As seen in the city

I was walking down the street in my neighborhood and passed two police cruisers. One was parked on the side of the road, and he had his window down to talk to the guy in the other car, who was basically blocking traffic just so he could hang out with his buddy. This alone would have been a pretty effective snapshot of Chicago's finest at work, but wait -- there's more.

As I passed the curbmost car, I was treated to the sight of a box of Dunkin Donuts sitting on the dashboard. A big ol' box of a dozen donuts. Just sitting there, doing the dual duties of 1) being a box of donuts and 2) bringing a stereotype to vivid, Technicolor life.

First blog from my new job!

I just overheard an amazing phone conversation. Since the individual making the call had helpfully put it on speakerphone, I was privy to both sides of the conversation. It went a lot like this:

Man: Hey, do you know which of our printers is the XP5 printer? One of the interns is printing to it and he doesn’t know which one he’s printing to.
Woman: You don’t know which printer to use?
Man: No, I need to know where the XP5 printer is. The interns need to know.
Woman: Have you asked [IT guy]?
Man: No, [IT guy] is out. Is there someone else I can ask?
Woman: No. You’ll need to put in an IT ticket and they can tell you. [Note: all IT tickets get sent to our corporate office and then routed back here to our IT guy, who is out as previously mentioned. Nobody in our corporate office will know where exactly a particular printer is located.]
Man: Okay, I’ll put in a ticket.


Look, people. Why not either print to a printer that you DO know the location of, or perhaps print out a piece of paper that says “REWARD! IF YOU CAN READ THIS, PLEASE CALL [INTERN] AND TELL HIM WHAT PRINTER IT IS!!!” It would be both good for a laugh and might actually solve the problem of where the XP5 printer is. Just saying.

Happy fourth birthday, Funundrum.

You've seen me through three states, several jobs, and one amazingly terrible neighbor named Heidi.  For your gift this year, I've brought you to one of the more bloggable cities in the world.  It's okay that nobody reads it. I'll always know you're here, and I'll read this many years from now and laugh.  Thanks, Funundrum.

Pints at the Goose Island Brewery

The closest goose represents, obviously, their Summertime seasonal.  The phone is the tap for 312, one of my new go-to favorites. (312 is the main Chicago area code.)  I just love this picture because it required a long exposure with the camera balanced on top of a pint glass.  And it doesn't show, but the place was mobbed because it's a block away from Wrigley Field, and we were waiting for the game to start.

Cubbies fans ahoy.

When we moved to Chicago, I was concerned about my baseball loyalty. Though my hometown team has always been and will remain the Angels, I've moved around this country enough to realize that it's a good idea to support the local team because 1) it's fun to go to games surrounded by fellow fans and 2) they're the only games you can get on TV. I've held temporary fan cards for the Marlins, the Padres, and the Rockies so far, and now we've moved to a dual-team city. I kind of figured I would just go with the White Sox, as my dad was raised on the south side, and that's the closest thing I have to a connection to either team. Also, I was a little leery about trying to shoehorn myself in with Cubs fans, a community of pain and disappointment that reaches back over five generations and 100 years. That's the kind of losing that's born, not made.

Then we moved to the north side. We're only three train stops north of Wrigley field, and I pass the ballpark every day on my way to and from work. If I'm sitting on the correct side of the train, I can look up and see whether the "W" or "L" flag is flying and know whether the Cubs won or lost during that day's game. The game is on in every bar you'll ever walk into, and you had damn well be ready to sit down and root, root, root for them Cubbies. It's kind of required by law, amirite?

So here we are, three months into living here, and we're Cubs fans. We made it to our first game at the Friendly Confines on Memorial Day. It was a bit chilly, but it didn't rain, and that's always a good day in Chicago. We started our day off by having a few beers at the Goose Island Brewery and the Cubby Bear, two of several dozen bars in Wrigleyville. We didn't even have time to hit up the other neighborhood icons, Murphy's Bleachers and Harry Caray's.

I am sorry to say the Cubs lost to the Pirates, but it was a high-scoring game and we had a great time eating peanuts and drinking Old Style. Mr. T led the crowd in singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." We had such fun with watching the scoreboard getting changed by hand, the train trundling past, and trying to figure out how long we had to decently wait before getting Cubs ballcaps.

This is the greatest city in the world.

City Life, Part 2

We recently enjoyed a delicious German meal at the Chicago Brauhaus.  After stuffing ourselves silly with bratwurst, schnitzel, plenty of sauerkraut, and a selection of German beers, we stumbled back to the bus stop and caught the 81 east back to our neck of the woods.  The bus was packed, so we barely managed to sidle our way back a few feet.  We made small talk with the lady we were squeezed up next to for the next ten minutes, as there's nothing much else to do when you're inches away from a perfect stranger.  She was very pleasant, and we had a few crowded-bus-related laughs before arriving at a stop that belonged to an old lady who was sitting down behind us.  

As we realized she needed to get off, we all started to shuffle around as best we could to accommodate her.  Despite the existence of roughly 435 people on this bus, this cranky old woman began berating us for our failure to create a suitable egress for her: 

"You know, if you would all just move towards the back, there would be room for everybody."

The three of us were kind enough to keep our fool mouths shut until she made her way off the bus.  Then we took another look around the sea of faces surrounding us and just about fell all over each other laughing. Best cranky lady ever.

City Life, Part 1

We just walked back home from the Bar on Buena*.  It's the best, laziest-titled bar/restaurant ever.  It's a bar.  It's on Buena Street.  It's the Bar on Buena.  Until two weeks ago, the Friday night barkeep knew our names.  He's left to manage a bar in the North Loop (it's called the Motel Bar, and word is that they do a mean Sidecar), so we'll have to get down there and check it out.

So anyway, we were walking back from this place, through the heart of multicultural and multi-socioeconomical Uptown.  We passed a crowded bus shelter, and a young lady emerged to tell us, "Y'all look like a Gap ad!  You look like a Gap ad!"  I glanced at my husband, and realized that we were wearing matching styles (but not colors) of $125 Marmot rain jackets.  There was no denying that we did, in fact, look like a Gap ad.  Very astute of the aforementioned young lady.

I started doing The Dance, which pretty much consisted of me throwing my hands in the air and waving them like I just didn't care, unless of course some corduroy pants or button-down shirts were about to go on sale, in which case I cared very much.  On account of being in a Gap ad.  The young lady was very entertained by my display, and Chris took some time out to tell me how I have a magical power.  Apparently, hobos are fascinated and entertained by me.  

*I love this place.  They have good beer.  It's the kind of thing where you can tell the barkeep, "I'm feeling kind of hoppy tonight," and he'll give you four choices.  Mmmm.  I enjoy drinking beer.

Sweet Baby Chuck

I was at the shoe store yesterday.  I had to get new shoes.  There was no getting around it -- my black low-top Chucks were finally dead, as the holes in the bottoms of the soles were getting big enough that I couldn't wear them on wet pavement without having to change my socks.  Some of the lacing rivets had come off, and were hanging on the laces.  The laces themselves were the same gray as the previously white rubber toes.  Those were some good shoes.  

Needless to say, I got new ones just like the old ones.  I am pleased to report that I managed to attain a few scuffs on the walk home, so they're well on the way to attaining cool-shoe nirvana.

As I was trying on my shoes to make sure they weren't, like, two different sizes, I overheard a woman buying shoes for her son, who wasn't with her.  She pointed to the Converse display and asked a salesperson, 

"I'm supposed to get some of these Converse shoes.  There's a different name for them, though, and I can't remember what he told me to ask for.  I want to say 'James Taylors,' but I know that's wrong."

That just about made my day right there.

What Fist-bumping Lions may look like.

That is, if they were captured via CrapCam and shopped together in a really lazy fashion. 

The subtle signs of spring

In my neighborhood, there are a lot of nice old buildings, such as the one we're currently living in.  The people in these buildings often choose, wisely, to flank the entrances with small statues or other stone ornamentation.  It looks nice.  The most popular choice around these parts is a pair of small seated lions, about 18" high, that each have a paw raised in front of them.  They mirror each other, so that one is raising the right paw and the other has the left paw up.  I desperately want to purchase a pair myself and set them up so they are bumping fists.

Anyway, I saw this handsome fellow while walking to the grocery store the other day.  I wonder if he celebrates all the holidays with this much gusto.

Things you learn in the city

Pigeons will eat Silly String.

You're not helping anyone.

The U.S. Mint began taking orders today for the first coin ever to have Braille writing on it.  It's a dollar coin minted to commemorate the 200th birthday of Louis Braille. (Side note: this year humanity has already celebrated the 200th birthdays of both Abraham Lincoln and Charles Darwin.  I want to know what the hell was in the global water supply in 1809, and where we can get more, because all society seems to be putting out these days is Dr. Phil and Miley Cyrus.)

Back to the coin.  The article I read describes, in laborious gotta-up-the-word-count detail, exactly what the coin says ("E Pluribus Unum," "In God We Trust," etc.) and FINALLY gets around to answering the big question:  what the hell does the Braille word say?  

You ready?

It says "BRL," which is apparently how you say "Braille" in Braille.  I'm no blind person, nor am I an expert in the needs and desires of blind people, but I'm thinking that if I were blind, I'd want my dollar coin to say "DOLLAR."

This is why I hate keeping secrets.

Because if I can't blog it right away, I'll forget about it for months and months.

Remember a million years ago when I crocheted an egg? Sure you do.  Well, the bizarre act of creating a food item out of yarn awakened a superpower inside me that I didn't even know was there.  The longer I sat and looked at that egg, the more I thought, "Huh.  I wonder what other kinds of food would look good when knitted?  What would go with an egg?  How about other breakfast foods?"  This is really what goes on in my mind -- I'm terribly sorry to have to expose you to that kind of ridiculously useless genius. 

So I sat down and made a piece of bread.  And some fried eggs.  And some bacon.  By then I had started to go on the internet to look for free patterns for other kinds of food, and simultaneously decided that if I was going to make all this food, I better have a use for it.  This is where my niece comes in handy.  Her second birthday was coming up in a few months, and what two-year-old wouldn't want a sackful of pretend food?   No two-year-old wouldn't want a sackful of pretend food, that's who.  A mission was born.

I had so much damn fun knitting food that when her birthday approached, I was so elbow deep in donuts and broccoli that I had to push the gift off until Christmas.  Before I sent it all off for Santa to deliver, I took some photos of the finished products.   Here they are!

More knitted food

Here is a video of my sandwich being constructed.

Look at that.

Plenty of cities in America host parades in honor of St. Patrick's Day. Only Chicago goes the extra ridiculous mile of dyeing their river green. Chris had school on Saturday morning, so I headed downtown to the corner of Wacker and Michigan with the camera to see the fuss.

Here you can see people lined up all along the river walk and across the lower level of the Michigan Ave. bridge.  I had started out on the other side of the river, but there were some trees in the way.  Also, it's about a billion degrees colder in the shade.

I know the river is already green.  Dang, shut up.  It gets better.

After an hour of us waiting, the Plumbers' Union boats finally came trundling up  (down? it's a backwards-flowing river, so what is it?) the river, each outfitted with a man at the back sprinkling orange powder into the river.  As the official website cheekily points out, it is indeed  a true St. Patrick's Day miracle that the orange (read: Protestant) substance is instantly converted into true Irish green (read: Catholic) before our very eyes. I laughed, you should too.  At any rate, the dye is touted as environmentally friendly, so that's nice.

The boats make a few passes between Michigan and Columbus, but it only takes a few minutes for the dye and water to commingle...

And look like this. I think it stays that way for a few hours before washing downstream (they may have to reapply the stuff from time to time).  Once this spectacle was over, I was cold, tired of being jostled, and in no mood to head over to the parade, especially when presented with the logistical nightmare of meeting Chris somewhere along the route.  

Besides, there's always next year.

I even made a little video!  The quality's a bit crap because I didn't realize I had the resolution set so low.  But still.

Bad Copy of the Day Award

Chris' dad sent us a copy of a CD that my brother-in-law did the artwork for.  It's a charity album put out by the same record label that the BIL has already done a lot of work for.  The artwork is great.  The copy?  Not so much.  As you read this blurb, taken from the back of the CD, your assignment is to tell me what this organization does.  That's it.  Okay, ready?  Okay.

"Take Action was founded in 1999 by Hopeless Records in connection with their non-profit organization Sub City to encourage young people to make a positive impact in the world.  A portion of the proceeds (equaling 5% of the suggested retail price) earned by Sub City from the sale of this release will be donated to DoSomething.org, a national not-for-profit that believes that young people have the power to make a difference.  They inspire, empower, and celebrate a generation of doers:  young people who recognize the need to do something, believe in their ability to get it done, and then take action."

YEAH!! LET'S GO! Let's go take action and do something! Something resembling anything! I was actually so vagued out by the above terrible copy that I went over to DoSomething.org to see what exactly is the something that they do.  Turns out, it's a pretty comprehensive, well-designed little website.  It categorizes, indexes, and filters a ton of different causes that young people might be interested in, suggests actions to be taken to bring about desired results, and provides tools to help people mobilize themselves, friends, and family members in their own homes and neighborhoods.  

I believe that copy has the power to make the difference.  I would celebrate the opportunity to take action and make this copy do something by saying something. Anything. 

Hobos love my dog.

I don't really mean hobos, necessarily, but that subject line length is limiting.  I will rephrase and say "people in my neighborhood who seem to have several hours a day with nothing more to do than hold down a bench in the park and chat with each other or, in some cases, with themselves."

Other people in my neighborhood keep telling me there are loads of greyhounds in the area -- so far I've met just one, and he is a charming old man who gets to wear boots outside to alleviate his arthritis.  Judging by the hobo reactions, though, you'd think I was parading the queen of England around on a leash three times a day.  In the last three weeks, I have gotten received the following bits of feedback from my socioeconomically challenged brethren:

• "Greyhound!"
  
• (sung to a familiar tune you will no doubt figure out) "You ain't nothing but a greyhound..."
  
• "What's that?" This last one happened today, when I was about 50 feet away from a lady (who was, unbelievably, sitting on a bench hanging out with a friend).  I didn't think she was talking to me, but she continued on.  "Hey miss!  What's that?"  I turned around -- "My dog?  This is a greyhound."  "a-HA!"  She was very pleased to find this information out.
  
• There was also a very nice man who liked the look of her coat and wished he could figure out a way to make it fit him. That sounds sad, but he had a perfectly good coat, so I know he was joshing.
  

Now, people in my particular station of life (white people with dogs) also rightfully declaim on the subject of my beautiful dog.  It's just awesome that all the other city folk take time out of their day to admire Maggie too. I'm happy to give them something to smile about.

Please be tongue-in-cheek.

I'm going to be filing this one in the same area as the bitchy "Deal with it" weather forecast.  Last night, we were watching the weather forecast.  They weather guy started with some outlying areas of Wisconsin and Indiana, I suppose to make these folks feel less inadequate for not living in Chicago proper.  Here's the forecast for Valparaiso, Indiana (about an hour outside of Chicago) -- I can only pray that this is what passes for weather-related black humor in these parts:

Yeah.  That says "43, Partly Sunny Skies, Get Out the BBQ!"  It's kind of how we feel at this point, though.  Early March is the part of the year that feels like spring (let alone summer) will never, ever come again, and that any past summer memories are simple hallucinations brought on by wind chill.

Muy rico.

Have I mentioned the amazing array of unique ethnic foodstuffs available here in Chicago?  If not, allow me to do so now.

Bad Copy of the Day Award

This is actually bad copy from a couple of months ago, but it's such a hassle to cull photos from the CrapCam, it had to wait.  This is another entry from the alternate dimension from whence my produce signs are created:

Cute presentation, definitely draws the eye and creates smiles.  But I have to take a bit of issue with the middle bit.  Surely, even if you don't know how to spell "clementines," you'd look at this, sound it out, and say, "No, don't think so."  Then pester Steve from the bakery department to help you out, considering that he's always so high-falutin' and using them fancy French names for bread and stuff.  He should take them baguettes of his and shove them.