Nothing interesting ever happens to me anymore.

My apologies to both of you.  But it's okay, right, because everyone thinks my kid is amazing.

This is my dog watching the "Dog Whisperer" show.  Yes, really.  Yes, I was watching it too, so it's not like I turned on the TV just for her.

The cow says "muczeć."

I found this child's toy at a secondhand baby-thing store here in Chicago.  Pictured there is a Polish cow.  A krowka, if you will.  I almost bought it, but I thought that was a great deal of trouble and plastic just to teach my kid a few words of Polish.  All I really need to do is drop him off at about 2500 North, somewhere west of the Kennedy and tell him to make his way back home.

It really does bother me quite a lot.

Reminder: The "Saving" in "Daylight Saving Time" is singular, not plural.

Please be forewarned that if you complain about the end of Daylight Savings Time, then I will be silently judging your poor diction in addition to your weak character.

Thank you for your attention.

As heard on the El platform

Conductor: "All aboard for the Brown Line experience."

Was he high, or does he just have a great sense of humor? Could have been both. Fortunately, I didn't have to get on that train.

Sure, why not?

My dog isn't too bright.  With that in mind, please make a quick mental list of the things you think she might rub up against after a bath, in order to get dry.  Ready?  I bet you didn't come up with her own reflection in the mirrored closet doors.

Oh, dog.

Where? Who knows.

I'm going through a stack of a couple hundred postcards I just found in a box downstairs.  They were originally purchased on eBay for the purpose of decorating my awesome vintage travel-flavored wedding.  I'm doing what I wanted to when I first bought them, but didn't have the time -- read through all the messages on the ones that were actually sent.  Here's a gem:

On the front: Photo of Radio City Music Hall, NY NY
Postmark: Not readable, but internet stamp dorks tell me that the FDR $0.06 stamp was issued in 1966.
Message:

Hi Mary, we got to N.Y. this morning about 8:30.  We went to the top of the Empire State Bldg. this afternoon. Stood in line about 1 1/2 hrs. Tonite we are going out -- Where? Who knows.
Love Mom & Dad

Can't you just hear the giddiness?

Update:  Mary appears to be on Facebook.  I think I may have just found a new obsession.  Let me finish sorting these, and I'll let both of my readers know whether I'm going to be Facebook Creeper Postcard Santa.

There's something in my brain

...that's (nearly) not on the Internet!  Does this constitute an emergency? Is there someone I can call? Am I under some sort of obligation to begin a Wikipedia stub article? This has never happened to me before!  I mean, if a fact isn't found on the internet, does it really exist?  I reckon I'll blog about it, and at least then it will be crawled and cached by Google's friendly little bots*.

I am the proud conservator and curator of thousands, maybe even hundreds, of nearly-useless facts.  Were I to categorize these facts into broad areas, I might go with "the natural world," "cultural oddities," and "crap that will somehow never come in handy in a pub trivia quiz, but will bubble up in an irritating know-it-all fashion when talking with friends."  For example:

• The correct way to eat asparagus stalks at a fancy dinner is to pick them up with your fingers.
• The Masai people of Kenya get a good portion of their protein by bleeding their cows and mixing said blood with milk. 
• The Wrigley Load

Now, I bet you were nodding your head while reading the first two things.  Sure, the asparagus thing makes sense, and anyone who took Honors Geography at Fullerton High School knows more about the Masai than about their own family.  But the Wrigley Load? Oh no.  Not on the internet at all, save for one mention in what appears to be a fiction novel.

I was yammering at Chris the other day about something, and I brought up the Wrigley Load.  He had heard me mention it before, but finally called me out.  "I believe you, but I'm going to need some internet backup on this alleged Load," he said.  Always glad to be proven right, off I went to the computer.  And... nothing.  Just the aforementioned book mention, in Turn of the Century by Kurt Andersen.  Based on his description of the Load, which is crap, I'd recommend against the book as a whole. You've seen the Load all your life on TV ads -- it's how marketing people decided gum should be introduced to a mouth.  To Load properly, one grasps an unwrapped piece of gum at one end, opens one's mouth just wide enough to receive gum, touches the free end of gum to one's lower teeth, then continues to apply inward pressure with the gum-holding hand until it bends double and disappears inside the mouth.  One is then contractually obligated to make big TV eyes and smile irrepressibly.

Anyway, I've known this move to be called the Wrigley Load for years now.  I have no idea where I learned this fact, but I will remember it long after I've forgotten my child's name (I will just refer to him as "Danger") and the year the Cubs won the World Series (2035, with H. Arehart on shortstop).  I now present this Juicy Fruit commercial, which was ubiquitous in the 1980s.  It generously features the Load at :08, :17, and :22.  You will be humming this stupid song for the rest of the day.  You're welcome.


Juicy Fruit.  Available where you buy groceries.

*Who, in my mind, look like the Nanites from MST3K.

"La la la!"

WHYYYYYYY????

My child started napping sometime earlier this morning.  Based on previous nap experience, I expected him to awaken shortly after I finished folding a bunch of laundry.  But he didn't.  Figuring he'd still probably wake shortly, I sat down at the computer to participate in the internet for a while.  Still nothing.  Then, it dawned on me -- ZOMG I COULD STUFF LUNCH IN MY FACE.  GO GO GO

Normally, I would be using this space to complain about how a completed ham sandwich, sitting on a plate, is what activates a napping child.  And then I'd be all, WHYYYYYYYYYY?  But in this case, I stuffed said sandwich in my face and he's still asleep.  I'm certainly not complaining, and I don't think I'm gloating either.  It's more like I don't know what to do with myself right now.

This must be what it feels like to work in an emergency room on a day when nobody comes in.

A long way from home

You know you're not in LA any more when you turn on the local evening news on a holiday weekend Friday and see a perky reporter doing a live standup from the side of the packed freeway.

That's right, they sent out a news team and satellite truck to do a report on traffic.

You'll be surprised how this post ends with obsessing about corn syrup.

Sometimes, there will be a little marketing catchphrase that gets my attention in such a way that once I've heard it, I'm incapable of focusing on the product at hand.  These little phrases have clearly been focus-grouped to within an inch of their lives, and with the assistance of millions of dollars to boot.  Obviously they're effective, else they wouldn't be used so damn often.  Once I tell you which one I'm thinking of, start listening for it in commercials and in print ads -- I bet you'll hear or see it at least three times in the next week.

"Powdermilk Biscuits, made from whole wheat raised in the rich bottomlands of the Lake Wobegon river valley by Norwegian bachelor farmers, so you know they're not only good for you, but also pure, mostly.  Look for them in the big blue box with the picture of a biscuit on the front of it.  Available where you buy groceries."

First of all, my apologies to Garrison Keillor for implying that the noble Powdermilk Biscuit company would stoop to using such vacant ad copy as this.

Second of all, how on earth did "they" decide that "where you buy groceries" was the best way to encourage people to look for and purchase the item in question?  It's the sort of non-specific framing that might accompany a general-audience mention of religion.  "Your place of worship."  That makes perfect sense, since just about everyone's got one, but they're called lots of different things.  But "where you buy groceries"?  I don't know about you, but I buy groceries at the store.  The grocery store.  Sure, you might call it "the grocery," "the market," "the food market," or even, improbably, the "grocery food market store," but I'm sure nobody would be too confused with any of these interchangeable terms.

Now, if they'd prefer to go with the also-popular "available in the _______ section," I'm with them.  How much of your life have you wasted wandering through the aisles at the place where you buy groceries, looking for one thing that you've never bought before and have no idea where it lives?  The manufacturer of the product is really helping out in this case.

Pop quiz --  where in the place where you buy groceries do they keep the corn syrup?

Corn syrup quiz answer:  Next to all the pancake syrup.  I know that's wrong because nobody should be putting corn syrup on their pancakes.  This is not 1950, everybody.  Please move the corn syrup to its rightful location with the rest of the baking ingredients.  I recommend just beneath the shredded coconut. Yeah, bottom shelf is fine.  Great.  Now take this pricing gun and go mark up all the junk food sky-high, and make healthy stuff dirt cheap.  Now run, because Big Corn's a-coming for us!!!

Funny story -- I went looking for an old corn syrup ad, one that shows a scrappy young boy pouring clear gooey corn syrup all over his hotcakes, and found this instead.  It turns out that in 1910, 101 years ago, we still had to be told where to buy things.  But you'll notice they just go with the most common sense approach.

Henry's room

Here's a few pictures of Henry's room.  I'd still like to paint another picture for behind the crib, but that will have to wait for just the right weekend when I can spare a few hours and be covered in paint for a while.

I got the idea for the bird mobile from this site, and was pleased to find I could make it without using the eyehooks they suggested.  Both Chris and I have done well in not yet poking out our eyes, but we don't want to move it up because we like how it looks.  We'll raise it up quite a bit when Henry can sit up on his own, and then when he's too old for it, we may just move it elsewhere in the house.  It represents many, many evening hours on the couch, handsewing stupid little birds.

16 June -- Bloomsday once again.

And someday, someday I'll make it back to Dublin on this day.  I first read Ulysses ten years ago* during a cold January trip to Dublin -- armed with the Cliff's Notes to help me through the nasty bits (and there are many), I sat on a bench in St. Stephen's Green for a while each day, watching the ducks slide across the frozen pond and trying to figure out what in God's holy name Joyce was getting at.  Then, when it got too cold to sit still, I'd walk somewhere else and read some more. It's a thick read, to be sure.  But it was terrific fun for a dork like me to walk the same streets and know that not much had changed in 80 years.

Today is Bloomsday.  The whole baffling entirety of Ulysses takes place on the 16th of June, so every year on this day Leopold Bloom's steps are traced through Dublin city, with readings and costumes galore.  Davy Byrne's pub probably does more business that day than the rest of the year combined, and can likely charge whatever the hell they want for a gorgonzola sandwich and a glass of burgundy.

At any rate, I was leafing through my backpack-worn, strawberry yogurt-stained** copy of my book, looking for bits to post on Facebook so I could class the place up a bit.  To my delight, I found the following:

• A brochure for Big Pit National Mining Museum of Wales -- presumably picked up only for use as a bookmark, because not only did I not visit Wales on that trip, but I reckon the BPNMMW would factor in kind of low on my Welsh must-see list.
• A piece of paper, written on in pencil in my handwriting: "'Be humble, for you are made of earth; be noble, for you are made of stars.' -- Serbian proverb." A lovely sentiment. I'm glad I saved it for myself.
• A ticket stub for Cast Away at the Savoy Cinema on January 12, 2001.  I seem to remember we were quite a large group that night.  Very, very good times. 

* Wow.
**I don't know if Avalon House still serves the best hostel breakfast in town, but back then it was enough food to stash away some for snack later. Note -- delicate yogurt cups should be stored in a different bag pocket than hardcover books.

Solidarity! And at least one liar.

I've been home now with this little monkey for just about three months, and the long-term effects are beginning to settle in.  For example, I have a really hard time talking to adults.  It's not that I use baby talk with Henry, because I don't, but more that I've forgotten how to regulate both rate and length of conversation coming out of my mouth.  It's probably because I don't get to go outside very much.

If I go to the post office, the clerk might have to repeat a question a couple of times because I've forgotten how to do "post office" things in favor of reprogramming my brain to be able to change a baby's clothes in the middle of the night without either party falling to the floor crying.  It's a skill.  Alternatively, I'll find myself at a house party, talking to someone and suddenly, inside my head, I'll hear myself and say, "Self, shut the hell up. Even I am tired of listening to you."  So on the outside, it looks like me talking a whole bunch, then stopping and apologizing, then realizing I have nothing else to say.  I am now the awkward person at your party, trying desperately to apply mustard to a bratwurst while holding a squirmy baby. Nobody wants to talk to that person. I don't blame them.

See, even now I've forgotten where the hell I was going with all this.  Oh, right. Okay, so I'm really excited to start going to a new group tomorrow that's all first-time, stay-at-home moms.  It's 8 or 9 ladies and their babies, all getting together at someone's house every Wednesday for three weeks. I'm far too excited for my own good, because 1) it's something to go to that is not inside my house and 2) everyone else will be just about as clinically retarded as I am.

It feels like the first day of classes at a new school, wondering if I'll make any friends and whether I'll fit in. The host emailed everyone, asking us to reply and say a little bit about ourselves and the kids, etc.  I was afraid I was going to have to read emails from a bunch of Mommybots -- you know, the ones that go, "Little MycKyhnzyie is the greatest gift I've ever been given.  From the moment I saw her, we just fell in love with each other and every waking second since her birth has been indescribably precious and joyful." For those of you who haven't had any children, I am here to tell you that that's the fattest line of horseshit ever. Ever. And for those of you who have had children and been deceitful enough to say anything like this in hopes of making yourselves sound like a better person, I hope you're ashamed of yourself.

That whole last paragraph goes better if you read it out loud in the voice of Lewis Black, featured in the "Back in Black" segments on The Daily Show. Wait, I'll go put in a picture.  There.  Now, if you've read it out loud with the right amount of vitriol, I'll give you a second to wipe the rage-induced spittle from your screen.

The good news, if it can be called that, is that everyone else seems just about as overwhelmed, bitter, and lonely as I am, with the exception of one woman whose email approached Mommybot status. I shall not judge her quite yet, and shall assume that she'll be more honest in person. But really, I'm so very excited to meet people just like me.  It must be what kids at the Special Olympics feel like.

How far away does it have to be to count?

On the side of the Stoned Wheat Thins box, it says, in big letters, "IMPORTED." Curious to find the source of my mid-morning whole grain fix, I turned the box over to find out what country they came from.

Canada.

What a letdown.  That's like saying that come Thanksgiving or so, you'll import your Christmas decorations up from the basement.

What is wrong with people?

I've seen two different examples of this now. In a commercial for dishwasher soap, a tiny construction crew bulldozes away a thick layer of baked-on lasagna. Then, at the bottom of the screen, appears the word DRAMATIZATION.

I cannot fathom the details of the potential lawsuit they think they're avoiding.

It ain't irony, but it's funny.

For the last few days on Facebook, many of my female acquaintances have been sending around some video advocating that staying out of the sun when you're young is a good thing.  They've all been treating it like Serious Business, using the reverential tones of voice that are usually reserved for other Serious Business such as breast cancer awareness or autism awareness or butthole awareness or anything else that might be haphazardly attached to a 5k/8k Fun Run/Walk For Awareness.

I haven't watched the video, because I'm well aware that sun safety is key to my face not looking like twice-baked roadkill.  Also, I hate participating in Facebook conversations that sound like Serious Business, because they're usually stupid.  So I thought this was funny.  Please note that the highlighted post was posted around the same time as the Sun Awareness post by complete coincidence.

For Henry's room

My only regret is that I didn't originally intend to put a body in there -- it was just supposed to be a monkey head and hands sticking out of the grass.  So once I put a body in, there was no room for feet.  But other than that, I reckon this is more pleasing than a storebought piece of themey wall art crap.  It is to me, anyway.

Please don't be alarmed, as I was, by the creepy claw-like reflection in the bookcase behind the painting. That's just me taking the picture.  But wow, gross.

Fun Game: Spot the Urban Hippies

Hey kids! Can you spot the five things in the picture below that make this particular city deck stand out as belonging to Urban Hippies?  Set a timer for 30 seconds, and... GO!

[you should be hearing a tinny rendition of "Girl From Ipanema" right now]

Time's up!

Let's see how many you got right. From top left, clockwise:
1. Freshly laundered cloth diapers, drying naturally but very very slowly due to crap springtime weather
2. Bottles being saved up for homebrew
3. Tomato plants that we're hoping work out better than last year
4. Recycling
5. Cloth diaper covers, positioned to receive what little sunlight we get on our fake deck
6. This last thing is the trick item -- it's not indicative of Urban Hippies at all.  Where on earth are you supposed to store these stupid baby bath sponge things?  We dry it outside, then by the time it's dry, we need to use it again.  So I guess this would be indicative of an Urban Redneck or something.

"In every job that must be done..."

... there is an element of fun. You find that fun and, snap! The job's a game!"
-- Mary Poppins, "Spoonful of Sugar"

It's also creepy sometimes.  I was folding the laundry today, which was the last of my three daily goals (element of fun part 2: make a list). As I tried and failed to fit five more white socks into Chris' white sock drawer*, I decided to take all of them out to reclaim all the socks he steals from me organize them into pairs.  Before I started, I guessed I would end up with the laughably large number of 27 pairs of socks.

So, I sorted and matched, and piled up the pairs without counting, savoring the moment I would find out how close I was. Have I mentioned I've got very little going for me in the way of excitement these days? I ended up with two pairs in the garbage due to holes, five unmated socks, and... exactly 27 pairs of matched socks.

I am hoping that analytical sock pairing precognition is only the first of many superpowers I can hope to attain as a mother.



*Who says I never let my two readers hear the sordid details of my personal life?  Yes, Chris has two sock drawers: "white" and "other."  Fun fact: socks can be, and in fact are, manufactured in at least 7 shades of tan.

Happy sixth birthday, Funundrum.

I'm celebrating by dragging this blog, kicking and screaming, into the era of "Share" buttons and updated posting gadgets.  Yaaay!!

My mind moves in mysterious ways

Last night, we watched a couple shows on Netflix about the making of various seminal rock albums.  One was Queen's "A Night at the Opera," and the other was U2's "The Joshua Tree." I then proceeded to have the following dream, set in the present day:  someone affiliated with U2 thought it would be hilarious to fill the studio with band member lookalikes representing their various fashions through the decades.

This quickly got out of hand, because when the band walked in the door, the room was filled with risers creaking under the weight of at least 300 men, all grouped into individual U2lets and dressed and coiffed appropriately.  All the albums were represented, as well as costumes from major tours and even videos for most of the singles.  Everyone was singing "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." The people organizing the stunt quickly realized that there aren't that many true lookalikes out there, so they had resorted to tactics like stuffing a purple stocking cap on a dude who looked like Larry the Cable Guy, and calling it "Zoo TV Edge."

Listen, for a superfan like me, it was a hilarious dream.

On the Royal Wedding

...because as per Blogging Law (or Blaws, if you will, and I certainly encourage you not to), I'm required to make a statement. I certainly didn't intend to wake up specifically to watch the thing, but I figured, correctly so, that feeding the child would coincide with a good deal of the main action. When I got up at 3:30, I was saddened to find that my DVR had not begun to record, so I lost about a half hour of ridiculous hat coverage. Admittedly, that's 60% of why I watch formal British events, but still, I chalked it up as a loss and moved on.

Our neighbors across the street have such a large TV, we can always see when it's on and often tell what they're watching. I got a small, warm feeling of solidarity seeing their living room also ablaze with the glory of Westminster Abbey... until I realized that they're losing sleep ON PURPOSE to watch this bullshit, and I'm up whether or not I want to be (hint: I don't).

Kate's dress: lovely -- lace on top, pleats on the bottom, a vintage dream. Why on earth couldn't they have gotten married and done this dress more than three years ago? Think of the knockoffs I would have been able to get!

Hats: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Looking at you, Princess Beatrice. The best part is that I reckon it cost a small fortune.

QE2: Also lovely. I'm no hardcore royalist or anything, but can you imagine a nicer lady to be your ceremonial head of state? That is, I assume she's nice. I guess it would be even better for her to have a hidden mean streak.

This has been my shoddy Royal Wedding recap. I can now safely go back to ignoring British government until the coronation of ol' Jug Ears.

Important Update:

Update update:

Bad Copy of the Day Award: Submitter's Choice

Item 1

My brother-in-law Kenny sent this along, and I'm sorry to say I didn't read it close enough at first because I was so tickled by the ridiculous premise. He was at his local Baja Fresh, callously enjoying delicious California-style Mexican foodstuffs with little, if any, sympathy for those of us who have moved outside the Western Pico de Gallo Zone. The item in question was a "did you know" style sign, as follows:

"HEALTHY HEAT -- Chile peppers contain capsaicin, the compound that gives chile peppers their heat has been found to inhibit the growth of cancer cells."

Mmmm, round and round we go, and it never makes any more sense. It's like a factoid Mobius strip.

Item 2

I told you that story so I could tell you this story. My mom read about the Native Verbers in a previous post and shared with me:

"It reminded me of a sign (marquee) that drove us crazy. It was in front of a restaurant in Chula Vista, when we lived there. It invited people to 'Mother's Day with us' or 'Father's day with us,' etc. Never did use the word 'spend'. Maybe they didn't have a capital S."

Thanks for the Bad Copy of the Day Time Warp, Mom.

Chicago hot dog humor

We dropped into a new (to us) hot dog place this last weekend. The dogs were okay, and it's in a convenient location to some of our regular chores, so we may be back. Please do not take this to mean that you, upon visiting Chicago, should eat a Chicago dog at any place but Flub a Dub Chub's Hot Dog Emporium ("Come in hungry, leave with a chubby"). That would be an incorrect assumption. Man, I love that place.

At any rate, this other place had the usual list of hot dog variations with funny names -- but my favorite description, the one that earned this place a blog post, was the Blagojevich Dog: "Chicago style with ketchup (guilty on one count)." It had us giggling for a while. Of all the things that go on a Chicago dog, ketchup ain't one of them, and of all the crap Blago was accused of, he was only convicted on one lousy count. It's hot dog synergy at its finest.

As you can see by the last few posts, I've been cleaning out the ol' CrapCam. I actually quite like this picture for its negligible-but-present aesthetic value. I took this while waiting for Chris to use the ATM in the lobby of the bank near our house. That spot on the floor is caused by thousands of pairs of shoes shedding a bit of salted slush from outside.

The call is coming from inside the bathtub.

We love watching the news on WGN. It's oh-so-Chicagoey, and they strike just the right balance of professionalism befitting the nation's second city vs. C-list reporters who couldn't make it on the west coast. B-list, really. For C-list talent you have to go to a market like Las Vegas, where at least two prime time news anchors have lazy eyes. I am not making this up.

Most of the time, on the 9 o'clock news, WGN leads with national stories, followed by whatever the big news in Chicago is. There are two (count them!) weather segments, because weather is Serious Business here, and sports at the end (hint: the goddamn Cubs lost again).

Sometimes, a story like this comes up:

She actually led off the story by saying that police were looking for a "short, orange-skinned boy who goes by the name Ernie." Yes, really. The story is that 2,500 rubber ducks have gone missing from a suburban police academy. They were to be used for a fundraiser. So they went with the Ernie angle, naturally.

Government torture

No, it's not quite Gitmo, but still. This poster was on the wall of the hospital room where Henry and I were living for a few days.
I guess I should have taken a closeup, but I don't know if the CrapCam could have handled it. The poster features several Native American children who are all verbing in one way or another. Mountain Bike, Dogsled, Shawldance... you know, verbs. As far as I could tell, the verbs on this poster were sponsored by some government committee to get kids to do stuff. Verb-wise.

It drove Chris NUTS that so many of the things on that list weren't verbs at all, like basketball and soccer. My sticking point was that the website doesn't work anymore. How the hell am I supposed to verb, native style or otherwise, without access to VERBnow.com?

When two feet of snow melts

It magically turns into nothing but garbage and dog crap. It's like a miracle, but gross.

Panhandler of the day

I passed a Gentleman of the Street yesterday afternoon, who asked me for some change, as is according to custom. I smiled, and said no, but wasn't prepared for his most excellent response:

"If you wasn't so tall, I'd marry you. ...You a little tall."

Headline of the day for evoking unintended imagery

A CNN followup story about the overdue resignation of Egyptian president Mubarak is headlined as follows:

"Longtime spy chief now atop Egyptian pyramid"

Here's what I immediately imagined -- you tell me if you're thinking the same thing.

"Chicago Dibs" comes to Argyle Street

After we moved here, we heard about a decades-old tradition of "dibs" that pops up every winter in some Chicago neighborhoods. The rules go like this: after a big snow, if you're parked on the street, you have to shovel out your car, before the snow hardens into a nasty ice cocoon around your vehicle. It's a lot of work. Once you've shoveled out said car and drive it somewhere else, you may hold your spot with any old crap you've got sitting around -- favorite items are lawn chairs, buckets, and sawhorses. This way your hard-earned spot is still there when you come back. Should someone else move your crap and take your spot, it is acceptable to seek revenge upon the offending car. Revenge may include, but is not limited to, "icing" the vehicle with repeated applications of a garden hose, shoveling several feet of snow back on top of the car, and in more anger-prone individuals, keying and even breaking windows.

Yeah, I think it sounds really childish too. This is our third winter in Chicago, and every year I hear stories and see pictures of "dibs," but up until now have never seen it with my own eyes. I guess it took two feet of snow for the practice to make its way to Argyle Street -- from what everyone tells me, this is a lot more common in the western and southern neighborhoods.

Here you've got a CrapCam view of the spot in question. This person has chosen to adorn their parking spot with two or three doors. No, I don't know where you get spare doors.

A few more blizzard pictures

Maggie and I tromped all the way across our side of Lincoln Park in the hopes of finding a beaten path. I soon realized that it was all knee-deep for quite a ways in each direction. The best option was to get out onto Lake Shore Drive and keep going. It's certainly not something one gets to do very often -- the drive was closed in both directions for a little over a day. Just south of us, the northbound lanes were clogged up with hundreds of abandoned cars that had to be towed one by one.

What a view! You can see the Hancock tower from where we are.

Here we are trying to find a way down onto the street... but when the snow's as high as a bicycle wheel, it's tough going.

And still, people had already gotten out and shoveled so the sidewalks were pretty clear. It's called the City that Works for a reason.

The Blizzard of 2011

...one week later. It really was as huge as they were forecasting -- this storm ended up being the third largest blizzard in recorded Chicago history, which is saying something. Chris and I both got a day and a half off of work, amazing in a city that doesn't shut down. It just doesn't. The last time locals remember getting a snow day was in 1999, and even the public schools didn't shut down for that storm.

We ended up with about two feet of snow, I reckon. It's so hard to say once you see the huge difference in drift heights. O'Hare got just over 20 inches, so we definitely got more on account of the lake effect snow.

Maggie and I headed out last Wednesday afternoon, a couple hours after the snow stopped, to take some pictures for posterity.

I took this last one out the window of our back deck -- we got enough sunshine to barely melt the snow in the window, so it curled around on itself. So pretty!

Is it hunkering down or bracing?

I think it's the former for hurricanes, the latter for snowstorms. Now that's sorted. We're bracing for the Great Blizzard of 2011 here in Chicago, where they're forecasting anywhere from 14 to 23 inches of snow, accompanied by sustained winds of 45 MPH, with gusts up to 60 MPH. My office closed at 1, and we're not coming in at all tomorrow. To give you a good idea of how serious that is, most people had to go back to 1999 to remember the last time my company had a full-on snow day.

So that's pretty awesome.

I just got back from the grocery store, which is packed, and I'm somewhat disappointed to report that there's plenty of milk available. I didn't even need milk -- I just went over to the dairy aisle hoping to see a vast wasteland bereft of milk. At the risk of sounding like Jerry Seinfeld, what is the deal with people needing huge quantities of milk before a storm? WHY MILK? Also, orange juice and toilet paper.

Oh, you want to know what I had to rush over to the store to buy before the Huge Whiteout of the Decade. Yeahhhh... about that. I subscribe to a little different philosophy than the milk/TP people. I came back laden with Oreos, Ruffles, and Cheez-Its. And mac and cheese, bacon, and eggs for "real food" options. I know, that sounds way better than the juice-having household, right?

Maybe I'll change once I'm a mom, but I really really doubt it. Old hurricane-preparedness tactics from one's twenties die hard. The kid will be lucky I don't want to open all the windows to avoid a glass blowout.

The internet wins. Again

I've been busy being pregnant. That always means something different, depending on exactly how pregnant I've been. For a while, I was busy being tired, then busy doing all the stuff I had wanted to do when I was busy being tired. After that, I was busy going home for Christmas so people could look at me being pregnant. Then I was busy being pregnant in Hawaii, which was nice. We've also been busy gutting and renovating our kitchen and spare bathroom, which has very little to do with being pregnant, other than wanting to get it done before I'm done being busy being pregnant.

Now. One of the things I was busy doing, aside from all that, was retaining and working with a doula, which I wish everybody knew about but it turns out very people do. A doula is a labor coach -- someone who's seen childbirth dozens of times before, and who knows all the tips and tricks to get through it easier, safer, and less painfully. My doula is named Valerie, and she's wonderful. I'm telling you all that so I can tell you this story, which I'm trying to camouflage as interesting, because it's not.

One of the things Valerie suggested I start doing is drinking red raspberry leaf tea. It's been used for ages to help along all things reproductive. You can google it if you like, but I won't go into it. The last time we were at the grocery store, I sauntered down the tea aisle to see about this magical tea. Yeah, they had it -- at the crazy price of about $5 for 16 teabags. For that price, it better offer to deliver the baby for me. I reckoned the price would be only a bit lower, if not higher, at a specialty hippie store, so I immediately canned that idea.

TO THE INTERNETS!! Here it is, about a week later, and I've received my tea from a crunchy hippie store online. I went ahead and ordered a pound for around $20. Have you ever wondered what a pound of loose tea leaves looks like? Yeah, me too. It turns out a pound of loose tea is enough to pack full a gallon Ziploc bag, and then some; and at 1-2 teaspoons per serving, I reckon I've got enough tea for approximately 3.42 brazillion cups of tea.

So come on over. We'll have some uterus-toning tea and have a wild time.