Showing posts with label Albany Park. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Albany Park. Show all posts

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Lying To The Neighbors At La Bodega.

I've lived in this neighborhood for a little over four years now.

It's a heavily Hispanic neighborhood and granted, I took Spanish from 8th grade until senior year (with a bit of wandertacular time/lost course hours spent in the theatre corridors), but in the face of people who Actually Speak The Language Fulltime...well, I get what I refer to as Shy Spanish.

Meaning I can easily (and quietly) say hola, wish some a buenos noches, and give directions to el discotheque...but other than that? I smile like a moron and lead more than a few of my neighbors to think that I'm either thoroughly kept or thoroughly stupid.

BUT NOT THE OTHER DAY!

No, the other day I went to our neighborhood Cermak Produce (where both the labels and the clientele are of the Spanish persuasion) and struck up a conversation with a guy.

Who spoke only Spanish.

That's right, P.J.- better watch out. Six months pregnant or not, I still got it.

Okay, he was roughly 85 years old.

And wanted to ask where Susannah got her hair color.

So we chatted for a bit. And you know what? I held my own. I was extremely proud of myself for my decently intelligent conversation and only a few moments where we both realized that is not a real word in the Spanish or any other language.

My favorite part? When he asked gestured towards my blonde child and asked what inspired me to marry a gringo. Because- and I'm not sure what nationality and/or mental capacity level I called my own within that culture- but he totally thought I was vaguely Spanish.

Yes, he was geriatric. But I was flattered.

So I went with it, shrugged in a what're you gonna do manner, and murmured something slightly apologetic.

In Spanish.

***

And now it's time to play everyone's favorite game called In Favor Of What Was Keely Neglecting Her Children This Week:

Crazy week, right Mom?

Last Friday, I made dinner. And Country Crock helped. But not as much as me.

On Monday, I told a story about how I got peed on and my children weren't even in the same state as me.

Tuesday brought a rather personal review of all things Cottonelle. Plus a really cute picture of Zuzu.

My first piece for Chicago Parent went live yesterday, with some pretty helpful tips on how often to check in on your children.

Wednesday also showed me busting out my best Bob Vila and attempting to do something vaguely structural with my girls' closet.

And now it's Thursday. (Right?)

Happy almost weekend. Celebrate however you feel is most appropriately festive.

Meetcha at el discotheque.

Monday, August 5, 2013

8 Things About Summertime Eating In Chicago.

Chicago is known for its food. And for the utter wild abandon that its warmer months can bring. So to that end, I give you 8 Things About Summertime Eating In Chicago:

8. There is no food- anywhere- better than something that can be bought from a street corner cart. Especially if you have to ask for clarification on an item more than once. (It exponentially adds to its ultimate deliciousness.)

7. Regardless of where you live, a nearby parish or street will be having a block party that tops any you've ever seen. And they'll have food grilling that will smell better than that thing you were planning on defrosting for supper.

Try some, kiddo.

6. Or heard. 'Cause that party will rage until well after your kids are tucked in for the night (with noise machines crankin').

5. Even the dinkiest "farm stand" (read: the back of a pickup truck, parked at the intersection of two busy streets) will display tastier produce than most things being offered in a major grocery chain. Because yeah, even though parts of Chicago are downright industrial, we're still located smack-dab in Midwestern Land. And that pickup truck produce? You'll probably find fruit that's like fifteen for a dollar.

4. There are entire festivals dedicated to ribs. Competing festivals. Same goes for burgers. And pretty much any type of cuisine you can think of. (At any of these festivals, by the by, you'll have the ability to purchase gigantic ears of corn on the cob and deep-fried Twinkies. This I promise you.)

3. Being that winter is roughly nineteen months long in Chicago, taking advantage of a restaurant or bar's outdoor seating makes every single thing taste better. Especially if it's sidewalk seating. (Nothing makes a meal taste better than eating it alfresco on a sidewalk in the face of people who are not yet eating an alfresco meal on a sidewalk.)

2. The night that you boldly declare NO DESSERT...the ice cream pushcart, the one attached to the bike, the traditional ice cream truck, and the nondescript soft serve mobile will hover by your front stoop for hours. With bells and music and horns and throngs of over-sugared children singing their praises. Right by your stoop. For hours.

1. Addendum: Any ice cream truck still double-parked on a major city street after 10pm does not have a primary business of selling ice cream. Ahem.

Seeya at the tamale stand, friends.

Monday, July 22, 2013

The Way To A Girl's Heart Is Through Her Neighborhood Eateries.

Occasionally, I get the urge to move. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. The far reaches of the country, the edge of the forest, smack dab in the center of small town America (with a three-color gingerbread Victorian). Away from the nonstop noise, away from the screechy (and drunken) neighbors, away from the Good Lord, change your a/c filter, you're blowing rancid air right into our shared walkway/my nasal passages.

But then I have a weekend like this past one. Which starred, namely, the food of my oft-condemned 'hood.

There were the sweet cherry tomatoes, abundant raspberries, and rampant mint of my backyard- picked by some pretty cute li'l blonde farmhands.

There was the takeout barbecue joint that recently moved in three blocks down the road. (Chicago pals, if you haven't tried Small's Smoke Shack, go there. Run there. Say hi to me there. Because I'll be there.) Between the brisket and the pulled pork and the fried chicken and grilled elotes and copious dipping sauces (comprised of garlic mayo and bacon mustard and banana ketchup), we didn't say a word to each other during the meal- except for "Have you tried this yet?" and "Are you eating garlic mayo with a spoon?"

And there was the leftover duck cassoulet (from Chalkboard!) handed to me by a pal who stopped over after a celebratory dinner...to watch my children...so I could hear Eddie Vedder play at Wrigley Field from atop our friends' posh roof deck. I mean, really.

Obviously, there were also tamales verdes from Veronica, our favorite tamale cart goddess (because this unborn child- like the two who have come before him/her- is a goodly part Mexican food).

And since yesterday WAS National Ice Cream Day (Observed), we celebrated with chocolate cherry Bordeaux ice cream...and a few of the chocolate chip cookies that Peej and the girls made. Because- Ice Cream Day.

Serious bakers.

While no amount of food can erase last night's overheard (and shrieked) conversation about the merits of Walgreens from my brain...I'd have to be pretty daft to leave a part of town which shoves this kinda food into my mouth.

I'm many things, but rarely daft.

Over-full, yes. Definitely.

Unless you're making a quick trip to Small's.

Then I want the brisket.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

The Kiddos Take You To Montrose Beach.

This morning, I took the girls to the beach. And thought I'd show you the drive towards the lake, just so everyone (i.e., non-Chicagoans) can see how bizarre it is that there are miles of beach within a major metropolitan area. (Like- not off a highway, not a town over, just right there. In the city.)

Pulled out of our alley and headed east on Montrose. It's very quiet here at 9am- the drunks are sleeping
it off and no one (to the best of my knowledge) is running around naked. Not pictured: three separate tamale
vendors. Also not naked. Just incredibly awesome.

Just over ten minutes later (because a high heat index apparently makes every stoplight turn red) we're under
the Lake Shore Drive overpass and pulling into the marina/park/beach/rollerbladers.

View from the parking lot. That little person by the bike trail is Nora, yelling at me to either hurry
up with the beach toys or to leave Susannah and hurry up with the beach toys.

Just past the bike trail, the march to the beach (whereupon Nora is already too tired to go any further). It's been
roughly nine feet. Also, Zuzu is done with her sunglasses for the whole day.

Free of their possessions, the girls have renewed energy to hike the [admittedly long] walk to the actual water.
The sand on Montrose Beach is actually sandy. Not so in all other Chicago beaches. Also- it is boiling hot.

Zu is the thrilled-iest to be dumping water on things which can actually get wet. (A big change from the other 95 percent
of her daily existence.) Also, her bottoms look like they're about to fly away. I assure you this did not happen.

This beach has the coolest (and cutest) miniature seashells. Like, teensy twists and impossibly small bivalves. 

We made sandcastles, witch's castles, and a moat for Zuzu to stomp in. (We also went swimming- but I'm
not insane. The camera phone stayed in the beach bag. In a Ziploc.) 

Beach picnic! 2 parts salami, 1 part sand.

Two hours later (and ten degrees warmer), we headed home. Thankfully Nora was there
to put Zu's hood onto her [sweltering] head.

Beached. Also? My car is now 2 parts sand, 1 part apple slices.
I love summer.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Pictures That May Just Make You Feel Awesome.

Sometimes, after a long week of posting about cancer (and how you inadvertently flash your thong at church), it's nice to see some pictures of baybees being all cute:

Fun factoid: Their swimsuits are interchangeable. That's right, my 1.5 and 3.5 year olds wear the same swimmies.

"I'm not tired. I'm just gonna sit here. Sideways. With my eyes closed. For an hour and a half. NOT TIRED."

Monday, July 8, 2013

Is There A Penance For That?

What's that old saying- No Good Deed Goes Unpunished? Well, it oughta be amended to include the words And It's Probably Gonna Be Public, Too.

The other night as we were tucking in Nora, she looked up from her laundry list of prayers (people she loves/cupcakes/apples) and asked if we could go to church soon.

P.J. and I exchanged a look. Oh yes, that. Ha HA! Now, my girls are no strangers to church, but our recent weekends have included odd deviations like the norovirus and 36-hour bachelor parties and debilitating morning sickness. And our usual parish has the unfortunate designation of being roughly an eight minute drive away, so sometimes it's easier to tell ourselves that no one would really expect us to travel so far a distance- we'd have to, like, get a room for the night.

The sinner and her accomplice during happier times.

But there's no guilt like a 3 year-old's guilt, so I decided that yesterday we would Make The Effort. There's a perfectly sweet Catholic church less than a block from our house- and sure, only a couple of masses each weekend are spoken in English, but we would Make The Effort to attend one of the English-speaking ones. What good Christians we were gonna be!

As we walked into the 11:15am mass, we were struck by two facts; one, that we were among a handful of non-Hispanic and non-Filipino families. Two, that Susannah- she of the 3am wakin' faction- was looking really tired. But we were there to pray, and we were all looking decently nice. This was an especially big deal for me, since the combo of oppressive humidity and a growing figure comfy in neither maternity nor non-maternity exclusively was making it difficult to wear things out n' about. But the outfit I had chosen- a long maternity tank and favorite lightweight (and elastic) summer skirt was making me feel rather pretty.

Sister Mary Pious, that's me.

Monday, February 4, 2013

Winter Games. (For An Hour.)

On Saturday, we took the girls sledding. In case you're curious, here's what sledding in Chicago looks like. Careful, it's pretty extreme.

First, you bundle your offspring within an inch of
their lives. It's cool, they love this part.

There are zero chair lifts. But that's fine, it's good
for them to learn how to walk at a 10 degree angle uphill.


There will be snowflake eating. (A few sticks, too.)

"Lemme tell you about Chicago weather, Zuzu..."


Braving the elements. 
And if you're wondering what the actual "sledding" looks like? Behold. Pretty sure this is why people used to think that the world was flat.


Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Unsafe Driving Practices.

This year, Labor Day brought a picnic with some terrific neighbors and friends and- most importantly- the neighbor's Barbie Jeep. This wonderful contraption allowed certain parents to drink Riesling while their children proceeded to shove each other out of [semi] moving vehicles. 

Thank you, unions.

Just checking the specs on the endline for the...rotary...girder...

You got a jumper cable?

Pretty sure one us is supposed to be watching the road.

Um, Miss? You seem to be...oh, nevermind. Enjoy your book.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Unleashing My Spawn On The 'Hood.

Monsters.

Yesterday, as the girls and I were wrapping up a quick grocery run to our neighborhood Cermak, a woman absolutely astounded me with an Out Of Left Field, You Said What kinda comment.

(Nothing should surprise me anymore. But it still does.)

Here's the scene: Me, clutching a bag of various produce and various meats, and The Girls, sitting quietly in their double stroller. Susannah was sucking her thumb and snuggling her monkey. Nora was contemplating the Velcro on her shoe.

Not a peep out of any one of us.

As we made our way through the checkout line (because, yes, I happen to possess a killer double stroller that fits through single doors and ramps and checkout lines), the lady working the register gave me a triple-take.

"No more babies for YOU!"

Say- wha? Really? Why? What? Did something just occur that should've made me regret all of my life decisions? (I hate when I miss those.)

I didn't even answer. I just smiled. The girls continued to not do anything loud and/or offensive.

The woman went on to say how hard my day must be, and how crazy it is to have so many babies! (Because apparently, two kids spaced two years apart is the new Duggar.)

I was then informed that she had had her kids in her teens. When she had more energy. (Can you imagine if I had commented on my choices versus her high school pregnancies?)

All the while I kept smiling, occasionally saying something inane like "We have a good time," and "Oh, yes- energy." Because I am a polite person. I hate confrontation. And this woman was clearly bananasauce.

At the end of this exchange, the shoe that Nora had been playing with fell from the stroller. The woman gave me a look, as if to say "You see?"

I thanked her for double-bagging the watermelon half we had purchased. Carefully placed the rest of the groceries underneath the stroller. And replaced Nora's shoe.

As we left, I saw the woman shaking her head in disbelief and/or pity. I could only imagine what was going through her head; this poor, ancient, exhausted woman and her two squalling she-demons, slogging their way through the misery of an endless Wednesday.

Maybe they'll take up a collection.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Just Watch Where You're Stepping.

We live in a pretty gritty neighborhood. 

I mean, we're not talking The Wire-esque Baltimore, here, but it's not exactly Mayberry. 

Even still, we have moments and places of utter loveliness within throwing distance of our humble (and breaky) abode:
Our neighbor's Koi pond. The girls sometimes think this
is the Aquarium. Even though they've been to the real
one, I've yet to properly correct them.

We live four blocks from Manor Playlot, the manicured little park
that's right down the street from Blago's old house. It's quite
lovely there, even with all the corruption nearby.

They do okay for city kids. Zuzu can even be barefoot around here.
Even if she can never, ever, crawl on the ground of this park. 

Thursday, March 22, 2012

I Practically Work As A U.N. Translator.

I had my first honest-to-gosh Spanish conversation the other night. (My first, that is, since 11th grade. And that one was mainly about the seasons and whether or not Gil had been to the greengrocer.)

Our neighbor from two houses down (for those keeping track, not the 300lb autistic boy and not the irate Filipino) walked by the other evening with her 3 year-old. A little girl named Suzy.

Her Suzy waved at us from the street. My Suzy almost unhinged her shoulder in a full-body attempt at a wave. Nora momentarily stopped shrieking about the green car (and the red car and the silver car) and asked if we could go outside to say hi. So we did.

Her name was Mirna, which I promptly mispronounced. She referred to me, inexplicably, as Ellie. She confessed that she knew very little English. I jumped at the chance to display my own ignorance with her language.

I'm a little embarrassed at how long it took for us both to properly convey that- yes- we both had daughters named Suzy. Hers was Suzenna. Mine was Susannah. Ha hah!

Mirna informed me that Suzenna meant a type of flower. (She may have even said which. But that wasn't covered in the chapter with Gil, so I failed to understand her.) I responded that I thought that was lovely/preciosa- her daughter was named after a flower/flor? Que bueno.


It was only this morning that I realized what an absolute idiot I can be. The Mexican name "Suzenna" definitely means "flower". But you know what else? "Susannah" means "lily," something I knew when we chose it. Flower. Yes. They're the same flippin' name.

But back to the conversation. Mirna was impressed when I informed her that Suzy was cinco meses and that all three of my family members were born in Octubre, but less so when I told her that Susannah was born on the 29th. I didn't say the expected vientinueve, oh no. Dos y nueva, I told her. Instead of "29," I told her "TWO and NEW."

I'm pretty sure I also mentioned the biblioteca, what I was going to do on Tuesday, and various parts of the body.

I didn't say it was the most life-changing conversation.

And even though it was over too soon (we had to distract our children away from slamming each other's arms in the chainlink fence), it felt good to know that at least one person on this block didn't see me as a standoffish jerk.

Just a borderline illiterate one.

Suzy from the block.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

But Who's Watching The Baby?

My favorite blue-eyed cherub...


...And her jaunts to the park...



...With her two babysitters. 


Monday, June 20, 2011

Okay, I had WAY more than one.

This past weekend- to quote The Office- rocked my face off.

To start the festivities, our lovely friends Annie and Jared came for a visit on Wednesday night (which, I realize, is not the weekend. Unless you're 20 years old. Which I am!) and stayed through today. This is great. And I'm superbly happy that they stayed with us, as their dance card was quite full with friends and a wedding and such...that it was a good way to guarantee we'd see them at least twice a day.


Anyone want some blue?
On Friday, N.J. and I surprised Peej with a cookie cake from Jewel (the grocery store)...but it was no ordinary cookie cake. It was one that kids could DECORATE! (Apparently, when you give my child a choice of any color frosting or sprinkles or decorative cake-like things, she will choose...blue. Lots of blue. (It was ridiculously delicious, btw.)


On Saturday, A and J drove to Iowa for a wedding (which, Massachusetts friends, yes- it's possible to do from Illinois) and the mini Schoeny fam walked over to our neighborhood's block party. (Peej made brownies because he's amazing. Also because I do not bake.) There was an insane amount of food (and coleslaws. Neighborhood parties require a boggling amount of coleslaw). 



There were free snow cones. (As many as you wanted, turns out! Trust me on this one.)


A fire truck showed up- which usually signals a disturbance in the 'hood- but not this time! It was, in fact, there for eager kids- and some enthusiastic adults- to tour while wearing mammoth fireproof coats. As one kid who was a dead ringer for Jerry O'Connell in Stand By Me positively shrieked- "They're letting you GO INSIDE THE TRUCK!" (This kid also announced in the exact same voice that the firefighters were opening up a hydrant and that the prizes for all of the games were CANDY...so it's safe to say he was pretty darned excited about the day.)


Sankyou, siren.
We couldn't stay too long- for we had a barbecue to attend. (Lest people feel like we're the Swelly McPopulartons- rest assured. Come February, no one takes our calls. But we're a pretty good social occasion/big crowd bet. 'Cause, once again, P.J. bakes brownies.)


And the bbq was fabulous. Our pals Sara, John, and Owen had us over to their gorgeous backyard and we all had a blast watching our respective kids get muddy/splashed at the water table/cover themselves with creamsicles. And they have very cool friends with very cool/quite muddy/dessert-ed up kiddos. 


I even had part of a beer.


And it was really great. 


Since we had a feeling that Nora would conk out early and without incident, we planned a date night. Peej suggested taking his laptop out back and watching a movie under the stars. I mentally prepped the popcorn. 


Sheer seconds after tucking Nora in her bed, P.J. stretched out on our bed and- mid sentence- started to snore. I thought he was kidding. (He was not.) I amended the evening's plans by eating a column of brownies (don't your brownies get eaten in columns? No?) and finished Professor Layton and The Curious Village on my DS. (Because sugar makes me brilliant.) And yes, no need to tell me. I am an awesome date.


Dad, you're the daddest.
The next morning was Father's Day, and Nora celebrated by clinging to him like a barnacle, singing his name, and opening his present for him. (She made a silhouette of herself for him- I helped- and it looks awfully cute next to the one we made last year. We're also facilitating the buying of his new shoes- that he will choose. For he is terrible to surprise. Awful. The worst.) There was also a Mickey and Minnie card that, while not exactly Father's Day material, was The. Only. One. That. Would. Do. 


We even got to go to Victory's Banner, the brunchiest brunch in town! (Happy Father's Day to us all!) 


That night, after Annie and Jared returned to town, we surprised her with a li'l ol' surprise party to celebrate the big...29. Again. Again. Her loving husband threw the whole thing together and it was hosted by the gracious Brea. All I did was pick up and deliver the cupcakes from Sweet Mandy B's and show considerable restraint in not buying out their entire shelf of individual coconut cream pies. Seriously, people. 


I also got to lie to one of my very best friends for a good couple of weeks, up to and including the ridiculous whopper concerning Nora's sitter. ("Why are we spending money on a sitter for our Game Night at Brea's? Why not just have it here at your place, Keely?" "I...just feel like going out. On a Sunday. Even though P.J. has tech rehearsal. And the sitter's coming after Nora's bedtime. 'Cause we have a very specific start time to this Game Night. No reason.) Yet again, I would make a terrible spy. 


ALL worth it when we got to see her expression when a room of her closest friends began singing Happy Birthday to her...and recording it all on iPhones. Ah, the future. (Annie and I had shared birthday parties for a number of years- back when video capability didn't come on phones. Heck, phone capability barely came on phones. But the lack of documentation is most likely a check in the plus column. Ah, the past.)


The food was stellar, the company even moreso. (But seriously, the cupcakes. I had- more than one. My weigh-in for 24 weeks this a.m. is bound to be a good time.)


If this past week is any indication of the summer ahead of us, I am le stoked. 


And if I don't slow it down, I will also be le huge. 

Monday, July 5, 2010

Turkish appetizers and Mexican helado- must be the 4th!

As I sit here typing, I can hear my daughter's rageful meows from the room directly above me. (Seriously, she sounds like the cats. I think they have a thing going on where they decided if they all sound alike, then we'll come running all the time. I don't quite get this logic, but then again- I'm neither an 8 month old human nor a 6 year old cat.)

She had decided she was too tired to even hold up her head during breakfast- resulting in a Greek yogurt and plum facial- and scattered pieces of croissant and random Cheerios to the wind as we freed her from her highchair. Maybe we looked bored. Perhaps the idea of us sitting with mugs in chairs depressed her- there are no toys, no bits of food on our faces, we aren't even singing. So here, she says. Here's something to pick up. And a finger's worth of yogurt for your nostril.

Do you know what would happen if someone made me Greek yogurt with any kind of fruit in it? (Keeping in mind that this yogurt was purchased without a coupon. WITHOUT.) And a warmed croissant? Why, I'd sit there and eat it. Happily. And when someone placed me in a cool, darkened room with several of my favorite items scattered about- I'd sleep for about three weeks.

Then again, if you placed me on a folding chair- in broad daylight- smack dab in the center of Michigan Avenue...I'd sleep for about three weeks.

So. Nora Jane, you'll just hafta deal with this sudden burst of Vaudeville-like energy that causes you to dance around your crib for your One Woman [Two Otter/One Frog] Show...because, sister, it's Monday morning. And your Mama blogs on Monday mornings. While you nap. So- you need to nap because no one is gonna- oh. And...your Dad just went and got you. God bless holidays.

Last night was a slight deviation from the norm, to say the very least. People in my neighborhood love loud things. And explosives. And holidays- Albany Park digs a good holiday. And- it being the Fourth and all- our street was the most explosively loud [and festive!] I'd ever seen it. All of the nearby parks had their own fireworks displays. Pyrotechnic amateurs were setting things off in the streets and alleys as early as 4pm- on Friday. So we expected last night to be Crazyville LeShadduptown.

And it was.

We took Nora out into the backyard after her extremely patriotic dinner of hummus, Spinach pies, lamajoon (and, oddly enough, peas) to see some of the neighborhood displays. A few bright lights made it over the tops of the Walgreens wall [for those of you whom have not seen my current abode, the entire block from Kedzie to Cullom is the back of a mammoth Walgreens. It's a gigantic, nondescript, tan wall that- if one squints hard enough- one can pretend it walls in one's villa] and the copper dome of Our Lady of Mercy, respectively. Nora was impressed, but way more stoked to be in the backyard at dusk.

We decided to put her to bed. [Hah! Yes. Here, Nora, in your young life you've never known it to be louder than it currently is, but...sleep tight.] However, when we got upstairs, we realized that her bedroom had an unobstructed view of at least four fireworks shows. OVER the Walgreens wall! (All this, Nora...all this will someday be yours...)

So we watched. From the relatively insulated safety of her nursery, she could really enjoy the bright colors without all those nasty sonic booms. Peej and I were high-fiving. Seriously. Next year? Come watch the 'works from Nora's room.

That said, bedtime was pushed back- oh, about four hours- until we lamely realized that it was a) too hot and b) too loud for normal bedtime-goin'. We all slept downstairs. Nora looked at us like we were crazy for putting her in her Pack n' Play but slept through the night nonetheless.

Happy Fourth.

And tonight we're extremely excited to be going to the wedding of two darling friends. P.J. is actually performing the ceremony- and he and I both helped to edit the vows- and it promises to be a lovely affair with, among other things, decadent cake. (I've seen pictures.)

*

One last obnoxious plug for self-promotion- I promise I won't be flooding your blogosphere with any more of this for, oh, about four months. Today at roughly 2:15pm the site for Top Mommy Blogs is having a GINORMOUS RESET. That means that allll of those folks with 8 million votes are coming back down to ZERO. And me? Well, I hope to skyrocket up to crazy fame and acclaim and a stickball game.

Here's how you can help. Go here anytime after 2ish today. (If you still see people with zillions of votes on the front page, it's too early. No worries. You can either come back later or tomorrow or whenever you have that thought of "Oh my goodness, I just love her. How can I let her know?" ) All it takes is one click to get there, one click to vote. No email, no sign-ups, no pressure to call me later in the week.

Why, you may ask? Well, here's the thing. As cool as the "ads" thing is, I've been turning down a few lately from various companies. As funny as it is, I just cannot pepper this blog with reviews for products that- do things...to various body parts. Cannot. (Sure, I can post about the Schick Trimstyle to my heart's content- but as I'm not getting even the slightest bit of compensation from them...I don't feel dirty. Overmuch.) That said, if I made it into the top handful of blogs on the TMB site- who knows what could happen? A broader audience, for one. Legitimate advertising, for two. And from there? Perhaps a book deal, a national tour, six figure salary- or, at the very least, coupons for a free Frosty.

I'll share.

I'm not above bribing my readers.

Which may lower that ol' six figure salary to about five.

Plus a free Frosty.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Thursday is the new Saturday. No, really, it is.


A brand-new graffitiesque mural has gone up in my neighborhood; it's on the side of a building near the intersection of Kedzie and Montrose, to be exact. It is great. The word "diversity" is written (scrawled?) in about ten different languages. You know, the languages that represent Albany Park. A multitude of beautiful, happy, diverse faces are looking in different directions, quite artful, and are layered willy-nilly to show the many different colors and ethnicities of our lovely 'hood. Fabulous. One problem.

I AM NOT INCLUDED.

No one even remotely white-ish is featured. Sure, sure, I hear you telling me about centuries of oppression and the White Man and underrepresented cultures. Fine. However. I'm Irish and Armenian and a smidge of Italian and have oppressed NO ONE so perhaps you could STICK ME DOWN IN THE CORNER SOMEWHERE. I do not take up much room. (Unless I bring my shoes and hoodies.)

I may have to resort to graffiti on graffiti. Extremely post-modern. Are you listening, Hampshire College? (Yeah, I took film. And strangely, pre-law. And one bizarre semester about our FEELINGS regarding science.)

Other media that concerns me:

Have you seen the new commercial for Hi-Def Vision Ultra sunglasses? Take a minute to really chew on that one. These sunglasses. Make. Things. Hi Definition. They're practically making objects 3-D. Almost like real life! Actual quote: "Other sunglasses just make things darker." (Darn sunglasses!) And now, according to a special offer, you can get TWO for TEN DOLLARS (if you call now.) So basically, I'll get a five dollar pair of sunglasses that make objects look like real life? Where do I sign?!

Also.

The new ad for Aciphex: a pill for acid reflux that takes care of 'burning, bad taste & belching.' And please say the name aloud. Everything about this commercial is gross. An entire ad featuring closeups of people's mouths while they writhe in pain, dislike the taste of their own tongues and attempt to cover up burps. Poorly. "...So nasty!" And all from a product whose first syllable is 'ass.'

And finally: those Cash 4 Gold people are starting to make me really suspicious. Why do they want my gold so badly? *I* want my gold! Why doesn't it matter what condition my gold is in? Do they know something I don't? Does my gold have new healing powers? Is all the gold disappearing? They're sending me a BOX in which to ship all my gold? Why not a company car? I think I'll hang on to my gold until I get some more answers.

***

Confidential to PJS: Thank you for not letting that scenario with the middle-of-the-night-car-honker-layin'-on-the-horn-for-what-seemed-like-hours go all 'Gran Turino.' As we both know, I've never seen 'Gran Turino,' but I'm fairly certain from the previews that it involves an angry Clint Eastwood and a wielded shotgun and the phrase "Get the hell off my property" or somesuch. I know how you get during these moments. Kinda like The Hulk, if The Hulk had an infant daughter sleeping in a room facing the street.

So, thanks.