Awake No More

Last week, Starbuck's made a change that has rocked my world.  Without consulting me, they changed their tea vendor.  Every store in the chain, all 21,160 of them, will now offer teas by Teavana instead of Tazo.  This changes everything for me.  Because just about every work morning in my career for the past 10+ years, I've stopped off at my local Starbuck's to purchase a Reduced-Fat Turkey Bacon Sandwich and a Venti Awake tea.  Being the creature of habit that I am, not to mention being brand loyal to a fault, not being able to do this any more completely upsets my morning routine.

This change in tea vendors is coming on the heels of another change Starbuck's made recently.  Sometime last year, they also changed their Turkey Bacon Sandwich.  This was upsetting not only to me, but to many other loyal customers.  The new version, in my opinion, is not nearly as good.  I tried to adapt to it, but just couldn't.  This change bothered me, but at least I still had my favorite beverage.  Until now.

Tazo's Awake tea is an English Breakfast blend.  Teavana also offers an English Breakfast blend.  They most likely taste similar, but that's not the point.  I have a history with Awake tea.  It's been a source of comfort and familiarity for me.  No matter where I was in the world, I could count on Starbuck's to make me feel at ease.  The taste would always be the same; there'd be no guesswork and no surprises.  And I think that's actually the point - it was something I didn't have to think about.  I could trust my own decision.

I have lovely memories and emotions walking around either alone or with friends while holding those 20 fl. oz of malty deliciousness;  chilly autumn days walking though DC, brisk walks to work in Chicago, endlessly job-searching in Miami, walking around Times Square, Pike Place Fish Market, Copley Square, Old City, Bourbon Street, Hollywood Boulevard, Chinatown . . . the list goes on and on.  And close friends will recall that time when an ignorant motorist had the unmitigated gall to blow a horn at me while I was in the crosswalk.  Yes, Awake has even defended me.

This Christmas, my in-laws bought me a box of Awake tea.  And I know I can order it online - it's not like I can never taste it again.  It's just that I've been doing this action for so long that I now need to change my routine.  Ordering a Venti Awake simply has a more melodic rhythm to it than ordering a Venti English Breakfast.

Starbuck's, you have disappointed me yet again - twice in the same year!  It's okay, though.  I'll be fine.  And so will my money as I seek out another breakfast vendor for my morning commute.

#starbuckssucks

A + B ≠ C

The time came for my mom to make the decision whether to bring my dad home from the rehabilitation center following his hospitalization, or to make him a permanent resident of the nursing facility.  Knowing her, I can't imagine the emotional turmoil she must have gone through during this process.  My mother is neither Catholic nor Jewish, so I have no idea where all her guilt comes from.  Most likely, she views not being able to care for my Dad more as a lack of duty.  In any case, I'm not certain how I would make that same decision.

I guess the fortunate thing is that the decision was, for the most part, made for her.  Both Dad and his physical therapist performed a home visit last week so that the therapist could see if Dad would be able to physically live in my parents' house again.  You see, Dad can't walk anymore.  Maybe a step here and there but he is mostly wheelchair-bound now.  And my parents' house is, shall we say, multilevel.

The house I grew up in was built about 100 years ago.  From what I can tell, it was originally just 4 rooms - two downstairs and two upstairs.  And then at some point, a kitchen and indoor bathroom were added on, making it three rooms across the first floor and three across the second.  I know this because when we renovated the kitchen many years ago, the plaster on one wall was covering up the original exterior of the house.  And the door sills to both the kitchen and upstairs bathroom don't exactly line up with their adjoining rooms.  Plus, indoor bathrooms - at least in that part of the State - were not a thing at the turn of the last century.  We'll call this section of the house Part A.

This was a pretty basic setup until, at some point, someone came along and literally added another house to the back of my parent's house, essentially doubling its size.  We'll call this section of the house Part B.  These two homes, while conjoined, were always meant to function as two separate living quarters.  When my parents bought the entire building in 1971 and knocked out a few walls to combine the two "units" into one, they found that the floor and ceiling levels in Part A did not line up with the floor and ceiling levels of Part B by several feet, in some rooms.  So this made the result of A+B, which I guess would equal C, to be one character-filled house.

I'll save further details about the inside of my folks' quirky house for another posting, but suffice is to say that Dad's therapist took one look at the inside of the house and did the straight white man version of, "Oh, HAYell no!".  And rightly so.  There is no way Dad would be able to subsist in this environment.  So it was pretty much a no-brainer that he'd permanently move to the nursing home, which was yet another decision being made that was out of Mom's control.

Mom seems to be rolling with the punches for the most part.  She has a deep faith that she depends on to get her through situations like this - situations in which she pretty much does not have a say despite the situations directly affecting her.  The last time she went through this type of process was probably when all her kids grew up and started making our own decisions - decisions that both directly and indirectly affected her, but that she had no real part in deciding, like when we broke up with girlfriends and boyfriends of whom she had become fond, or when we chose to move away from home, have kids, get married, etc.  And maybe, as a parent, you somehow prepare yourself for these types of eventualities.  But when it comes to your spouse, it seems downright unfair that the decision of where that person lives is pretty much taken out of your hands.

Mom will get used to it because she has to.  And she'll adapt because she knows Dad is being cared for and she DOES get to have a say in that.  Still, all in all, this has to suck.

Remembering Bobby

The last few nights, I've been thinking about my friend, Bobby Mellott.  Bobby sadly passed away in June, earlier this year.

Bobby and I were friends when I lived in DC.  We met September 30, 1995 at TRACKS.  I had only been living in DC for about two weeks at that point so I didn't know anyone yet.  We became instant friends when we both discovered we lived on Capitol Hill, which was considered Social Siberia in the 90's.  That sole fact is probably what brought us closer together.

Bobby remained a good friend for the 10 years I lived in DC, even during the few years in the middle where he lived in NYC.  He was caring and supportive and nauseatingly optimistic.  His enthusiasm and passion for what and who he loved was infectious.  To be in Bobby's company meant that you were the only two people in the world.  Ever complimentary, ever supportive, ever cheerful.

Bobby's eyes were a combination of "constant sparkle" and "mischievous glint".  His smile most likely got him in and out of trouble in equal measures.  He had more energy than any person I had met to that point.  I remember one afternoon sitting in the grass in Lincoln Park on Capitol Hill, having a 2-hour conversation with Bobby while he spun around on roller blades.  The entire time, he remained focused on me and engrossed in our conversation.

After I moved to Chicago in 2005, we lost touch.  And this is the point where I bless Facebook.  For all its banality and glitches and pains, it has allowed me to maintain, and in Bobby's case regain, those true friendships that stand the test of time.  The last time I saw him was the week before I moved to Chicago.  He had heard of my heart surgery and wanted to see for himself that I was okay.  I wish I could have spent more time in his company the last few years, because with him was a wonderful place to be.

Rest in peace, dear friend.

"Happy Holidays" vs "Merry Christmas". Sigh.

Over the last few years, there has been growing angst from a population in 'Merica (for example) who are just pissed because they can't wish anyone a "Merry Christmas" anymore.  They simply don't want to substitute "Happy Holidays" as a greeting because it takes Christ out of the holiday.  This rationale is puzzling to me for a few reasons.

First, basic grammar indicates that Happy Holidays is plural; Merry Christmas is singular. We don't say Merry Christmases, so it would imply that Happy Holidays is a greeting covering more than just one event.  Following that logic, one would need to be narrow-minded to think that Christians are the ONLY ones celebrating a holiday during what the retail industry has dubbed the holiday season.  This time frame typically begins with Thanksgiving and ends a few days after New Year's (which means it's actually longer than summer in Chicago). But most of all, get over yourself!  Someone is wishing you well.  If you are so hung up/uptight about the words being used that you fail or refuse to recognize and/or accept the sentiment, you should be green and living in a cave on top of Mt. Crumpit. 

I found the below chart online and it is, quite frankly, the perfect representation of how we should act when someone greets us during this holiday season, whether it’s Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Holidays, Have a Great Festivus, or whatever:

Aging Online

Now and then I post an actual photo of myself on here, but mostly my online presence (outside of Facebook) is the caricature that is connected to this blog.  I also use it for Google and LinkedIn.  It's a smaller part of a caricature originally created for me back in 2004 by my friend Dave.  Because I use this likeness so often, I recently asked Dave to "age" me since, after all, it'd been over 7 years since the caricature was last updated.  And since this is no Dorian Gray story, I've aged and my beard has noticeably whitened up a bit since.  Dave's final result is below on the right.

2007                                                           2014

By asking Dave to do this for me back in 2004, it helped launch him into a business where he was creating caricatures for people online.  I watched his skill develop and improve.  The 2007 version above is the second version he created for me.  The original can be found here and you can see the obvious difference and growth.

I loved this the day I originally received it and I love it still.  It's an awesome non-photo likeness of me. I'll most likely ask Dave to update it again in another 7 years.  It will be interesting to see how I, and my likeness, will change in the meantime.

Skin Cancer

Skin cancer is in the news again, thanks to Hugh Jackman who had his third basal cell carcinoma (BCC) removed within a one-year period.  The photo that Jackman posted along with his announcement convinced me of only one thing:  he's gorgeous even with skin cancer.  I, on the other hand, was not so Hollywood-ready.

"I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeFrankenstein."

Last October, while living in Miami, I went to a dermatologist for what I initially thought was either a pimple or an oil deposit due to my wearing reading glasses more frequently while on the computer.  The "pimple" turned out to be a BBC on the right side of my nose.

BCC is the most common form of skin cancer; an estimated 2.8 million are diagnosed annually in the U.S. alone.  BCCs are rarely fatal, but can be highly disfiguring if allowed to grow (do yourself a favor: do NOT look this up on the internet - it will horrify you).  One in five Americans will develop skin cancer in the course of a lifetime, and about 90% of non-melanoma skin cancers are associated with exposure to UV radiation from the sun.  Mine fell into that 90% group.  The tricky thing was that there was no way of telling how long it had been there.  Initially, the dermatologist said that it looked fairly recent and that I caught it in the early stage.  But as she was extracting the cells from my nose, she commented on how deep the roots were, which would suggest it had been there for a longer period of time.

Black dots circle the location.

Another tricky thing about BCCs (they are very tricky, after all) is that they appear, disappear, then reappear in much worse form.  Even between the time I made the initial appointment and met with the doctor, mine began to disappear.  When I went in for my consultation, the dermatologist marked on my nose where the BCC was located, then took a picture of it with my phone so that she would be able to find it again should it disappear completely before I went in for the removal.  It's this disappearing phase that erroneously convinces patients that what they have is more like a pimple and not cancer. During this phase, the cancer is spreading to more cells underneath the skin - growing to then show itself again in a larger and worse physical display.

Day 6 following surgery

Initially I was told by the doctor that as BCCs go, mine was placed in a great location.  She'd be able extract all of it without leaving too much of a scar, and that the little scar that would show would fall into an existing crease already in my nose to minimize it even being seen.  This sounded perfect, but was then hard to believe after I took one look at myself in the mirror.  It wasn't just the stitches, but the swelling and the asymmetry of my nose - more evident in the photo to the left.  I was convinced that my nose would be forever crooked with a big scar.

For a few months, it was all I concentrated on.  Perhaps because in most places in the country, people (friends and strangers alike) would politely ignore a facial deformity of any kind so as not to make you feel uncomfortable or insecure.  Not so Miami.  I was kinda proud of the fact that I went on with my daily life despite looking like Joe Frazier the morning following the "Thrilla in Manila".  Kevin and I went to a showing of Pilobolus two weeks after my surgery and met an acquaintance in the theatre lobby who was very quick to ask if I had run into a door.  After all, the "sexiest place on the planet" is all about being sensitive to people's feelings.

October 4, 2014

It wasn't until I was looking at photos from our wedding that it struck me, and not even immediately.  Almost a month after the fact, that I realized that the scar actually did heal very well and no longer shows up in photos.  Almost one year to the day, the scarring has completely healed and my nose symmetry is right back where it started.  I seriously doubted it would all heal.  But Dr. Barba did a good job, despite my initial fears.  I was a fairly verbal patient and frequently complained about my healing process, despite everyone telling me how good she was and that I was in "great hands".  And while I will never be Hugh Jackman or any other Hollywood-type, I think I look pretty good, all things considered.

All of this is, of course, to tout the importance of sun protection - be it sunscreens, clothing, hats, and even time-monitoring.  Just being aware is the first step.  I can preach it now because I am more cautious about it now.  I sunscreen every day, wear ball caps when necessary, and stand in the shade when possible.  It took some time, but I finally crossed that line between wanting to look healthy vs wanting to be healthy.  There is a difference.  And while there still might be more BCCs that pop up in my future (and Hugh's too), I will be more confident that the process will work, with patience.

My Precious!

Just over a week into married life and I can tell you that it does actually feel different - at least to me.  Nothing about our relationship has changed at all, but it almost feels as though the world takes me more seriously.  I equate the feeling to the difference between how adults treat you when you are a teen vs. how they treat you once you are an adult.  Of course, this all might just be in my head.  Actually, it most likely is.  But I find myself flashing my left hand more than I used to: holding the railing on the bus with my left hand, reaching for purchases with my left hand.  All just so I can show the ring and silently say, "look at me, I'm maaaaarried!"

I'm not typically a jewelry-wearer (neither is Kevin).  The last ring I wore was my high school class which I stopped wearing in 1985.  I don't even wear a watch.  Last time I wore any kind of adornment was back in 2005  and we all know how THAT turned out.  But I think I have adjusted to the new ring quite well.  I am in a weird stage where, at the same time, I both forget I'm wearing it yet am keenly aware that I have it on.  I both forget about it yet am hyper-sensitive to it.  The ring! The ring!  "MY PRECIOUS!"

So far, the only thing I don't like doing is washing my hands while wearing my ring because the ring scrapes the soap.  Plus, the soap makes the ring very easy to slide off.  I met a woman at a wedding (not ours) last weekend who admits she always puts her ring in her mouth when she washes her hands.  This is both sweet and disgusting at the same time.  I wince at taking the ring off in public because I fear dropping it or losing it.  Of course, it's easily replaceable, but at least for THIS ring, there is some sentimental attachment to it that subsequent rings won't have (and let's be real here, there will be subsequent rings 'cause I just know I am going to lose this one at some point down the road).  I guess I'll need to find a work-around and am open to suggestions.

It's all so new and wonderful.  I had never really spent time imagining what my wedding would look or feel like.  But standing in the middle of the reception and looking around that night, I thought to myself, "This.  This is exactly what I would have wanted it be."

I'm Getting Married Tomorrow

So here I am on the eve of my wedding, both at a time and place I never thought I'd be.  Never, because I never thought it would be something I was legally able to do, for one.  Never, because I never thought I'd agree to allow myself to be the center of attention for an entire night.  And mostly never, because I never thought I would ever meet a person I can't imagine living without.  But here we are, 9 years after we met about to stand in front of our closest friends and family and vow to do what we had already silently decided to do years ago.

I met Kevin about two months after I started this blog.  I was recently single and with a lot of time on my hands.  And blogs were what people were doing back then.  I didn't realize until recently, that this blog has essentially been the chronicle of my life with Kevin.  Over the years, he's popped up now and then in posts, sometimes as an innocent bystander and sometimes as the subject himself.  I've posted about originally meeting him, and when he officially became "The BF", and our first New Year's Eve together.  I even posted about the moment I realized who he really was for me and how it all happened.

And through it all, both on the blog and in real life, Kevin's ever-patient demeanor has been the compliment to my ever-present outrage.  We've never had a serious argument.  Never stopped speaking to each other.  Never went to bed mad or upset with the other.  Our relationship has been based on and infused with laughter, understanding, respect, compromise, and support.  It actually took us living in Miami for me to realize how much we rely on each other and how difficult it would be for us to live apart from each other, at least for an indefinite period of time.  There are times when I just need to see his face or hear his voice or even touch his hand in order to feel reassured that life is okay.  He makes everything better without even trying.

And tomorrow, I get to marry him and celebrate it with the people I love.  My life is so good!.

The Best Wedding RSVP So Far

As expected, several invited friends and family could not attend our upcoming wedding due to scheduling, distance, etc.  Of course we understand, but it's always sad when people you love can't be with you in person on the big days of your life.  But the true measure of that love has come back to us in the forms of some of the most precious RSVP messages.  My favorite one to date is the one we received from cousin Nick.

Nick and his wife, Amanda, have two daughters: Maddie, 5, and Gracie, 3.  Nick sent us an email with their regrets, adding:

Maddie saw your invitation and wondered why two brothers are getting married. And then she came to the conclusion that she and Gracie would eventually get married. Ha. We explained and we got the reaction we wanted. Like it was no bigger deal than if anyone else we know got married.

Nick, Maddie and Gracie

#bunwedding

I Hate This

For completely selfish reasons, I hate what I am going through right now.  I hate what is going on and I hate that my dad's health is interfering with my wedding.  And I hate that I feel this way.

I hate that he's in the hospital and I hate that he has Alzheimer's.  I hate that he doesn't know I am getting married and I hate that he doesn't know Kevin as well as I want him to.  I hate that my dad will never meet Kevin's family.  I hate that my family is going through this and I hate that my dad's brain is no longer telling his body what to do.  And I hate that I feel this way.

I hate that I am getting married in 11 days and that I can't be absolutely giddy about it.  I hate that every time my phone rings, I am wondering if it's my mom calling to tell me that my dad has died.  I hate trying to be positive when all I feel is doom.  And I hate that I feel this way.

I hate that my family may not be able to come to my wedding.  I hate that my dad never could.  I hate that my mom feels conflicted about everything.  I hate that I am finally - FINALLY - able to marry the person I love most in the world and all this shit is happening at the same time.  And I hate that I feel this way.

I hate that I can't be back home with my family while they all sit vigil in my dad's hospital room.  I hate that the surgery his doctors could easily perform on him if he was just 35 can't happen because he's 75.  I hate that the only solution is to just wait and see what happens when I need to plan everything right now.  And I hate that I feel this way.

I hate that I don't know whether to tell the caterer that there will be 10 extra people.  I hate that Kevin spent time creating place cards that may need to be recreated.  I hate that I don't know if there will even be a wedding or if our little trip afterwards will even happen.  I hate that I don't know if I should cancel my family's hotel rooms or sacrifice a few hundred dollars.  I hate that I want my family here regardless of my dad's health.  I hate that I am feeling sorry for myself when my mom is going to eventually lose the man she's loved for almost 60 years.

I hate that my dad is dying.  I hate that my dad is dying.  I hate that it seems there is nothing anyone can do about it.  I hate that I can't help him.  I hate that I can't tell him I love him one more time and he'll hear it, let alone understand it, let alone remember it.  I hate that for my whole life he was the symbol of strength, sacrifice and dedication and now he doesn't even have enough energy to walk.  I hate that I want him to fight for life, but at the same time I just want his pain and this saga to end.  I hate that, at the same time, I am wishing for both life and death.

And I hate, hate, hate that I feel this way.

And There It Is

The time has come for my family, or more specifically my mother, to do what has been dreaded for, in all probability, the last 53 years.  I imagine the last thing any loving couple wants to experience is the hard realization that they simply cannot care for the other any longer.  Regardless of the reason (physical, emotional, financial), no loving spouse wants to remain in the home when the other needs to live in a nursing facility.  But that's where we are, or rather where my parents are right now.

My dad's Alzheimer's has progressed to a state where he simply can no longer live at home with Mom.  His mind has been robbed of faces, names, and memories by the thousands.  And now his brain has begun to limit the signals it sends to the body to perform even the most basic of functions.  There are times when the act of walking has become too much for Dad to figure out how to do.  When asked to take a step, he says "okay" but remains in place.

I get home to see my parents about every three months.  The change I see in Dad is always more shocking for me than for my other siblings who all live within a few miles of my folks and see them on a weekly if not daily basis.  On my most recent visit, when asked who I was, Dad got my name right, but because he then asked if he was correct, it was easy to tell that he wasn't completely certain.  The time is coming when I will visit him and he will not know my name at all.  I will never be able to prepare myself enough for that.  I'll most likely fool myself into believing that he knows who I am, he just can't remember my name - the same way I forget names all the time.

Dad will now move to a nursing facility where, realistically, he will remain.  My mother, understandably, fears that she is failing him; somehow reneging on the vow she made 53 years ago.   I've pointed out to Mom that her vow was to stick by Dad through good times and bad, sickness and health.  In other words, she promised to make sure he would be comfortable and receive care - not necessarily that she would take on that task herself.  Her responsibility to him is to ensure he gets the best care possible while realizing her own mental and physical limitations.  But still, despite trying to be as compassionate as possible, and despite the guidance she's received from physicians and other caretakers, and despite all of us trying to reassure her that she is doing the absolute right thing, she tries to convince herself that she can still do it herself.  I know I would feel the same way.

I've not seen the type of love before like I see between Mom and Dad.  It somehow transcends the love that my siblings and I have for our spouses, which can't possibly compare to the dedication and devotion two people have for each other for so many years.

One of the many facets of dementia is that it takes the grief stage and turns it into a way of life.  Rather than mourning the loss of a loved one when they die, Alzheimer's demands you grieve in phases.  Alzheimer's is like a river running through a small stream that occasionally runs wild and floods, taking wildlife and vegetation from its banks and destroying forever what was once there.  Little by little, the life you know erodes in front of your eyes and no barrier can stop it, no amount of praying will end it, and no matter how hard and long we try to hold on, the person just slips away.  The only hope you can cling to is that patients don't feel pain and that they aren't screaming inside that they are aware of what's going on but no one can hear them.

Eventually we will all adapt and my mom will get into a routine of rising early each morning, doing housework, packing a lunch, then going to visit my Dad all day.  In essence, she will be living in the nursing facility too.  This will be her life now as it is, has been, and will continue to be for billions of other people until cures are found.  But for now, its happening to my dad and my mom.

And there it is.

Backpacks on Public Transit

A backpack bump in NYC

Since we have a car now (go, Honda Fit!) and I bike to work every day, I rarely use public transport anymore.  I've only been on the CTA a handful of times in the past 16 months - except for this morning when I took a train downtown for a meeting.  And I was surprised by the fact that still - STILL - folks have not grasped the concept of removing their backpacks when they enter a train car or bus.

First of all, backpacks are safety hazards.  I've almost lost an eye on more than one occasion, sitting next to a standing person whose wearing a backpack.  I've been whacked in the head and face several times.  I've had a person with a backpack pushing into me, seemingly oblivious to what they were doing.  My complaints have only been met with half-hearted "sorry"s and never once has my request that the backpack be removed been honored.  This morning, due to the rain, the person standing next to my seat just allowed their backpack to drip all over my lap.  And I didn't even get a "sorry" this time.

Some backpacks can add up to a foot or more to a person's depth and girth.  A well-stuffed backpack can easily take the same amount of space as another human being.  This also goes for the giant purses women are carrying these days, holding everything from pairs of shoes to yoga mats.  Space on trains and buses is valuable, especially during rush hours when everyone just wants to get to their destinations, comfort be damned.

Any confusion about the etiquette of this is inexcusable.  Hear me, people: take it off and either put it on the floor at your feet or hold it in front of you so that you are in control of it and aware of its proximity to others at all times. Fortunately, I am not the only person who recognizes that this is an issue, an issue that happens all over the country if not the world.  Requesting riders to remove backpacks or large purses should be an announcement, the same as giving up your seat for elderly passengers and expectant mothers.  It's a no-brainer.  But I guess you need a brain to figure it out yourself.

How To Speak Chicago-ese

For those of you coming to Chicago for our wedding in October, here are a few tips on how to speak the local language of Chicago:

1. Grachki (grach'-key) is Chicago for "Garage Key" as in, "Yo, Theresa, waja do wit da grachki? Howmy supposta cut da grass if don't git intada grach?''
2. Uptadaendada (up-ta-da-en'-dada) as in, "Joey, you kin ride yur bike uptadaendada alley but not acrost or I'll bust yur butt..."
3. Sammich. Chicagoese for sandwich. When made with sausage, it's a sassage sammich; with shredded beef, it's an Italian beef sammich, a local delicacy consisting of piles of spicy meat in a perilously soggy bun.
4. Da. The definite article is a key part of Chicago speech, as in "da tree bears" or "da Mare" -- the latter denoting, for as long as he wants it to, Richard M. Daley, or Richie, as he's often known.
5. Jewels. Not family heirlooms or a tender body region, but a popular appellation for one of the region's dominant grocery chains, to wit, "I'm goin' to da Jewels to pick up some sassage." As in most Chicago pluralizations, the "S" is pronounced with a hissing sound, rather than the usual "Z" sound of American pluralization.
6. Field's: Marshall Field, a prominent Chicago department store. Also Carson Pirie Scott, a major department store chain, is called "Carson's," etc.
7. Tree. The number between two and four. "We were lucky dat we only got tree inches of snow da udder night"
8. Prairie. A vacant lot, especially one on which weeds are growing.
9. Over by dere. i.e. "over by there," a prolix way of emphasizing a site presumed familiar to the listener. As in, "I got the sassage at da Jewels down on Kedzie, over by dere.'
10. Kaminski Park. Perhaps the high concentration of ethnic Poles makes people want the White Sox to be playing in this mythical ballpark, rather than in their true home, Cellular Field formerly known as Comiskey Park.
11. Frunchroom as in, "Getottada frunchroom wit dose muddy shoes.'' It's not the "parlor." It's not the "living room." In the land of the bungalow, it's the "frunchroom," a named derived, linguists believe, from "front room."
12. Use. Not the verb but the plural pronoun "you". "Where's use goin'?"
13. Downtown. Anywhere south of the zoo and north of Soldiers Field near the lake.
14. BoysTown: A section on Halsted Ave., between Belmont and Addison, which is lined with gay bars on the west and east sides of the street. "Didn't I see uze in Boystown in front of da Manhole?"
15. Braht: Short for Bratwurst. "gimme a braht wit kraut"
16. Cashbox: Traffic reporter slang for tollbooths. "Dere's a delay at da cashbox on da Skyway"
17. Goes: Past or present tense of the verb "say." For example, "Then he goes, 'I like this place'!"
18. Guys: Used when addressing two or more people, regardless of each individual's gender.
19. Pop: A soft drink. Don't say "soda" in this town. "what kinda pop you got?"
20. Sliders: Nickname for hamburgers from White Castle, a popular Midwestern burger chain "Dose sliders I had last night gave me da runs"
21. The Taste: The annual Taste of Chicago Festival, a huge extravaganza in Grant Park featuring samples of Chicagoland's fine cuisine. Takes place around and before the Fourth of July holiday.
22. "Jieetyet": this is used to ask "did you eat yet"?
23. Winter and Construction: Punch-line to the joke, "what are the two seasons in Chicago?"

G'bless dis here town! An a course...Mike Di'ka.

Source

Wedding Update: It's Getting Real!

This weekend, we took some big steps towards getting tasks accomplished for our wedding on October 4th.  Don't get me wrong, we've been working on things for months.  Kevin has been a crafting maven ever since we announced our engagement back in April.  The personal touches he has created are wonderful - can't wait for folks to see them.

But this past weekend, we handled some big boy projects.  On Saturday afternoon, we held our food tasting with our caterer.  No surprise here, but we are not fancy people.  We wanted food that 1) tasted great, of course, and 2) we know what it is just by looking at it.  I originally sought estimates from about 8 catering companies in Chicago.  I needed to choose from an approved caterers list due to where we are holding our event.  I loved this idea because I liked choosing from a small list.  Its one of the reasons I cannot eat at Cheesecake Factory: I cannot deal with a huge selection.  For me, its not a selling point.  Just put 5 things on the menu, I can't possibly be expected to choose from more than 200 items!!  But back to the caterers, it was annoying that even after I gave very detailed instructions as to the kind of food we were looking for as well as the price point we wanted to use, I was still sent plans that included food I had never even heard of and prices that were double and triple what I had asked for.  But there was one caterer who did exactly as I asked and who was amazingly responsive to our needs.  And at the tasting on Saturday, we knew we made the right choice!

Before the food tasting, we bought our suits for the wedding.  When the salesman asked for the occasion, I easily told him that we were getting married and wanted matching suits.  Every person we dealt with was warm and accommodating.  At one point, I asked Kevin if he minded me telling them that we were getting married and he laughed and said, "No, but it would be pretty hard to explain why we needed matching suits if you hadn't."  Point made.  The suits were - again - exactly what we wanted.  And we managed to hit the 2-for-1 Sale weekend.  Bonus life points.

We also bought the rings this weekend.  The last time I bought a piece of jewelry was when I bought my high school class ring in 1983.  My ring size at that time was a 10.  This weekend I was told that my ring finger is a size 9.  I can't imagine that my hands are actually smaller now than they were 30 years ago, but I guess its possible.  And the rings are - again - exactly what we wanted.

So some major tasks accomplished this weekend, with still many others to tackle in the next 6 weeks.  And we're definitely having fun along the way.

The Beyoncelogues

Our gorgeous and incredibly talented friend, Nina Millin, has created something that has been buzzing around the internet for the past few weeks:  The Beyoncelogues.  In them, Nina acts out dramatic interpretations of Queen B's biggest hits.  Not only are they creative, fun, and hilarious, watching Nina move and express herself is art in progress.  And since she lives in L.A., watching her is the next best thing to sitting by her side and absorbing her incredible energy.  And I love that the world is seeing her talent.

"Love, Your Cuz"

The world has lost a great dame.  Peggy Seifarth Smith passed away yesterday.  She was a great fan of this blog and my Facebook page and would always sign off her comments with "Love, Your Cuz".  Peggy and her comments will be missed.

Peggy was my 1st cousin once removed; my grandmother and Peggy's mother, Aunt Ellen, were sisters.  Peggy was instrumental in starting the Carter Family Reunion, which resulted from Granny's death back in 1987 and is still taking place every August.  She will, no doubt, be honored and remembered at the next one in a few weeks.

Always a generous person, Peggy donated her body to science.

The angels looked down from heaven one night

They searched for miles afar,

And deep within the distance

They could see a shining star.

They knew that very instant

That the star was theirs to gain,

So they took you up to heaven

Forever to remain.

Look down on us from heaven

Keep us free from hurt and pain,

You'll always be within my heart

Until we meet again.

- Anonymous

The Flower Terrorists Are Winning

We live in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago.  Admittedly, Uptown can be an interesting place to live.  Sandwiched between the gentrified neighborhoods of Lakeview, Andersonville and Edgewater, Uptown is the last "refuge of the undesirable" on the north side of the city.  It houses the largest number of mental health services in the city and it considered Ground Zero for Chicago's mental health community.  We've had our share of run-ins with the residents of our 'hood, and we've seen enough odd behavior to last us a lifetime - to which we typically shake our heads and shrug our shoulders in a "oh, Uptown" kind of way.  Since moving here in 2008, we've figured out how to navigate the weird to get to the good.

A few years ago, the condo board in our building bought two large planters to place on the sidewalk, flanking the doors into our building.  A resident planted flowers and for two days, the entrance to our building looked very nice.  For two days.  Because 48 hours later, all the flowers were gone and there was dirt all over the sidewalk.  The entrance to our building is not protected by a gate or fenced-in area.  It's directly on the sidewalk on a not-too-busy street.  In Uptown.

Apparently undeterred, another resident bought more flowers and filled the planters again.  This time, I think the plantings might have lasted a full week before disappearing.  The only items left behind in the planters were two 18" pine trees that never grew any larger.  They looked sad and barren in their large pots - a perfect representation of the neighborhood itself:  almost there, trying to show its beauty, but still looking a bit blighted and barren.

A few weeks ago, an owner of a unit in the building bought flowers and planted them in the planters and sent out an announcement to the building, patting herself on the back for generously and single-handedly beautifying the building.  After reading her message, I started my stopwatch; I knew it would be a matter of days before the new flowers would disappear.  And like clockwork, the flowers were gone 2 weeks later.  Our condo board chair expressed sadness over their disappearance and said he would replace the flowers that day.  On our discussion board, I wrote the following:

It's perhaps naive to think that unprotected plants outside the building won't get stolen again. We first learned this a few years ago when The Patricks attempted to keep plants in the planters. Unprotected by a gate or fence or even by moving them inside the vestibule, they're just going to be taken again. It's a nice gesture, but why waste your money?

The condo board chair responded with: 

Naive or not we have to keep trying to make our building and neighborhood more inviting. I have seen one of the residents of the half-way home at Racine and Leland destroy foliage at the Buddhist temple. So I am going to review the video and if I find it is one of their residents I'm going to go there with photos and place a formal complaint so that it stops. 

We cannot let ourselves be intimidated. 

I wanted to point out that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action over and over again expecting a different result.  But I digressed.  However, let me again mention that 1) the planters are completely unprotected from passing pedestrians, 2) we live in a major metropolitan city where theft and property destruction is commonplace, and 3)  we live in Uptown.  

Let me also point out that this "video" he mentions as always seems to be a bit of a Loch Ness Monster: we hear about it, but have never seen evidence of it.  We were told years ago that the video cameras in our lobby capture all the action, however neighbors in the building (and even our renter for the year we lived in Miami) all had packages stolen from the lobby at some point and asked for the video to be reviewed.  To my knowledge, that's never happened.

There are plenty of things we COULD be doing to make our building more inviting, like replacing filthy carpet tiles or power-washing the parking garage or buying decent equipment for the workout room or even not allowing an external business to smack a billboard on the side of our historic building.  These are all great uses of money and resources that can't be undone by someone on their way to the local methadone clinic.Kevin and I have joked that if we let them take the flowers, the terrorists have won.  In a world of picking and choosing your battles, this one, apparently, is a battle our condo board is completely satisfied to lose over and over again.

A 5-Year Old's View On Same Sex Marriage

On a recent trip back to the DC area, I stopped in to Kevin's sister's house to visit with her and her two kids: Quinn, who's 2.5 years old, and her big brother Griffin, who's 5.5.  Griffin and I were putzing around with PlayDoh while Kerry and I talked about wedding plans.  Griffin had apparently been listening to the conversation and decided to inquire:

Griffin:  Who's getting married?
Me:  I am.  I'm getting married.  Who do you think I should marry?
Griffin:  
Me:  Uncle Kevin.  I'm going to marry Uncle Kevin.
Griffin:  You can't marry Uncle Kevin!
Me:  Why not?
Griffin: Because you're both boys!

At this point I looked at Kerry.  Both of us had the same expression:  very wide eyes with huge smiles.

Kerry:  Griffin, in some places boys can marry boys and girls can marry girls.
Griffin:  No.
Kerry:  No?  Why no?
Griffin:  It's not allowed.
Me:  But what if I told you that in some places, it IS allowed and that some people think it's okay.
Griffin:  And then there are some people who think that its NOT okay.
Me:  Yes, there are some of those people.  What do you think those people say about it.
Griffin:  They say, 'AARRRGGGGHHHHHH!'
Me:  Well, that's about right.

Remember, Griffin is 5 years old.  All he knows of life is what he's seen in Disney movies and what he learns in kindergarten.

Griffin:    But Belle marries the Beast.
Me:  What if the Beast married Gaston instead?
Griffin:  He can't, he's a bad guy.

All he knows is that in the end, a prince marries a princess and they live together forever.  But the really amazing thing is that Kevin and I got together about 3 years before Griffin was even born.  He's known me all his life.  He knows that Kevin and I live together in Chicago.  And it never occurred to me or Kevin or even Kerry that Griffin apparently just thinks of me as family without any other context.  It's apparently never occurred to him that Kevin and I are a couple just like his mom and dad, or like Grandma and Grandpa (Kevin's parents).  Or perhaps, if in kindergarten he has learned what an uncle or aunt is, he may just think I am Kerry's brother also.  Ultimately, Griffin just doesn't know any different.  It's the most wonderful and sweet kind of ignorance, free of judgment and open to discussion.

After I left, I took a detour to a bookstore to buy Griffin a copy of And Tango Make Three, a true story about two male penguins in Central Park Zoo.  The book is at least an introduction to the subject.  And it might come in handy a few years from now when Quinn is trying to figure things out, too.

Kerry continued the conversation casually with Griffin throughout the day, and Kevin called Griffin later once he heard about what happened.  By then, Griffin was accepting of the idea and was actually planning on marrying his best friend.  He said they would live in a house and play zombies and Angry Birds all day.  Which, on some Sundays, is exactly what Kevin and I do, too.

Swapping Positions Back

In follow up to this post from two weeks ago, I wanted to report that we lasted about 5 days.  Neither of us was sleeping very well after we had swapped sides on the bed.  So before the week was up, we switched back and we both and our first good night's sleep in days.

There was a study completed a few years ago that deduced that people who sleep on the left side of the bed (if you are standing at the foot of the bed) are more likely to be cheerful that their partner who sleeps on the right side.  This would make total sense for us.  Kevin is far more cheerful than I.  Hell, a sack of flour can sometimes be more cheerful than I.

In any event, we gave it a shot and realized that things were fine the way they were.  Kevin will just have to keep putting on a heavier blanket to deal with the AC and I will continue to sleep with just a sheet.

But at least we will both be sleeping!

I've Hit 600 Posts!

Yesterday, I checked some stats on my Blogger account and realized that the my most recent post was also my 600th post on this blog.  I've unbelievably posted 600 different thoughts, ideas, and situations over the past 9 years on this blog.

Back in 2006, I recounted the reason I began the blog in the first place and was excited about how far I would go and where the blogging would lead.  And in 2007, I celebrated my 2nd Blogiversary, recounting all the wonderful things that had happened to me since starting this project two years prior.

Lots of you have been with me every step of the way since.  I've gained new friends and lost some old ones.  Life happens.  And I can easily look back through my blog and watch my life ... well, happen.

Thanks for continuing on this journey with me.  I'm sure I have another 600 things I want to talk about over the years to come.  The passenger seat may be permanently assigned now, but there's a welcoming back seat that all your's.