The Mutant Santa Brigade

I enjoy Christmas decorations, I really do. I'm not wild about the decorating part, but once they're up, I find the decor to be quite enjoyable. However, while I was in high school, I began to notice a disturbing trend among the Santa Claus ornaments and figurines that adorned our house. These aren't just your run-of-the-mill Santas... many of them are missing appendages, and some are in compromising positions. Some of them creep me out, while others just cause me to scratch my head. The collection has grown considerably over the years, and I am amazed that there is actually a market for mutant Santa Clauses out there. I'd like to introduce you to a few of these St. Nicks, and let you form your own opinions about them. Above we have the cheer leading (nutcracker?) Santas, and pictured below, from left to right, we have:

1. Leprechaun Claus ... he's clearly got his holidays mixed up ... what do you suppose he's packing in that shamrock bag of his?

2.Two-faced Santa ... It's no wonder the guy's omniscient-- he's got more than just eyes in the back of his head, he's got a whole other face!

3. Crossing-Guard, Dunce-Cap Santa (a.k.a. Jingle Crotch the Second. Alas, the original Jingle Crotch now resides in Kansas City, so he's not pictured here...)

4. The Willy Wonka-fied Santa ... Somebody turned the poor sap into a conglomerate of peppermints! And where are his arms?!?
5. No-Neck, Windmill-Arms, Astrology Santa ... This is one of those head scratchers ... I'm just not sure what to make of him! Ho-Ho-Huh?
6. And I don't really know what to call this guy ... Nazi Claus seems a bit too harsh. But it looks like he escaped a from craft fair and immediately joined the North Korean Army. Weird.




7. En-pointe, Peg-Leg Santa ... maybe it's easier for him to get down the chimney that way?
8. Red Riding Hood Santa and his Mini-me. And those toes-- gross! Why toes?!? Can't these guys have some arms or something instead? And forget about being pear shaped ... these two are square shaped!
9. Not sure if this is a Santa or not, or just a twisted, frosty icicle with a moustache and a fuzzy red hat (and two eyes made out of coal ...)

And last, but not least, we have the newest member of this macabre menagerie... the Go-Go-Gadget-Legs Albino Claus! (Scroll down to see where those gams finally end.) This one's got all of his appendages, though, so at least he's got that going for him...

So there you have it, folks. The mutant Santa brigade. What do you think ... are these guys cool or creepy? If you do like them for some reason, just don't come asking me where to find a mutant Santa of your own-- I wouldn't even know where to begin looking for something like this, nor would I want to!

Merry belated Christmas!

Do You See What I See?

When it comes to those oft-overlooked, longtime Tree House residents, I've often wondered: If everyone could "see what I see" in them, would all of these great cats have been snatched up long ago? Well, I was inspired by a carol I recently performed (the title of which poses the same question), and in the spirit of the season I have decided to share some of my insider's knowledge in verse form. I hope that by setting this information to the lyrics of a familiar and catchy tune, people will remember some of the great qualities these cats possess the next (or first!) time they meet. Should you be lucky enough to cross paths with any of these felines, I would love to know:

Do you see what I see?

Says the counselor, "It's a holiday miracle!"

Do you see what I see?

Big King Friday is no longer a feral!

Do you see what I see?

Suddenly, on our attention he insists,

"Pet me Please!" he says, and how can we resist?

To catch him up on all the cuddling he's missed!

Says the volunteer who knows why Wanda squeaks,

Do you hear what I hear?

That patch tabby who chirps instead of speaks,

Do you hear what I hear?

Yes, I know, she is awkward and quirky,

Although even when she shies away from me,

She's still craving attention, desperately.

Says one gal who helped to socialize Mookey,

Do you know what I know?

The sweet old girl curled up in a cat tree,

Do you know what I know?

She was quite shy, and still is not real bold,

But she loves pets (and brushing, so I'm told!)

Scratch her head and watch her sweet nature unfold.

Then says Janus to adopters everywhere,

Listen to what I say!

I'm a great big tom with energy to spare,

Listen to what I say!

I love people, though I don't realize my might,

But my purr is much stronger than my bite...

Take me home and everything will be alright!

However, these brief verses barely scratch the surface (no pun intended!) of the wealth of information that my fellow volunteers and Tree House staff members have about these cats. I didn't want to rattle on too long (though it would be easy to do!) about all the great cats I know, but I invite you to pass this info along to anyone who's looking for a feline companion, and feel free to add a verse or two of your own. Happy holidays!

*Written as a contribution to The Scratching Post*

The Three Tenors

I play in a number of holiday concerts this time of year, and for the past three or four years, my holiday gigs have included two sing-a-long Messiah concerts at two different churches. Even though these performances only happen once a year, there are familiar faces and memorable personalities at each locale. I am most impressed with the tenors that I've encountered at these concerts, which is surprising to me, because I'm generally not a tenor kind of girl. I don't have anything against them, but they tend to come across to me as being guy sopranos, or the divas of the male vocal world. It's just not my thing.

That said, the first stop in my holiday concert cycle is at a beautiful old church down by Soldier Field. The fact that the Bears are always in town the week that we perform there makes the parking situation nightmarish, to say the least, but the atmosphere inside the church is much warmer. Now, for those of you who aren't familiar with sing-a-long Messiahs, they are performances for churches and organizations on a shoestring budget. They hire a bare-bones orchestra and vocal soloists. The audience assumes the part of the choir.

I'm not sure whose bright idea this was, as the four-part harmonies in the choruses are hard-- I'm a musician and I struggle with the vocal parts; I couldn't imagine trying to sing it as a non-musician! People seem to have a blast doing it, but soprano (melody) parts always seem to outweigh the lower (harmony) parts. Not at this church, though; these two little old ladies--dressed to the nines and cute as can be-- sit in the front row of the tenor section and whale. They know those parts by heart, every last note. And since the rest of the tenor section has a strong lead to follow, they're usually able to keep up better than most of the other audience choruses I've heard in these do-it-yourself numbers. I look forward to seeing them every year; just thinking about them bellowing "King of Kings..." makes me smile!

The following week I play an identical performance at a gorgeous, historical church in the near west suburbs. The format of this concert differs slightly, though, in that there is an "intermission" of sorts as the pastor talks about the many services the church provides for the homeless, and a free-will offering is taken. Instead of doing this offering during the Pastoral Symphony (the instrumental interlude mid-way through the performance) like most churches do, they instead have the tenor soloist sing a hymn with organ accompaniment. And let me tell you, this guy is good. He's sung "O, Holy Night" for the past two years, and when he first opened his mouth, I didn't know whether I was going to wet myself, cry, or both. Thankfully, I did neither. I did turn to my stand partner, though, and mouthed, "Oh, holy CRAP!" It was all I could muster at the time.

I remember looking the tenor up on Facebook after the concert last year and being amazed that he was just a graduate student; it's extremely rare to hear a voice so rich come from a performer so young. The clarity, resonance, and emotion he infuses into each and every phrase is astounding. This year, as he gave a repeat performance (for which he got a standing ovation-- in the middle of the service-- might I add), I turned to my stand partner once again, and asked, "can I keep him?" "Go introduce yourself this time!" she hissed. "I can't!" I lamented, "we still have to play Part the Second!" Since we didn't do any of the tenor arias on the second half of the concert, he slipped out after his offertory solo. Drats.

If we're both back for a repeat performance next December, though, I think I will introduce myself. I'm not looking to rob the cradle or anything, but it's so rare to hear such impressive musicality in such an unlikely place. It's a real treat, in fact. I don't want to turn the guy into a male diva or anything, but I would like to tell him that his voice is the highlight of my Christmas-gigging season! Hopefully, I won't be starstruck, or get all flustered and tongue-tied, or start giggling like a school girl... but I won't know unless I try!

Patty O' Catt

Yet another encounter with yet another crazy person has caused what I intended to be a good deed to go terribly, terribly wrong! How do these people continue to find me, and why am I always the last to realize just how crazy they are!?!

I spent the summer waiting tables on the patio of the small neighborhood restaurant where I work, and began noticing a small, rail-thin tortie cat who would show up at closing time each evening-- like clockwork-- scavenging for crumbs and any morsels of food that messy customers may have left behind. Being the animal lover that I am, I began saving little bits of chicken or steak for the tiny visitor, when it became apparent that she wasn't going to be leaving any time soon. She was quite skittish so I wasn't able to touch her, which is when I decided that I would rent a trap from the shelter where I volunteer to have her spayed and-- if it turns out she wasn't feral-- possibly admitted to the shelter.

I happened to mention my plans to a regular who lives in the neighborhood who told me she had also seen the cat and had the same idea. She told me not to rent a trap, that she could borrow one from her friend. Next thing I know, she has trapped the cat and taken her into the spay/neuter clinic. Turns out she wasn't feral at all; she had already been spayed and was likely an abandoned house cat. With the weather turning colder and patio season ending, she couldn't continue fending for herself outdoors. She asked me if I could keep the cat for a day or two, as she was planning to house the cat in her garage until she could be admitted into a shelter, but was having a garage sale that weekend. Of course I agrees, setting "patio cat" up in the bathroom of my 350 square-foot apartment. Well, days turned into weeks, and I still had this tiny, terrified cat in my bathroom while the lady who trapped her keeps changing her story as to why she can't take her, despite the fact that she has a house with locations such as the "guest room" and the "upstairs bathroom".

When it came time for me to leave for China, a spot still hadn't opened up in either of the shelters we were working with, so I told the lady that she had to take her. She said she'd be by the night before I left to pick her up, which turned out to be about an hour after I had planned to leave on the day of my trip; I had to cab it to the airport. Along with the cat, the trap, and the supplies, I handed this woman an envelope of money I had collected from my coworkers to cover the admission fee into one of the shelters, should she be placed before I got back.

To make a long, weird story as brief as possible, a spot finally opened up for Patty O' Catt the day after I returned. I called crazy lady to tell her that, which is when she told me that she already had an appointment to admit her to the other shelter and to cancel the appointment I had made. Also, she said she had $450 worth of extensive dental work done on the cat while I was gone, and anything more I was able to pitch in would be great. I freaked out at this point, because: a) because I had never agreed to pay for dental work, which I had told her (on multiple occasions) that b) my shelter friends would have done upon her admission.

The next day I get a call from my shelter, saying that they had gotten a nasty phone call from this lady ("I was really nasty", she later boasted to me, to which I could only respond, "why!?!"), saying that I should have never cancelled her admission appointment and that she had to get rid of Patty O'Catt right away. So my shelter friends rearranged their plans once again, and admitted the cat. When I came in to volunteer the next week, I was met with furious gazes from the admissions counselors. Turns out that a third person-- the lady who loaned us the trap-- had come forward, saying the cat was hers all along and that we had no right to admit it (um, nice try, but no). Then she says Patty O. was a feral cat that she was helping to socialize (not true), then she says that she has already found people to adopt her (also not true). At any rate, she had helped the other lady pay for the dental surgery and because she had vet records, they had to relinquish Patty O'Catt to this woman, who turned around and begged the shelter where she volunteers (who the other lady was also "really nasty" to over the phone) to admit the cat. I was horrified-- I thought the goal was to get the cat off the street before winter... wasn't the mission already accomplished?

I'm not sure what happened to Patty O'Catt, but I do hope she's better off now than she was on the patio. On the bright side, my shelter was then able to admit another deserving cat-- a pitiful creature found living in back of a strip club-- who has since been named Tassels. What I can't bring myself to ask is whether the shelter ever got the money I gave crazy lady for Patty O' Catt's admission... Once, she told me that she gave it to my shelter, but then she told me that she and her middle-aged frenemy (the one with the trap who was so insulting to my shelter friends) put it toward the cost of the dental surgery. I suspect the latter is true, but I don't have the heart to ask... She has since avoided coming into the restaurant on the nights I'm working. Will I live and learn? Maybe. If another stray cat needs my help getting off the street, I'm sure I will help, but next time, I hope I have enough sense to go it alone!

... Prosperity and Longevity

Beijing provided all the history, contrast and grandeur that I was expecting from one of the largest (and oldest!) cities in the world. A contact in Hong Kong helped to book us on an English-speaking tour of Beijing-- which, considering it included hotel, airfare, and food, was dirt cheap by American standards-- and I was relieved that I wasn't going to have to self-navigate my way through a sprawling city of 17+ million people. I've made my way through a number of foreign cities, but having no knowledge of Mandarin combined with the fact that, unlike Hong Kong, very few people speak English, Beijing was a little too foreign for me. And considering the traffic in Beijing makes even the most congested expressways in Chicago look desirable, I was thrilled to be chauffeured around the city. I was fully prepared to be on a bus full of old people, and was shocked to discover that we had been booked a private tour, and instead of geriatric travel companions, a tour bus, and brightly colored hats, we had a guide, a driver, and a black sedan.

Our guide, however, failed to meet us at the airport, so with the help of another guide we took a death-defying and interminable taxi ride to one of the nicest hotels I had ever seen, comparable only to the hotel where we stayed in Hong Kong-- stunning! My only complaint was that (like our Hong Kong hotel) the bathroom had glass walls. And unlike our Hong Kong hotel, the privacy shade was not opaque. Oy. Mom and I got closer in ways that we never intended. But it was at the hotel that we met our guide and our driver (a gruff, intimidating fellow who was quite possibly affiliated with the Chinese mafia), and they whisked us away to dinner, where we were served an absolute feast of Szechuan-style cuisine.

Our whirlwind tour began in earnest the next morning. We adhered to a very strict schedule, and were closely supervised. Even when our guide not with us, he was either at a table across the room or passed the responsibility of keeping tabs on us to another guide or a store clerk. I got the feeling that we saw exactly what they wanted us to see, and little else. Which was strange... what we saw was incredible, but it seemed that the poorer, urban, and less glitzy parts of the city were carefully hidden just out of our view. We shopped where they wanted us to shop, ate what they wanted us to eat (turns out that Chinese food is just called "food" over there), and did what they wanted us to do. Our only glimpses into what life was like for the majority of those who live in Beijing was when our guide and our driver pointed out where they lived... which, by comparison to what we saw and where we stayed, was pretty grim. Guess that's communism for ya!

We started our tour in the (infamous) Tiannamen Square, which is much more massive in person than anything I've ever seen in pictures. The big draw there is Chairman Mao; the guy who turned China into a communist country. I had never heard of him, as he died before I was born, but his body has been preserved and has been lying in state in one of the buildings on the square for more than thirty years. The Chinese love Chairman Mao, and many make a pilgrimage from the farthest reaches of China to see his carefully preserved corpse; it was all our guide could do to keep from slapping himself in the forehead when I (astutely) commented that he was the same guy that was on their currency. I spent most of that day (most of the trip, actually) listening as best I could to the volumes of information our guide recited to us, pausing to snap a few pictures, then dashing through the crowds to catch up to him and start the process all over again. I learned that, in addition to numbers, colors hold great significance to the Chinese. The color red, for example, is a symbol of prosperity and good fortune, which is why so many things in China boast this color. It turns out that the color was a significant part of Chinese culture for thousands of years before the birth of Karl Marx; the fact that it also symbolizes communism is just a happy coincidence. And the number 9 is tops in mainland China; it's the closest mortals can get to a perfect 10, which is reserved for the gods. Not even the emperors have things in multiples of 10!

From Tiannamen Square we ran through the Forbidden City and Prince Gong's Palace. I learned more than I'll ever be able to remember about Chinese culture; but mainly that the emperors had their own bridges and concubines and walkways and whatnot, and that every yin has a yang: male and female, circle and square, etc. etc. After a lunch at a government-approved restaurant (where they looped one Chinese Opera aria through the speakers, over and over... and over, thinking we tourists wouldn't notice) we took a pedicab ride (that's a rickshaw attached to a bike) through the Ho-Tung district to see how the "locals" live. We felt bad for the poor little pedicab guy for having to pedal the two "fat Americans" around the village... he was tipped handsomely afterwards.

The next day took us to the Great Wall, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It was quite impressive, but not easy to climb. The ancient stairs were wildly uneven, and the railings (when there were any) were quite low. We climbed as high as we could in the time we were given, but didn't make it to the top of the mountain, which might have given us a better idea of its grandeur. From there we visited the Summer Palace, which was probably my favorite stop on the tour. An idyllic property built on a prime lake shore location, the sprawling buildings had a lovely backdrop of waterfront and willow trees. Because many of the buildings are still in use, one of the only places we were able to enter was the "four-star" bathroom, which turned out to be anything but.

Our final day was as cold, miserable, and snowy as the previous day had been sunny, warm, and beautiful. We visited both the Temple of Heaven and the Lama Temple. After learning more about the inner workings of the feudal system, with the emperors, castes, and human sacrifices and whatnot, I can almost see how Communism would be a welcome change for the Chinese-- yikes! Our guide had some terse, yet carefully worded comments about the Dalai Lama, too, and why Tibet shouldn't be autonomous.... I completely disagreed with him, but it was interesting to get such a different view on the matter.

All in all, I enjoyed my brief time in Beijing. I appreciated the efforts made by the people we encountered to speak our language and make us feel welcome. Just as I can't pronounce some of the phonemes in the Mandarin language, many of the people we encountered had trouble pronouncing some of the syllables commonly used in the English language; it took me the better part of the day to figure out that when our guide was saying "prorry", he meant "probably". Like I said, though, their English is much better than my Mandarin will ever be. Yet in the too-literally translated words of a store clerk from Beijing, I would like to say to the hospitable and welcoming people of China, "I hope we can keep touching!"

Happiness Good Fortune...

My second trip to Asia (in as many years) landed me in Hong Kong, the former British colony located at the southeast corner of this massive continent. A modern, somewhat westernized oasis surrounded by the foreign and exotic sights, sounds, and smells of a vibrant and fascinating culture that is (both literally and figuratively) half a world away from my own. In hindsight, I'm glad that our trip started in Hong Kong; it's a good, tourist-friendly starter city for first-time visitors to the Orient: Think of it as China: 101. Nearly everyone I encountered spoke English, and all the signs and announcements were trilingual, meaning that all pertinent information was listed in Cantonese (the primary language spoken by Hong Kongians), English (phew!), and Mandarin (the official language of "mainland" China).

The public transportation system is clean, efficient, and easy to navigate (not to mention dirt cheap!) and I was able to make my way from the airport to the hotel without any problems. My only beef with the MTR was with the commuters' customs; there's an entirely different standard of "personal space" over there. At 5'4", I was a giant amidst this mass of humanity... my fellow metro riders may have been small, but man were they pushy!

The stunning skyline and futuristic-looking architecture were interspersed with more traditional, Eastern style buildings. The friend (Hong Kong native and impromptu tour guide) who invited us to come to her hometown was continually pointing out signs of "East meets West" which, if you looked closely enough, were everywhere!

There aren't many historical sights in Hong Kong, as it is (comparatively speaking) a relatively new city. The British began developing the barren, volcanic islands less than 150 years ago, so compared to the rest of China, it's still shiny and new. That said, there are plenty of other things to do in the city: mainly, shopping. Oh, the shopping! Considered by many to be a shopper's paradise, stores line nearly every street in the city, selling everything from the latest electronics to the trendiest new fashions. I gravitated toward the jewelry shops, as this area of the world is known for jade and freshwater pearls. I also enjoyed the open-air, outdoor markets; I marveled at the bird and flower markets, and got most of my souvenirs at the massive Stanley Market, a huge bazaar where haggling is accepted. I gawked at the fish market; many restaurants shared its waterfront location, and those patrons who were so inclined were able to pick their next meal from the strange, myriad assortment of sea creatures (that the Chinese consider to be cuisine) that were crammed into rows of tiered aquariums. The unlucky creatures were then plucked from their cramped glass quarters, killed, cooked, then served up on a platter-- tentacles, scaly fins, googly eyes and all!

Thankfully, I wasn't scared of all the food in Hong Kong; dim sum, the Cantonese delicacy known best for its many varieties of steamed dumplings and meat-filled buns, is considered to be the local cuisine, and offers many non-oceanic options. After decades of trying and failing, I learned how to use chopsticks in a hurry while I was in Hong Kong, out of sheer necessity. I spent my downtime in the hotel room practicing with peanuts and candy corn; by the end of our stay, the candy corn was easy to do (probably because the humidity made it sticky), but the peanuts, not so much. I'm still not very good at it, and I can't eat very fast this way, but at least I didn't have to stab my dumplings, eating them as food on a (chop)stick, a la Taste of Chicago. My favorite foods, though, came from the many bakeries located throughout the city. These rich and tasty treats were flavorful and not too sweet; it would have been very easy to try one of everything they offered!

And have I mentioned that Hong Kong is equal parts urban, modern city and tropical paradise? Located just north of the Equator, late October brought us ample sunshine and temperatures in the 30s (Celsius, that is-- that's 80s and 90s for us Americans). The palm trees, large tropical flowers, and exotic species of bird were all highlights of my trip.

I found it curious, though, just how superstitious the Cantonese are. Numbers carry a particularly heavy significance; the hotel I stayed in was missing a number of floors; apparently any number ending in 4 is bad, but 8 is a sign of good fortune. One hotel we saw was designed with a big hole in the middle, so the evil spirits could pass through! They also share the Chinese affinity for the "three happiness" symbols (pictured above), characters that translate as Happiness/Good Fortune, Longevity, and Prosperity. We just happened to be in Hong Kong during the holiday of the "double nines" according to the Chinese calendar (which changes with the cycle of the moon... confusing!)-- I forget what the number 9 signifies, but the holiday is similar to "El Dia de los Muertos" in Mexico-- it's a day to honor those who have passed, and many go up into the mountains or to the cemeteries (which are usually mountainside locations as well); apparently the higher you go, the better it is. We just so happened to take the tram up to Victoria's Peak that day to admire stunning views of Hong Kong's skyline... but nearly half the population had the same idea.

We only had a few days to explore Hong Kong, and without the help and hospitality of our family friend, we wouldn't have seen nearly as much as we did. As is the case in all my travels, I boarded the plane to Beijing wishing I could have stayed longer. I always tell myself that it gives me a reason to go back someday, but in a place so far away from home, that's easier said than done!

Blind / Not Blind

The Red Line has no shortage of strange characters, homeless people, and solicitors riding up and down the el tracks that span the length of the city, and some of these folks frequent the rail cars so often that -- for better or for worse -- they become familiar sights. I was actually excited to see one such character during my ride downtown today, it was the guy I call Blind/Not Blind. B/NB guy carries a red plastic Solo cup, and passes from car to car as the train hurtles through the subways.

The spiel he gives to riders in each car is something along the lines of: "Don't be afraid of me because I'm different. I'm just blind. I won't hurt you, but I sure would appreciate it if you could help me out", etc. The thing that gives his act away is, when some poor sap of a commuter (come to think of it, most of his donors are probably tourists) reinforces his bad behavior by dropping some change into his cup (which is essentially rewarding him for soliciting) he replies "Thank you, sir" or "Thank you, ma'am". However, I've never seen anybody actually speak to him; if he really was blind, I don't think his gender-specific "thank yous" would be so accurate.

The worst part about the beggars in this city is that many of them aren't really homeless; I've seen guys touching up their "Will work for food" signs with a brand new package of Sharpies as they're comfortably riding the Metra into the city. There's a guy with a suitcase who sits outside the Old Navy on State Street who is "stranded" and has been trying to get "home for the holidays" for about six years now ... And the guy with a bunch of loose change in the tuba who stands in front of Orchestra Hall didn't really get that instrument from the orchestra -- trust me. I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't feed the pigeons and don't pay the beggars. If you really want to help the homeless, donate to charities like the Salvation Army, where your money will really be "doing the most good".

But back to B/NB ... I heard his spiel before I actually saw him, but the best part about it was that he wasn't blind today; he was just hungry -- seriously! "Don't be afraid of me because I'm different. I'm just hungry. I won't hurt you, but I sure would appreciate it if you could help me out ... Thank you, sir. Thank you, ma'am." Then, thinking we commuters were none the wiser, he opened the door that's supposed to remain closed while the train is moving, and disappeared into the next rail car to start his spiel all over again.

Lions and Olympians and Bears, Oh My!

I'm sure the whole world knows by now that Chicago will not be hosting the 2016 Olympics. It's all anybody in this city has been able to talk about this weekend, and every time someone voices their opinion on this topic, it seems like they're striving to take an even stronger stance than the person interviewed before them. While I agree with those who say they're more upset about they way things went down (with Chicago being eliminated in the first round of voting) than they are about the fact that we lost the bid, I feel like I'm in the minority by admitting that I'm rather ambivalent about the whole thing. I don't feel the need to point fingers at the president or Mayor Daley (well, maybe a little bit at the mayor) or even Oprah on why the decision turned out the way it did; it's been decided, the decision is final, and there's nothing more we can do about it.

Don't get me wrong -- I think it would have been cool to bring a world-class event like the Summer Olympics to the windy city, but it's even cooler that the Olympics will be held in Rio; it would be hard for even the finest American city (which Chicago is!) to compete with the historic bid of an idyllic South American paradise. I'm not at all bothered by the traffic nightmares that I won't be dealing with seven years from now, although I hope some of the mass transit improvements they proposed as part of the bid will still be implemented ... I'm not holding my breath, though.

I woke up this morning to yet another reporter trying to put a new spin on (what is, by now) an old story. He was reporting live from the Belmont el stop, asking commuters if the Bears' "big win" yesterday helped them feel better about having been snubbed by the International Olympic Committee. I listened groggily as people got all philosophical and waxed poetic on the topic, then it slowly dawned on me: the Bears played the Detroit Lions yesterday ... now, I don't really follow football, but ... doesn't everybody beat the Lions? Why is that a big deal, and why would that make me (or anyone) feel better?!?

If I felt strongly about either topic -- one way or the other -- I might have felt worse if the Bears had lost to the Lions, but the win isn't really all that newsworthy. They were supposed to beat the Lions. I decided that the reporter was just looking for an excuse to play the Bears' catchy theme song, and turned off the radio. I still don't know what football has to do with the Olympics, but I did enjoy the fight song, which even I will admit is a fun and lighthearted way to start a Monday!

The Crazy Lady (10/10/06)

While I'm on the topic of my old landlords (who, despite my previous post, were very good to me), I thought I'd share excerpts from the harrowing correspondence we had about the crazy lady who lived downstairs. They took our complaints seriously, working with me and the other tenants every step of the way. And when the crazy lady got worse instead of better, they served her with eviction papers. She was gone within the month. I know crazy people find me irresistible for some reason, but this lady was a doozy. How bad was she, you ask? Read on and find out!

9/5/06 I am frightened and very concerned by the violent outbursts and unprovoked verbal attacks I have heard and witnessed since moving to this building, all of which have come from the woman who lives downstairs ... the excessive noise and obscene rants continue all day and well into most nights. She screams and shouts some of the most vulgar words in the English language, and repeats the most offensive insults until she feels satisfied that she has gotten her point across, which often takes hours. I have never heard anyone yell back ... When she gets tired of talking to herself, she’ll lean out the front window and hurl threatening insults at passers by– it’s horrifying.

I did report her to the police earlier this summer– after seeing her try to pick a fight with a parked car then fumble with her keys for quite a while ... I probably should have called them on other occasions, like when she tried to throw the neighbor's grill away. It's chained to the deck, and she was so angry that she couldn't move it, she screamed "I’ll just burn it up then!", turned the propane on high, and left. The police have been called to the building two other times that I know of ... I was stopped and questioned by them once as I was coming home well after midnight ... this fact has only made her madder. She is very angry, violent, and seems quite altered; something needs to be done.

I have never in my life called 911 more than I did in that month and a half, and unlike the police who yelled at me when I found the dead guy, these officers were very courteous and tried on numerous occasions to reason with this woman. I felt bad that they had to call her ma'am! Her response (when she responded at all) was similar to the cat lady on The Simpsons-- she would wander out, scream incoherent gibberish, then wander away. Once she actually threw her cat out the window. I kid you not. She must have been remorseful the next day, as there was a pile of Meow Mix on the front walk. The cat came back, but (for its sake) I'm not sure that was a good thing.

9/30/06 I just wanted to send you a quick update on the situation with the woman downstairs. For a week or so around the time we last spoke, all was quiet down there. However, the shouting and crashing noises have started up again, but they do not occur as often, and have not reached the point where police intervention would be appropriate.

I, along with every other tenant on the Mozart side of the building, did receive a note of apology for her disturbing us, assuring us the problem "has been taken care of". I was touched by the gesture, but was jolted awake at 4:30 the very next morning by her ranting, and have been awakened in the middle of the night 3 or 4 times since then. I also believe she has cursed at me personally– once through her back door as I was taking out the trash, and another time out the front window as I was coming into the building– which I do not appreciate in the least. I just wanted to let you know that ... although some improvements have been made, the problem has definitely not "been taken care of".

I had met several of the other tenants by this time; we were united in our fear of the crazy lady. Once, when I was outside talking to the police, the guy from the top apartment on the other side of the building leaned out his window and yelled to the cop, "She's crazy, man!" in a show of solidarity. It was great.

10/10/06 I need to recant the optimistic assessment I made at the beginning of the month about the continuing saga with the woman downstairs. I was in my apartment on Sunday morning, quietly reading the paper when I heard her start cursing– she sounded closer and louder than usual. I quickly realized she was right outside my front door, calling me a "f***ing bitch, c*nt, and whore", saying that she’d "show me...", and concluded with "do you understand? GOOD!", slapped my door once, and left.

I heard her shouting again outside later in the day, and when it didn’t let up, I went to my window to see what was going on– she was standing on the sidewalk staring right up at my living room window, both middle fingers raised, and voicing her opinion of me for the whole block to hear. I have done nothing to provoke this woman, and have never even spoken to her directly. I did find a note on my door telling me to control my pets. There was something else written on the bottom of the paper, but it had been ripped off, as if she had thought twice about leaving anything so vile in writing. I do have a cat, but I can’t for the life of me imagine what type of complaint she would have against a four-pound kitten!

I later learned that she had been served eviction papers earlier that week. I began locking my kitten in my bedroom when I wasn't home because I seriously thought she was going to try and poison him, and tip-toed up and down the back steps for about a week. The night she moved out was the scariest of all; she wanted to leave us something to remember her by. By the time we called the police, she was practically foaming at the mouth. But once she had left, and I managed to catch up on all the sleep I had lost over the previous months, I actually began feeling sorry for the woman-- it must be hard to be so angry all the time. I just pray I don't run into her on the street someday; there's no telling what she would do!

Security Deposit Snafu

According to the City of Chicago's Residential Landlord and Tenant Ordinance Summary, "A landlord must return all security deposit and required interest, if any ... within 45 days from the date the tenant vacates the unit." Well, folks, I moved Memorial Day weekend ... here we are coming up on Labor day, and I just deposited the sizable check I had been waiting on all summer, or for 93 days to be exact. That's more than double the time frame imposed by the city, but I waited to play the "I'll report you to the city" card until I got desperate, which was about mid-August. A brief account of the (increasingly weird) correspondence between me and my former landlords went something like this:

Starting in early July...

me: Um, hi. I've been waiting on my security deposit for quite a while now and was wondering if you could tell me when I can expect to receive it?
them: That's weird. We mailed your check a couple of weeks ago. We'll put a stop payment on it and issue a new one right away.
me: Great, thanks!

A week passed, then another...

me: It's me again. I'm still waiting to get my deposit back.
them: Yeah, about that. Your first check was returned to us because of an invalid address. We need to verify your new address.
me: And you didn't call me why?
them: We figured you'd call us eventually.
me: [sighing] Nice.

The address gets verified, and the second check goes in the mail. Within days, an envelope arrives.

me: Woo hoo! [Then upon closer inspection] What the...? You've GOT to be kidding me! [Calling the landlords back] Um, hi. Me here. I got a check from you guys today...
them: Great!
me: but I can't cash it because it's a) not signed, and b) post-dated for September 2nd (it was the second week of August)
them: [stammering] Uhh ... the date must be a computer glitch, and I guess I just assumed that the landlord had signed all of the checks ... I didn't actually look before I sent them. Oops! Just shred that one and we'll send you another.
me: And when can I expect to receive that check?
them: Soon. Very soon.

Another 10 days pass...

me: This is getting ridiculous, folks. Can't I just swing by your office sometime and have the landlord sign this check? If it was valid, I'd be able to cash it in a few more days
them: Uh, well, we want to send you a new check.
me: No. I want to pick this up in person. Just tell me where your office is, and I'll come pick it up tomorrow.
them: [stammering again] I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that.
me: What!?! [Then, pulling out the big guns ... ] You guys have been good to me up until now, and I've been a model tenant for the past six years ... I'd hate to have to report you to the City ...
them: [nervously] I'll tell you what, why don't you meet one of our guys on the street corner tomorrow. It's outside one of our properties near you. He'll give you your check.
me: Um, okay... [then to myself] I'm starting to suspect that you guys might be affiliated with the mob or something.... Am I going to get whacked?

So I drive to the designated street corner the next day, mace in hand, not knowing what to expect. Thankfully, I recognize the guy who pulls up in a Mountain Dew-colored Mustang. He's a nice guy; a little greasy looking, but relatively harmless. I step tentatively out of my car when he approaches. He doesn't whack me; he waves instead. What a relief! I make him wait while I check the date and validity of the check, we make some small talk, and get back into our cars and drive away.

I don't know why the simplest tasks always wind up being such an ordeal for me, but at least this story has a happy ending. It was a long time coming, though!

B-I-N-G...Oh!

Although it wasn't my first Bingo night experience at this hipster hangout in Humboldt Park (that masquerades as a seedy dive bar), it was my first win. The Monday night Bingo racket draws an unusually large number of clean-cut Chicago Public School teachers (including the friend who invited me) in addition to the usual hipsters that frequent the joint (a moody, oddly dressed bunch, identifiable largely by their distinct [albeit androgynous] hair and clothing styles); it's a strange mix.

There's no cover charge, and no fee for the Bingo cards. The callers share a name (it's something common, like Dave or Jim) and infuse some improvisation and off-color jokes into their Bingo calling shtick, turning an activity that is traditionally geared toward a more geriatric crowd into something of a sketch comedy routine. Gone are the ink-filled daubers of old, and instead of troll dolls, PBR cans line the tables above players' Bingo cards.

Because no money changes hands, there is no monetary prize for the winners. To compensate, the Daves (or whoever) have gotten a little more ... umm ... creative with their prize packages. My friend proudly displays a coloring book page on his fridge that he won earlier in the year--it's some Disney prince with a generously sized phallus added to his person in an otherwise G-rated scene-- and the page is autographed by one of the Daves. Other prizes I've seen include: little plastic army guys, a half-completed Sunday crossword, noise makers, and other random junk. I'm not a hipster myself, so maybe I just don't get the humor, but it was all in good fun, or so it seemed.

It was the last game of the night, a round of "Hippie Bingo" (the only spaces in play were "B" and "O") and I found myself caught up in the middle of a three-way win. As is customary for all their winners, I had to come up on "stage" and answer a few random questions. Since there were three of us, they thought it would be a great idea to subject us to a "dance off" a la Soul Train, to determine who would get their "grand prize" for the evening. Feeling like an idiot, but agreeing to play along, I shimmied my way across the stage. They must have liked my impromptu dance moves, because they deemed me the winner!

What did I win, you ask? Well, it's pictured above. They gave me a bourbon-soaked copy of Alcoholic's Anonymous. Again, I don't quite get hipsters, but I really think it crossed that fine line between offbeat humor and plain old bad taste. I smiled wanly as they continued their little show, and returned to sit with my friend at the bar, who was beaming about the attention the Daves had lavished upon me. I left that night scratching my head; why would anyone find that funny? Ironic, sure, but inappropriate nonetheless. It went directly into the Goodwill pile.

So hipsters, I've decided that you can keep your Bingo-calling Daves and your phallic coloring-book pages and your cheap, nasty beer in a can. If and when I do play Bingo, I'll take the troll dolls and superstitious blue-haired ladies over tasteless humor any day. And should I have to drink PBR again, I'd prefer it in a bottle, thank you very much.

Grammar Mulligans

I can't stop thinking about a segment that my radio crush, WGN's John Williams, did a couple of weeks ago on his (now 9:00-12:00) show. He was talking about grammar, which caught my attention right away. Williams was arguing that, while most people should know more grammar rules than they do, everyone should be able to have just one mulligan (that's a golf term... it basically means a "do-over" or a free pass) when it comes to a certain word use or sentence structure that they just can't seem to grasp, no matter how hard they try.

Williams and some of the other on-air personalities went on to deliberate whether anybody should be allowed to waste their mulligan on the grammatical difference between words like to/too/two or there/their/they're, because everyone should know that. I think it was decided that, if that's your one big hang-up, then it's admissible. When he opened up the phone lines, he posed two questions to listeners (and I paraphrase): "what other grammar faux pas doyou think should not be allowed, even with a mulligan?", and, "what is your mulligan?". I immediately began trying to call in. As I continued to hit redial, he explained that his mulligan would be (understandably) used on affect vs. effect, arguing that he can never remember which word to use in which situation, and not to bother calling in to correct him on this, because he still wouldn't get it. [For all intensive purposes, King John, affect is a verb, and effect is a noun, but I promise not to tell you that!]

I finally got through, and was placed on hold. For me, the grammatical error that shouldn't be covered under any mulligan, one of my personal pet peeves, is the plural vs. possessive rule. And for anyone who doesn't know what that means, it means that adding an "s" to a word does not automatically require an apostrophe be added as well. The apostrophe is used to show possession, and not a number greater than one: "Taco's car had three wheels" is grammatically correct; "Three taco's for $1.00" is not. I had a whole slew of others, such as ending sentences with a preposition (at), but didn't want my radio crush to think I was a total word nerd (even though I am)!

But what would my mulligan be? Although I know more grammar than the average listener, I was impressed by the mulligan ideas that other callers had come up with. John Williams' listeners (and yes, I meant that to be possessive!) are an intelligent bunch; apparently, I'm in good company! I can't remember the exact examples, but I agreed wholeheartedly with the listeners who wanted a pass on things like capital vs. capitol, principal vs. principle, and compliment vs. complement. I grimaced on the toward vs. towards (as towards isn't a word), but because it's misused so often, I can see how that would be confusing. I don't have enough problems with these words to warrant a mulligan, though, so I kept thinking.

Suddenly, it dawned on me: I would use my mulligan on nauseous vs. nauseated! I can't for the life of me remember which word to use when, but I do know that the word nauseous is misused with astounding frequency! I was so pleased with myself, thinking my radio crush would find me witty and clever, and that a lively banter would ensue.

I was listening so actively to the witty, clever, and lively banter between Williams and the caller before me-- who admitted that she used an online dating service and couldn't bring herself to reply to men who had typos, misspellings, and grammatical errors in their profiles (that would be a deal breaker for me, too!)-- that I lost track of time. So I was crestfallen when I got disconnected right after she hung up; they were running late for the news.

Hopefully, I'll have better luck the next time I feel compelled to weigh in on some funny and irreverent conversation between Williams and his loyal listeners... but in the mean time, what's your mulligan? Is there a word, a spelling, or a phrase that baffles you? I'd be curious to hear it, and-- as long as it's not on the plural vs. possessive-- I promise I won't judge!

p.s. I would personally like to thank one of the SCHOOLS where I teach for the sign pictured above.

Worst. Parking Lot. EVER.

How many engineers does it take to design a parking lot? No, seriously-- how many? Whatever the number, the end result leads me to believe that whoever designs and/or constructs these lots must be short an engineer more often than not. I'm sure everyone can think of at least one lot where the lines were drawn so close together that, even though they can get the car into an empty space, they can't open the door if there's a vehicle in either one of the adjacent spaces. Or those big, complex lots with lots of blind spots and no signs helping to direct traffic. It's a parking free-for-all; enter at your own risk!

Honestly, people-- how hard can it be? I'm no engineer, but I think I could tell from the get-go whether or not a parking setup is going to work. And yet, I continually find myself trying to navigate through a lot with a severely bottle-necked entrance/exit or with a one-way arrow painted on the asphalt pointing drivers in the wrong direction.

For me, though, the lot that takes the cake would have to be the one outside a popular grocery store on Lincoln Avenue. Those who live in the city know that Lincoln is one of those rare diagonal streets amidst the grid of north-south and east-west thoroughfares. The store is part of a miniature strip mall, and design mistake #1 was that the building's foundation was poured to align with the aforementioned grid, and not the diagonal street out front.

So the parking lot engineers came in and turned the lot along Lincoln Avenue into an isosceles triangle. This placed the smallest angle of the triangle directly in front of the entrance to this immensely popular grocery store. This is a prime example of a parking lot fail. The pathway to the spots on either side of this parking nook gets narrower and narrower until it finally ends in a point. When it's busy, people are forever gunning their vehicles in reverse (into oncoming traffic, mind you) because somebody's gotten stuck in the parking equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. Yet, incredibly, people still try to park there; it makes for some great people watching, and would be an amazing observational experiment for some psychologist's research.

Then, to make matters even worse, they stuck a huge island in the larger part of the lot. Perhaps this was meant to maximize parking, but really it just leads to countless traffic tie-ups. The only normal spaces in this lot are at the far corner; even so, I tend to park on the street just to avoid all the chaos! I've long said that, if this whole music thing doesn't pan out, I should go into business designing parking lots. Well, I guess my common sense is needed in this field more urgently than I previously realized!

Do you have a parking lot that you avoid because of some blatant design flaw? Where is it? I think motorists everywhere should band together and call them out; now's the time!

Park It

Mayor Daley has single-handedly taken away one of the little joys in the lives of us Chicagoans-- finding a meter with time left on it. Thanks to his poorly planned lease of the parking meter system, which has quadrupled the cost of street parking in my neighborhood, the meters are gradually being replaced with parking pay boxes. These new pay boxes take coins and credit cards (because parking in this city is now that expensive) and spit out a little paper receipt, which motorists must display on their dash. No more pulling into a space and finding that there's just enough time left on the meter to run into the bank or to pick up carry-out, and our random acts of kindness can no longer include popping a quarter into an expired meter to spare another driver a ticket from the cop making his way up the block.

I know it sounds pretty trivial, but I was really bummed about this, at least until I saw a transaction today that warmed my heart. A baffled motorist was standing on the sidewalk, trying to decipher the directions on a pay box when another motorist walked up and handed them a little slip of paper. It was a paid receipt, one that wasn't set to expire for another 40 minutes. An act of kindness, no longer random, no longer anonymous, but a brilliant idea nonetheless... I only wish I had thought of it first!

So kudos to my fellow windy-city dwellers for adapting to this new type of adversity. In true Chicago style, we've yet again found a way to cheat the system (at least a little). Take that, Mayor Daley! So if you pay to park, and finish your errands/lunch/whatever sooner than planned, take that slip of paper off your dashboard and pass it on-- not only will you make someone's day, you'll likely inspire them to do the same. It's just one more way to pay it forward (and stick it to the man!).

Oh, Bloody El!

Since my move a couple of months ago, I've had this recurring dream that startles me awake in the middle of the night. I can't remember the details of this dream, and don't know whether it's even the same dream each time or if it's a bunch of different dreams with the same end result. In these forays into my subconscious, I invariably wind up in the path of an oncoming train; my fleeting sense of panic, coupled with the disorientation that comes from being jarred out of a deep sleep, hurtles me from unconsciousness to full attention so quickly that all I can do is blink groggily while I try to figure out where I am.

Thankfully, I'm safe in my bed, but unfortunately, the roar of the oncoming train is all too real. I live right next to an el station -- as in, if I were to fall out of my living room window, I would land on the tracks -- and for some reason, the first trains of the morning are always the loudest. Most of the time, I don't even notice all the transit activity that goes on outside my window; it's like static, or background noise, to me. When the trains come to a stop, their momentum stops as well, and the noise is usually pretty minimal. But when the trains start up again in those dark, silent hours before dawn, a few of them bypass my station and don't start picking up passengers until they're further down the line. While they are supposed to adhere to the speed limit sign that is nailed to my apartment building, with nothing (and nobody) stopping them, these trains literally go careening down the track, uninhibited by the monotony of transporting commuters that bogs down the process any other time of day.

And the noise they leave in their wake is considerable: the window panes rattle, my dishes move around in the cupboards, and I am instantly wide awake. My fear isn't entirely unfounded, though; the only thing stopping the train from careening into my apartment building (should it ever derail) is a flimsy chain-link fence. This is of little comfort to me as I'm lying awake in bed. By the time my heart stops pounding, the birds start singing outside, beckoning in the break of day. As I lay staring at the ceiling at that ungodly hour, I can't help but mutter, "oh, bloody el!" ... pun fully intended.

Baby Buggy Bumpers

I would like to write a "Rules of the Road" of sorts for all the oblivious pushers of SUV-sized strollers out there who think that common courtesy ends once parenthood begins. Let me hasten to say that most parents do not need this tutorial, including many of the parents who pilot these monstrosities. This is for those parents out there (and yes, we all know who you are) who use these pimped-out carriages as a status symbol rather than out of necessity.

Some of the issues I would like to address in this common-sense parenting manual include:

• Parents whose strollers take up more than 1/2 of the sidewalk must yield to pedestrians.
  
• Do not take these ridiculous contraptions onto a crowded bus or train, especially during rush hour.
  
• The same applies to busy restaurants, cluttered stores, and packed festivals. They make smaller strollers for a reason!
  
• If it is absolutely necessary to steer one of these stupid things into a small space full of people, fold it up or chain it to a bike rack outside once the children have been removed.
  
• Those three-wheeler buggies were designed for joggers, and are not to be used to wedge one's way into a long line of any sort.
  
• Nor are strollers to be used to "nudge" the person in front of you when the line isn't moving as quickly as you would like.
  
• Use of a "super" stroller for any reason other than the transportation of children is strictly prohibited.
  
• A stroller is not the same thing as a grocery cart (although I have a singular aversion to both!), a laundry hamper, or a carry-all. Please do not treat it as such. (see above)
  
• Monster strollers are not to be used at anything less than full capacity. For example: when running errands with only one child, it is not acceptable to wheel that child around in a carriage for three.
  
• If the child is more than old enough to walk (like most six-year-olds are), they are to walk alongside the parent or the legitimate stroller passenger. They are not to be coddled with a ride in a double-wide.
  

Perhaps the most egregious error of all is to be wheeling one of these strollers down the street while the children are roaming free. The only thing worse than leaping out of the way of an oncoming stroller that is roughly the size of my car is if that stroller is empty and the little ankle biters are running amok.

If (and that's a very big 'if') and when I ever have any children of my own, I will have a modest fold-up umbrella stroller for one-- and only one-- child, because I plan to do what my parents did. They would choose which child they liked the best that day (now that I think of it, it was almost always my little sister), and the favorite child would get a free ride, while the other (usually me) would walk across the city of Chicago, or to the top of the Statue of Liberty, or wherever else my parents told me we had to go. It built character, and today, I'm much better off than I would have been if I had grown up thinking I was entitled to shocks and struts, cushioned seats, and cup holders at age two!

Don't be like the mom on the left .... Be like this one on the right!

French Vanilla... Heart It or Hate It?

What is it about the olfactory preferences of pre-teen to teenage girls that draws them to the fake, too-sweet pungency of French Vanilla? The scent, which I reluctantly admit, was enticing to me too at one time, now just turns my stomach. And it seems to be infused into just about everything. It is the ubiquitous fragrance of the girls' bathrooms at every school where I teach, often masking a less pleasant-- underlying, yet still present-- odor. Female students slather themselves with this stench using either lotions, body sprays, or perfumes, and the smell lingers in the hallways. They even stick pot pourri satchels in their lockers so their books and belongings will smell like a bakery!

Worst of all, the go-to gift among girls of this age seems to be ANYTHING French Vanilla. My students have brought me gifts of lotions, car fresheners, soy candles, and the like; different objects, same smell. While I'm grateful for the gesture, and appreciate the fact that they thought to include me in their holiday gift giving, I have a hard time not retching. I have even tried to use some of the gifts I have been given, but to no avail.

The candles wind up in the next garage sale, and the toiletries are saved for desperate times only. I carry the small bottle of lotion with me to lessons during the winter, and only use it when my dry hands are about to crack. Even if I put it on in a well-ventilated area, the smell seeps into my pores and clings to my skin and overpowers the practice rooms where I teach-- I now know what it must be like to be trapped in a gingerbread house. And as for the shower gel... I was expecting to smell clean, but instead smelled like a cookie-- a hot, runny sugar cookie-- I had to take another shower just to get the stink off!

Clearly, a woman's sense of smell changes as she ages, but I don't know what it is about this particular scent that now repulses me so much. I like the taste (and even the smell) of real vanilla-- whether in pure extract form or from the vanilla bean itself-- but the fake, imitation varieties turn my stomach. The sense of smell can be very powerful, and a certain scent can evoke vivid memories... maybe I have some bad or repressed memory that I associate with that smell? Who knows. But if you're looking to get me something smelly, please know that I'd prefer a light, clean scent-- or better yet, something with no stink at all!

The Cheese Stands Alone...

I've been to two weddings in as many weeks so far this month. Both weddings were for good college friends of mine, and both they and their husbands are professional musicians. Both insisted on small weddings, both had incredible music, and both ceremonies were memorable and beautiful. I went stag to both of these weddings, and had a blast each time.

During the first wedding, however, as I was standing with about thirty other guests in front of a picturesque gazebo that was tucked inside a stunning botanical garden, I had an awful realization. As I looked around at the small crowd congregated there, I did the math and groaned inwardly-- I was the ONLY single female of the bunch. I could just picture myself standing up in front of everyone at the reception, waiting stupidly to catch the bridal bouquet. Alone. Would the bride toss the bouquet over her shoulder and directly at me, or try to make things more interesting by hiking it to me from between her legs? Would she make me scramble for it, or would she take pity on me and just hand it over? Oh, the horror!

I mentioned my dilemma to some married friends who were also in attendance; one offered to go up there with me and fight for the bouquet. In a way, though, I almost think that would be worse-- to be the only single woman at a wedding and lose the bouquet to a married lady! For some reason, though, I couldn't picture the bride subjecting me to anything of the sort. I wasn't able to shake my feeling of dread entirely, but once I got to the reception, I quickly realized there would be nothing cheesy or cliche about it. No dollar dance, no long-winded toasts, no Electric Slide, no garter removal, and no bouquet toss. What a relief!

I confessed my moment of panic to the bride later that evening, and she just laughed; the bouquet was too pretty to toss, she said (she's right-- it was), and as for wedding traditions, she wanted nothing to do with any of it. Both friends adopted this philosophy, and I think their nuptials were even more special because of it; they did what worked for them and ditched the rest. I couldn't agree more with their thinking-- if and when I ever get married, there will be nothing traditional about it. But until I find my guy, I'll raise my glass and make a toast-- to good friends and individuality!

Travel Guide: Albany Park

I was thumbing through some Chicago travel guides at the used bookstore the other day, and was annoyed by the fact that even the books claiming to be "not for tourists" and the "off the beaten path" stuck to the most predictable areas of the city. Granted, they listed some restaurants and clubs and such that people might not otherwise find, but there's more to this city than just the neighborhoods along the lake front!

For those who want to experience-- I mean, really experience-- the non-touristy side of Chicago, they should venture inland, to neighborhoods like the one just west of me. Albany Park, home of the $5 haircut, is exploding with diversity. The Ellis Island of Chicago, the melting pot of Albany Park is where seemingly clashing cultures coexist in the most wonderful conglomeration.

The residential areas are the classic Chicago mix of stucco and brownstone buildings, and it has its share of liquor stores, taquerias, and currency exchanges, which one would expect in an area so heavily populated by immigrants. However, unlike most immigrant neighborhoods, there is no predominant nationality that inhabits Albany Park. Not even on the northwest side of the neighborhood, along Lawrence Avenue (a.k.a. Seoul Drive), where the neighborhood's border mingles with that of Koreatown's, is there a definite difference.

It is not at all unusual to see signs in English, Polish, Korean, Arabic, and of course Spanish (the Hispanic population has infiltrated every neighborhood in Chicago) in the same stretch of store fronts. Visitors will find restaurants of every cuisine; there is something to satisfy even the most adventurous eater. The stores themselves are practical yet multi-functional; they offer the consumer much more than the average store. My personal favorites are the shoe store that also sells Avon and motor oil; the convenience store that sells live fowl and boasts a sign reading "we also speak English here"; and the restaurant that "specializes" in Italian, Mexican, and American food.

My itinerary suggestion would begin with lunch at the Sushi bar/nail salon, followed by spa treatments in the same building. Visitors could grab a mid-afternoon snack from one of the Lebanese bakeries or Mexican street vendors, then cap off the evening with a game or two at the pool hall, where the sign suggests that a good time will be had by all. So, Chicago, what are you waiting for? Travel to the end of the brown line and explore Albany Park today!

Chicago in the Spring...

A few years back, I heard a radio segment about the sure-fire signs of spring in Chicago, one that still makes me smile. Listeners were urged to call in and complete the sentence, "You know it's springtime in Chicago when..." Answers ranged from the generic, such as the slew of new road construction projects and the return of street cleaning, to the uniquely Chicago, such as the increased speed limit on Lake Shore Drive and the sailboats' return to the marinas, to the downright creative, such as the new rat extermination signs posted in the neighborhood alleys.

I only caught a small sampling of the call-in answers, but I'm sure some others included the explosion of tulips on North Michigan Avenue and the explosion of color in the huge planters just a few blocks south, the baseball fans that pack themselves onto the red line el on both the north and south sides of the city, and the city sticker renewal forms that arrive in the mail.

What signals springtime in Chicago to you? I didn't call in, but for me, my sure-fire sign of spring is when the mariachi music, blaring from the open windows of the cars passing by, wafts up and into my apartment through my just opened window. Although the noise quickly becomes a nuisance, on the first few warm days after a seemingly interminable winter, it's a welcome sign of spring and the warm weather that will eventually follow... and I heard it today, for the first time this year!