A Day in the Life, Part VISweet Home Chicago?

And then:

The anti-climax.


A return to the city with the highest sales-tax in the nation; the worst postal system of all major cities; and government corruption that serves as a backdrop for Gotham City.


[Not to mention, the astoundingly empty apartment.]


But it's not all bad. There are free festivals. Bike trails galore. Forest preserves, a beautiful skyline and storms powerful enough to transform downtown into a land of Oz.


Monday night, for example, the Lightening Detection Network — who knew such a thing existed?! — recorded 90,000 bolts of lightning in northern Illinois (essentially, the Chicagoland area).

That's a year's worth of lightning in a single night. And I'll tell you — it was an amazing sight (terrifying, even) to witness.


But this summer, otherwise mild, has had its share of freak storms... including one early June that ruined countless pieces at the Printer's Row Book Fair and sent a friend and I running for cover (but not before we helped a few sellers try to protect their goods).

Sirens were wailing all around us,



And by the storm's end, sellers were offering books as discounted prices — or discounting them altogether.


And I thought there was something strangely... poetic... in this juxtaposition of a syllabus and a trash can...

and a mysterious foe.

Particularly in a land I can never quite call home. A city I at once love and hate with equal ferocity. A land I refer to, in my loneliest moments, as the city of Cold Shoulders.

(With apologies to Carl Sandburg.)

But this is it. This is where I have been, and where I am. It's where I go at the end of the day, and where I return after vacations and camping trips and — yes — a 3,000 mile sojourn to the Pacific.


But, why, then, cannot I not refer to this place as "home"


And actually mean it?

What's Shakin', Chicago?

So in the past week we've had a mountain lion wander into the city — despite being considered "extinct" in this region — and an earthquake.

I've received a few e-mails asking me if the tremors interrupted my beauty sleep, so I thought I'd post a little something here:

No, I didn't feel anything. The fault is way south of here, though apparently the tremors did shake the skyscrapers and definitely caught the attention of Chicagoans already awake at that hour.

Some of my co-workers were among that group. And my family about 150 miles due southeast woke up rather early this morning, my sister thinking a big truck was speeding along the street; my mother thinking a massive wind was shaking their little home.

But otherwise: no odd stories, no personal accounts.

As for that cougar... they determined it was, in fact, wild (and not some escaped pet) and it's beginning to look like it may have friends.

A whole new reason to take pepper spray whilst jogging. I hear they hate being jabbed in the eye and/or being shot six times by the police.*


*Though I'd have preferred a tranquilizer gun be used to spare the creature's life, I also understand the police (though I am not normally one to jump to the CPD's defense) did what they felt they had to do at the time. And, besides, after one shot you better keep firing: only thing worse than a healthy — albeit frightened — mountain lion lost in a city is an angry, wounded one.

Of Fog & Perspective

It is overcast here today. Rainy, high of 42 with a nearly constant drizzle appearing out of a fog that seems rather at home, drifting along busy city streets.


It was like that this weekend, when I was served by a waiter named Jesus (employee number: 42) before returning to the cool morning air.


It's cold and wet — certainly not beach weather — but never once does it occur to me that it's awful.

And yet those were among the first words I heard this morning, working my way through a labyrinth of desks in search of my own.


It's so ugly out, they said. What an awful day.

And I have to admit — having spent yesterday with my glasses constantly coated in rainwater — that this weather has its cons.


But ugly? Or awful?


You're looking at it all wrong.

An Open Letter to Mother Nature

Dear Mum,

I have long supported you when others accused you of cruel indifference; I've even jumped to your defense when co-workers referred to you as "poor-mannered" and "unkind."

Truth is, for the most part I rather appreciate your work — thunderstorms, steady rains, and large snowflakes especially.

But I've noticed recently that you don't call up snow on the weekends or other sundry days off. Rather, we seem to only be getting snow and ice storms on weekdays (or late Sunday night, into early Monday morning), just before the morning commute, or during the return trip in the afternoon.

This is getting little short of ridiculous, particularly in an area that should be prepared for this sort of thing but seems nevertheless to be infested with idiot drivers and inadequate winter road maintenance.

So I beg of you, please, let's bring this insanity to an end. By all means, give us your snow — but please reconsider your hours so that your few remaining supporters might continue to have reason to stand in the defense of you and your Four Seasons.

Yours always,

The Third Worst Poet

November's Rent

She followed close behind him, the floor boards creaking as they made their way down the stairs of her apartment.

"I have meetings all day today," he said, mitigating the seriousness of their conversation. "Not looking forward to that at all."

She nodded, stopping to gaze out of the front door as he opened it.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Why are you looking like that?"

She was struck, suddenly and painfully, by the obvious:


Time is passing.


"It snowed," she said. "It snowed, and it's only November."

They looked at each other — and then away — and continued walking in silence, arms interlocked and feet kicking up bits of white dust. Elsewhere along the road, the remnants of an interrupted autumn dangled from the occasional limb.

"See you later?" he said, opening her car door.

"Yeah," she said, staring at the ground and clearing a circle with her feet.

She looked up.

"See you later."

She climbed in around him, started (and stopped) to kiss his cheek, and drove away.

When Common Sense and Fashion Clash

I'll be the first to admit I'm not the most fashionble person. I prefer comfort to style, even if that means wearing my Keen walking shoes into the ground, and donning the occasional pair of overalls. To me, "doing my hair" when it's shorter means throwing on a patch-quilt bandana or a hat. When it's longer, I'll pull it back into a couple braids... and then put on a bandana or a hat. I still wear those old school baseball t-shirts, and I'm a HUGE fans of soft, hooded sweatshirts.

Sure, I'll dress up from time to time... I don't even mind flowery dresses. And I wouldn't even say I'm completely ignorant when it comes to fashion sense: I like to think I know what looks good... but I generally make sure that whatever I wear is comfortable, fairly simple, and not too tight. Point being, I'm not exactly a follower of the runway, and the winter months are no exception.

When this time of year comes around, I'll wear whatever is warmest. And by the time the thermostat drops to 40F or below, you can rest assured I'm throwing on a warm hat before I leave my place (usually the green one with Oscar the Grouch's face around the rim). I don't care if it "messes up my hair." I want to be warm.

I never realized what a novel concept that was until this past Christmas, when my mother — the same mother who always forced me to "button up" and "put on a hat" when I was a kid — told me she wanted a matching scarf and gloves as part of her Christmas.

Matching scarf and gloves. No hat.

And the more I thought about that, the more I realized I hadn't seen my mother in a hat since one of my family's last snowmobiling adventures in the early 80s.

Now, granted, my mother comes from a generation that believes in feathering, teasing, fluffing and curling their hair before any adventure outdoors. So I can understand not wanting to undo all of that hardwork with one foul swoop of a sockcap. I mean, it takes her about 20 minutes (and a bottle of White Rain) to do her hair, which compares to my 5. I don't really have a lot of time invested in the whole ordeal, so there's not much damage a hat can do.

But, still, there's got to come a point where common sense takes over, a woman says "Screw the hair!" and throws on some wool contraption to lock in the heat. Right?

Right?

Apparently not. You see, after the matching scarf and gloves, it was only $5 more to throw in the matching hat. So I did. And I commented to my mother, even as she opened the package, that I knew she didn't really wear hats, but figured she may as well have the complete set... just in case.

Jump ahead to this past weekend, where my mother boasted that during a recent walk in 10F temperatures, the only thing to get cold was her nose and, yes,... her ears.

"Were you wearing a hat, Mom?"

She just looked at me.

***
Yesterday while running errands, I noticed a cute little girl — maybe 2 or 3 years-old — wearing a fleece bunny suit (essentially, footed pajamas complete with a hat and floppy rabbit ears), sitting in comfort in an otherwise cold, metal shopping cart. Her mother was pushing her through the parking lot, and the girl was untouched by the cold.

But as for her mother... her mother was wearing a waist-length leather jacket. Her ears were beet red as she pushed her way through -7F temperatures and a cool breeze.

She was, as you've likely suspected, not wearing a hat. But her hair did look rather cute.
***So over the past few days, I've been taking note of such things. And I've noticed that for about every 10 females I've seen, only about 3 are wearing hats.

For those of you keeping notes... it's dipped as low as -25F with the windchill this week. And for those of you who've never experienced weather like that: it's friggin' cold. Definitely, and most assuredly, hat-wearing weather.

Or so I thought.