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!