was once the book's spine.

We paw through the pages. The songs are listed in alphabetical order. In some cases, songs are listed under a variety of titles ("Pretty Woman," "Oh Pretty Woman").

There is no cross-reference of listings by artist, as is typically the case with karaoke joints. This is kind of a pain in the ass, as one song inevitably makes one think of the artist, not the title, and there's no easy way to find what you need.

And the songs are very, very strange. There are the usuals -- Patsy Cline's "Crazy", some ABBA -- but there are also some fairly current pop songs. And children's nursery songs. And lots and lots of Christmas carols.

And strangely enough, there are showtunes. But not normal showtunes. Remarkably obscure showtunes that no normal person would ever know or consider. "Pilate's Song" from Jesus Christ Superstar. "I Won't Send Roses" from Mack and Mabel.

The bartendress comes back to get drink orders, and I comment that she must be disappointed, as she thought she was going to have a quiet evening, but then these annoying women came in to sing.

Oh, no, she assured me. They had people come in to sing all the time.

Eamon is texted. He will join us after eating tacos.

We choose a song for him in advance. "Rock Your Body."

Roxi and I put in a range of selections, scribbling down song numbers on an index card thoughtfully supplied by our bartendress. She dials them in, and hands me a mic.

You see, at the Bong, they have no "Karaoke stage." There is no "mylar curtain." Just a couple of tv screen behind the bar, and a mic with a 50 foot cord.

Other things to note about the karaoke set-up:

* Songs were accompanied by a series of stock videos, featuring such scenarios as: lions hunting, a New England winter, Victoria Falls, sea slugs battling on the ocean floor, and so forth.

* At the end of each song, the singer is given a score, presumably on a scale of 1 to 100, accompanied by an encouraging phrase corresponding to the level of the score ("Excellent," "Good Try," etc.). There seemed to be little to no correlation between the score and the actual quality of the singing.

But back to our scene. So I take the mic, lean back on the barstool and begin to sing. I don't even remember what I sang. But I mused how pleasant it was to just caterwaul away, perched on a stool, with faithful Roxi by my side and my Jack and Coke in front of me.

Later, Eamon arrived, revealed that "Rock Your Body" is nowhere in his key, and discovered the bartendress' name was Carmen.

Other highlights of the evening:

* We were joined by an aging Eastern European fellow, who squired both Roxi and I about in wild renditions of the mambo. "If there's a man who loves to dance more than I do," he solemnly, "I want to meet him."

* I requested the showtune "Till There Was You" (from The Music Man) and was delightes to discover that the version in the karaoke machine was, most unaccountably, the exact arrangement and key from the original score. Only rendered in wonderfully tinny sythesizer.

* Eamon sang all night long, and "All Night Long." Roxi sang back up ("All night... All night"). I was whirled about the floor by aforementioned Eastern European gentleman.

* We developed a new game, in which we improvise lyrics which reflect the action on screen. ("Lovely, never never change, fight with that big lion, on the ocean floor, I am a sea slug, Just the way you look tonight.")

* Eamon notes that the one TV screen not dedicated to karaoke videos is turned to the Sci Fi channel. "I like me some Sci Fi," Carmen the Bartendress admits. Eamon notes to Carmen that she is a bit of a dork.

* At the end of each song, we enlist the few other attendees in the bar to join us in anticipating the score, and loudly express our approval or displeasure, assuring low scorers that they "were robbed."

The singing thusly went on till about 1:30 in the morning. When we left, the six or so other people in the bar were still going strong. For all I know, they're singing still.

Crazy Crap Item #176: The part where Jack reveals that he truly is a Chicagoan

2008-04-07T19:38:00.002-05:00

The scene: the patch of dirt next to my back porch
The time: a recent, rare sunny afternoon

Jack: James and I are building a house.

Kay: That's great! Who's going to live in it?

Jack: Me and James.

Kay: You and James? But don't you like living with your mom and dad?

[A pause]

Jack: We're building a rental.

Crazy Crap Item #175: The part where I make a culinary observation

2008-04-02T12:27:00.004-05:00

Bacon is the new pomegranate. You heard it here first.