I Need A Bath

I've been out of the blog loop lately. My days seem to no longer be my own, and they are rapidly passing me by.

I am up to my pits in Oktoberfest work and seem to see the priests and other rectory staff more than I see Dave. The Fest is this Friday and Saturday – ready or not.

Dave has been fighting a cold for some time and was in a losing battle this past weekend. He started running a fever and had a flare up in his old brown recluse infection (long, not-so-funny story from '98 if you haven't heard it yet). Dave actually volunteered to go to the doctor. He saw him Monday morning and got some monster antibiotics. He saw the doctor again this morning and things seem to be improving – no fever, infection subsiding, etc. That is a relief.

While battling Oktoberfest to do lists and Dave's illness, we were both happy to learn that his VW was even more ill than Dave. It just plain won't start. He had it towed yesterday and today got a phone call with the prognosis and bill. I think cars should have health insurance.

So basically, these past few days have been one of our worst weeks on record. This morning while I was battling traffic in my little car with Dave as a passenger on our way to the doctor's office, I was reminded of an old favorite commercial. I don't know where it came from – I heard it whispering quietly in the back of my tired brain,

"Calgon, take me away."

The Symphony

I have a front row seat for the symphony that is our neighborhood this summer. I have found that most of the movements of the piece allow one to synchronize one's life to the music.

Every Monday and Wednesday morning at approximately 7:00am, the garbage truck arrives in the alley below our bedroom window. The truck backs into the alley (beep, beep, beep in 2/2 time, mezzo forte). Once the truck engages the dumpster, which is immediately below our window, the tempo and dynamic increase culminating in the crash of the dumpster back onto the alley. The movement ends in a peaceful mezzo piano as the truck drives away.

Enter the landscapers each Monday. The whirring of weedwackers provides a melody over the thunder of multiple mower rotors. The occasional tenor solo in Spanish punctuates the bass of the equipment instruments. Theirs is a longer movement lasting from 7:30am to approximately 8:15am.

Each morning at approximately 8:10am a red car travels down our alley and triumphantly announces its arrival at the end of alley with four staccato fortissimo horn toots. This performance is an unaccompanied solo on days when the garbage truck and landscapers are not present.

After the initial movements of the piece, I am treated to a lengthy and repetitive roar of music from several different sources on the street. The concrete trucks prowl down the street to the large construction site a block away. The low rumble of their diesel engines is punctuated by the frequent and rapid fortissimo soprano voice of a car alarm that is much too sensitive to the engines' force. Time in this movement is kept by the piercing air horn blown at regular intervals at the construction site.

At approximately 2:30pm, the sounds of the school bus and the chatter of children enter in a gradual crescendo -- the growl of the school bus engine, the blast of the school bus horn to alert the guardian that the children's chorus is about to begin, and the apex of the crescendo with multiple soprano voices squealing with glee about their freedom.

Each movement is heavy with percussion. Various neighbors in the building and the postal carrier contribute to the rhythm of the piece with occasional cymbal-crashing door slams.

Some instruments make their contribution from the echo chamber that is the courtyard of our building. The bass voice of the handyman blends beautifully in a Serbo-Croation duet with the alto voice of our resident manager. A simple jingling of the handyman's keys announces their movement.

A male chorus of Serbo-Croation tenor voices sometimes provides the harmony and added percussion from the tools of tuckpointing. Lately, this movement has been replaced by a visiting troupe of Spanish tenors who provide uptempo voices and the scrape of tools removing decades of paint from the wooden back porches.

In the early afternoon, a father, son, and dog trio enter from across the alley. Father's cadenced bass voice like a Greek chorus ("Shoot the ball!") under the son's soprano whining ("Wait! Wait! Watch me!") is interjected by yelps from the dog. Their movement is dictated by the irregular bouncing of a basketball on the pavement and reaches a crescendo of competing voices when Mother arrives performing an aria on her cell phone.

This week has seen the addition of new instruments to the ensemble. A house across the street is being renovated. The musicians are slowly entering the piece with the buzzing of saws and the staccato tapping of hammers.

Voices and instruments of the orchestra gradually fade away as the day comes to an end. The cacophony of sound is reduced to a pianissimo tinkling of water falling from the resident manager's overflowing flower boxes on the third floor to the wooden porches below, finally sprinkling the pavement at approximately 4:30pm -- which consistently convinces me that I need to go to the bathroom. The symphony that is a weekday at the apartment, therefore, regularly closes with the diminishing sound of a flushing toilet.

License To Drive

There was an article in the Chicago Tribune on Sunday about a driving instructor and a private driving school who's been teaching teenagers for over 20 years – and loves it. There's a waiting list for this guy. John Raffa is famous for his patience and his "Raffaisms" such as the following:

"Stay off the lines or you'll pay fines"
"Expose your rear end slowly, like a stripper" (when backing up)
"Make a full stop, or you'll talk to a cop"
"Slow down sooner, and you'll live to be a honeymooner"
"Look in the mirror more often and it'll keep you out of the coffin"
"Be patient so you won't be one."

Don't you love this guy?

The article made me think about my own experience learning to drive. I couldn't wait to get behind the wheel. My high school did not offer drivers' ed – so Dad had to teach me. Dad gave me my first few lessons behind the wheel of a dark green 1973 Ford Gran Tarino station wagon. Driving that monster was easy – all you had to do was take your foot off the brake and you were driving. We used to go to the parking lot behind the junior high school when it was empty. There were nice long stretches to drive and a stop sign at one end to practice stopping. There was a little island of grass at the other end, allowing for practice turning and using turning signals.

I vividly remember finally learning to gauge the speed of the car and being able to take my foot off the gas and then slowly applying the brake to eventually stop at the sign – not 20 feet before it, or with a screech of tires and whiplash just past it.

Mom took me for my driving test just after my birthday. For some reason, we were the only ones there. After I passed the written test, we waited for the fearless test administrator to call me for the driving test. I remember sitting there alone in the waiting area with Mom and seeing the officer come towards the room with a clipboard. He said, "Mary?" Mom and I did not even flinch.

"Mary? Is there a Mary here?"

Oh right! My name is Mary – not Kate. This was my first encounter with confusion over my own legal name versus the name I use. That confusion continues to this day.

I took the driving test – and failed. I neglected to signal when moving into and out of the parallel parking spot and I didn't know where the defogger was. I was using my grandfather's metallic pumpkin 1980-something Chevy Citation for the test and was not as familiar with the tiny car as I was with the two station wagons my family had owned while I was learning to drive.

I don't remember taking the second test – but I remember passing. Mom let me drive home and then let me drive up to school by myself to pick Rach up from basketball practice. I was alone in the car. I had a hard time taking one hand off the wheel in order to push the preprogrammed buttons on the AM radio. I remember bumping into Sr. Catherine in the hallway. She was my American history teacher. I jingled my keys for her. She rolled her eyes and told me to pray every time I got behind the wheel -- for the other drivers on the road.

Driving was bliss for me. It was freedom. Freedom from change in my pocket to call home for a ride, freedom from the 10-ride bus passes and countless transfers for the Cross County bus. I would run any errand that was needed. I begged for the station wagon every weekend. I was one of the oldest in my high school class, so my friends were depending on me for their freedom. Unfortunately, my family had only the station wagon, and I was one of four kids still at home who had rehearsals, practices, recitals, performances, games, and carpools.

The summer after I turned 16 I went to the Missouri Scholars Academy – a two-week program at University of Missouri for nerdy smart kids. I loved it – it's a whole other blog. Anyway, Dad came to pick me up at the end of the academy. When we pulled into the driveway at home, Aunt Phyllis' car was there. She had light blue 1981 Buick Skylark. I was surprised that the car had stickers on it. Aunt Phyllis' cars are always impeccably clean. The car was now bedecked with stickers from my high school, my sister Ann's college, and a great big "I love Webster Groves" sticker on the bumper.

Dad's next words were like winning the lottery to my ears. "Aunt Phyllis bought a new car." We had acquired her Skylark for "you girls" to use. Lucky for me, my older sister Ann was away at college and had not gotten her license yet. My younger sister Rach wouldn't be 16 until that next February – and then didn’t get her license for another few years. My sister Lucy was still in grade school. I felt like I was on The Price Is Right and Bob Barker just told me I won the car.

Aunt Phyllis had given Rach and me some money to buy a stereo that had FM and a cassette player. We started carpooling with the Furay girls to school – no more busses! I could drive to play practice and then take my friends over to Steak n' Shake for fries and shakes purchased with our pooled resources. The Skylark was ultimate freedom. I loved that car.

I remember Dad telling me once when I was fishing for an excuse to take the car out that I would eventually grow out of this excitement. That at some point in my life, driving would not be so much fun. I still think it is so much fun.

Charlotte's Web

A spider is living on my little car. I first noticed her a couple of weeks ago. I had not driven my Wagenschen in a long while, and she had been waiting patiently for me under a tree. As I described, she was covered in tree sap, leaves, and cobwebs. I rolled down the windows (no A/C) before I started out on my errands. I noticed the cobwebs on the passenger-side mirror and figured I would let wind and rain take care of them therefore not necessitating the addition of a car wash to my errand list – or requiring me to touch any web and/or spider.

A few days ago I was rolling down the windows in my little car to activate nature's air conditioning, and made eye contact with Charlotte. Eye contact. This is a big spider. I rolled the window back up a ways hoping to discourage her from joining me inside the car. I glanced out the passenger window later while I was driving. Charlotte had climbed up her web and secured herself in a crevice of the side mirror to protect herself from the 35 mile per hour winds.

The parking space choices were limited when I got home the other night. I ended parking a long block away that requires a stroll through the alley to get home. I was scrambling back through the alley to my little car last night to avoid arriving late to choir practice. Due to the location of the parking spot, I was approaching my little car from the passenger side. Charlotte has down marvelous and intricate work on that side of the car. I half expected her web to proclaim "Some Driver!" or "Incredible Woman!"

The longer she remains there, the harder I am finding it to destroy her work, and consequently, perhaps, end her life. I am realizing that though the beautiful work she is spinning does not contain actual words, her patterns are a proclamation of her own value and thus preserving her own life rather than Wilbur's – I mean, mine.

School Days

Before I get into my lengthy post -- I want to point out that meetings are not fun. I'm sure you all know this. My incredible husband likes to say "Meetings are where good ideas go to die." I agree. I should note that I cannot confidently credit Dave with that quote. He has always had very witty and smart things to say that I always enjoy and often repeat. However, I have learned to attribute quotes to him only after investigation. We had been seeing each other for about a year when I discovered that most of his funny one-liners from our first months together were all "sampled" from the classic movie Animal House.

So now most all teachers and students have returned to school (save, perhaps, those people on the goofy trimester system). I am jealous. A good friend of ours sent pictures of his oldest on her first day of preschool -- what promise! what joy! what freedom! Everything is before her.

I know that I am made for a life of school because I can look at the pictures of this beautiful little girl and recall detailed memories of my own days in preschool. Does that make me strange? Some have said so.

I remember the room, the toys, my blue and red quiet time mat, and a construction paper crown with a "5" in gold glitter on it for my birthday.

I remember my Mom came to help one day and she was in charge of a station where she showed us how to cut an apple to reveal a star-shape in the seeds. I remember that she had chosen to wear a blouse that was silky and off-white with a pattern of large apples in red and black before she knew what she would be doing that day. And that I thought that made my Mom very cool.

I remember another mom helping one day. She chose to wear pants and a very 1975 leather belt that had two sets of holes like one my father had. I remember a small male classmate telling the mom that she couldn't wear a belt because she was a girl. I remember her explaining to him that she could. [Note: This is one of several early feminist memories I have -- another idea for a post!]

I distinctly remember the class sitting in a circle on our "sit upons" for a lesson on shapes. The teacher held up large geometric cut outs and called on individual students to ask them the name of the shape. Square. Triangle. This is so easy! She called on me. I was excited. I confidently answered, "Circle." I was wrong. I was crushed. She politely explained that it was in fact an oval. And I never got that wrong again.

So in this theme of going back to school I am posting below the article I mentioned in a previous post. I submitted the article in an attempt to be accepted as a less-than-regular columnist (4 times in one year) on my experiences on the academic job hunt. The article that requested submissions requested a "conversational tone" essay that described the author's background, current situation, and experiences on the job market including anything that might affect his/her search for a job in academia. It pointed out that humor was good, and that this submission -- if accepted -- would be the author's first column.

In an earlier posting I explained that my article was not accepted. I am posting it here to finally set it free -- or to release myself from it...

I have been a student my entire life. I like school. I still have clear memories of preschool, and I haven't missed an academic year since then. I grew up on the academic calendar. I love that I could say "next year" in March and mean September. Each new semester provided a fresh start, a renewed energy fueled by new school supplies: a stack of used books and new course packets, the latest pen, the hippest university notebook, and the binder system with elastic bands and Velcro to rival my old Trapper Keeper that will keep me organized this semester.

After completing a BA in political science at a mid-sized, private, liberal arts university in the Midwest, I informed my mother that her dreams of an attorney daughter with the LA Law career and Susan Dey's wardrobe would have to be passed down to a younger sister. I was headed to a large, public, research university in the Midwest to pursue an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language. I planned to get the masters and then graduate, take one of several job offers to work in a large Midwestern city, and get married -- in that order. After three semesters, I emailed my boyfriend of several years to inform him that I was spending a few more years in graduate school. I decided to pursue the title Dr. before assuming the title Ms.

My work towards an MA morphed into my work towards a PhD. I decided that while I enjoyed teaching ESL, I was very interested in conducting research in Second Language Acquisition, specifically, the teaching and learning of ESL pronunciation. It became difficult to easily formulate or elucidate an answer to the dreaded question, "What do you study?" I eventually settled on "English as a Second Language." This often prompted, "Wow, your English is so good!"

"Um, thank you. More broadly, it's second language acquisition -- how people learn language. It lots of research and --"

"My cousin teaches English in Japan..."

The decision to "go all the way" was easily made and then frequently second-guessed. I was scared to death. This was a whole new level. Friends and family lovingly joked that I did it to delay entering the "real world" or getting a "real job." I sometimes wondered if that was true. I sometimes wondered if I could actually do it. I feared that I would become one of the mythical career graduate students I had heard about. Graduate school provided just enough freedom to linger in perpetuity with just one more course, maybe another independent study project, and another time-consuming teaching assistantship -- all of which could be rationalized as providing more education and experience to enter the academic workforce.

I had planned to graduate in May 2001. I had not yet encountered a PhD candidate who had set her own deadline and met it, but I was determined. I had a life to get on with -- including a boyfriend of ten years living 160 miles away. Unfortunately, I had not put a lot of thought into the fact that the job I wanted would not exist or be available on my timeline. I began to envy the undergraduates I encountered on campus dressed in their first suits braving the early spring semester cold without a coat to avoid committing a fashion faux pas. They were going to huge job fairs where representatives from major corporations wearing work casual outfits with smart knit shirts embroidered with their logo courted undergrads with shiny briefcases (early graduation gift) and slick resumes. I longed for a job fair.

Armed with a five-page CV of teaching assistantships and conference presentations (but lacking the ever-elusive publication), I entered the market. I hoped that putting myself out there for 2001-2002 would mean my committee would have to let me finish. I focused on job listings that allowed for ABD just to be safe.

Soon, I had job application piles of paper in direct competition with my dissertation and teaching piles of paper. I applied to eight positions. Only a handful of them described a position anything like what I had envisioned. I was looking for a tenure-track position in an MATESL program that would allow me to teach ESL courses as well as MA courses while conducting SLA research in pronunciation. I applied for positions that had anything to do with any of that in major metropolitan areas. My fiance was willing to move himself and his law career with me.

I collected letters informing me that my file was complete and that the search committee would be in touch. I never heard again from some places. Others sent me succinct but polite rejection letters that attempted to soothe my ego by informing me that they were inundated with qualified candidates. I received requests for on-campus interviews from three institutions. To my surprise, all three were in the general area of the large Midwestern city I was targeting. Jackpot.

Job #1 was at an institution that had rejected my application to be an undergraduate student. It was a non-faculty position, but in my field. I did my job talk on my on-going research (requiring me and my advisor to scramble to get some preliminary results). I thought things went very well. They gave the job to one of their own graduate students.

Job #2 was a tenure-track professor position with a community college. It looked like a lot of work and was all ESL, but it was very attractive. The people I met during my two separate campus visits were wonderful. The application and interview process was tedious. For one interview, several people sat around a conference table with pages of questions. They took turns reading questions to me and then scribbled my responses in concert. I was afraid the final question was going to be about world peace or how to keep kids off drugs. They gave the job to an in-house candidate.

Job #3 was a visiting professor position for one semester. It was the most similar to the department I worked in and was great money. I had a super campus visit. The committee and I got along well. I was elated. We discussed extending the position to two semesters and allowing me to teach a seminar. This was it. My dream was coming true. An administrative type called me and made an offer for two semesters with a slight salary increase over what was published for one semester. What? We negotiated over a few phone calls. Finally, he told me that my mother would tell me to take this offer. Clearly, he had never met my mother -- she would tell me to turn him down and go to law school. I turned the offer down. I turned it down? That still echoes in my head on long nights along with names of temporary staffing agencies I should call.

During the year-long process of job hunting and gathering, I had moved to the big city. I moved back to campus three weeks later to take a job as a visiting lecturer in my old department for 2001-2002. It felt like going to work for my parents and moving home. I even had to sleep in my office that first night. I did not apply for any positions for 2002-2003. The positions that were advertised were in foreign lands and rural areas that would be impossible for my fiance to work from, or they required qualifications I did not have such as teaching certification or experience in K-12 bilingual education. I got very worried about my timeline and my future.

My life in a 15-week cycle of self-renewal ended last May when I completed my PhD. I stayed on to teach the summer session while my fiance and I put the final touches on our wedding plans. I got married with no job prospects in sight.

I have been unemployed since last August (my wonderful, supporting husband calls it a sabbatical). I went to the yearly conference wearing a badge that had my name and city on it. I have embraced the label "independent" over the brand "unaffiliated." Colleagues, friends, and family have expressed sympathy and offered suggestions. Maybe I should write a book, or take on private students, or bake, or have a baby. I fear losing touch with the field while my self-identity as an academic fades. I am looking forward to an aggressive campaign for a job for the 2004-2005 year.

Coffee and a Compliment

Today is the first day of a series of meetings for Dave and me -- Ofest for me tonight, choir for me tomorrow night, alumni stuff for Dave on Thursday night -- so Dave drove himself to work this morning. Which is nice except that I have to do laundry today and my little car doesn't hold the laundry containers as well as Dave's does, and we are out of milk. That's important. Dave and I usually stop for coffee on the way to work. If I don't drive him, I have to make coffee at home. No milk -- no coffee. Ugh.

So I threw on some clothes and headed out the door to walk down to our local bodega -- The Happy Food Spot -- to get some milk. Very nice place run by a really nice Korean lady. She wasn't open yet. Ugh again.

I had two choices: (1) wait for her to open, or (2) walk down another block and get a latte at Starbucks. I had to stand there for a minute to make the decision. I headed down to Starbucks after rationalizing that I would drink less caffeine if I bought a latte rather than making my own bottomless pot at home.

Starbucks was nuts -- as usual. I'm rarely there on a weekday morning before 9:00am. Chaos. Lots of people trying to get a quick cup before work, lots more people with little ones. It was a veritable day care center this morning. Ironically, waiting for my first coffee of the day is tough when I haven't had any coffee yet. I was in a long line. It was great getting a baby-fix while I waited. There was a particularly cutey one in a wagon in front of me. She was maybe 9 months old and had eyes as big as her face and chocolate-colored hair that formed a perfect cap on her head and a teeny gold earring in each ear.

There were also lots of toddler-size kids around. As I surveyed the room, I realized there were lots of other kids. I started to feel trapped. I got caught between two women who had five kids between them and were discussing the features of a stroller as though it were some new sports car. I felt a little hand on my leg and realized that another small person wanted me to pick him up -- easily the youngest male to ever hit on me! (Okay, bad joke.)

I was waiting for a skim latte. That's all. No mocha, no ice, all caffeine, no whip, no caramel, no soy, no chai -- just espresso and steamed milk. It took a while. Kids were everywhere. My baby-fix had turned into a nightmare of too much of a good thing. I felt like I was being surrounded by a swarm of killer bees that might turn on me if I made any quick movements.

I stood there quietly watching coffees that looked more like desserts get called out in front of me. Finally, my grande skim latte. As I reached for it a young woman approached me. I was afraid for a moment that I had grabbed a coffee that wasn't mine in order to hasten my escape. She got my attention and said, "I really love your wedding rings -- they're beautiful. Would you mind if I got a closer look?"

I thanked her and gave her my hand for her inspection. She asked me a couple of questions, gushed about them again, and then wished me a good morning.

How nice was that?

On the walk home I passed through the weekly farmers market. I was looking at vegetables in the same spot where Dave and I stood just a few nights ago, arm in arm singing one of our favorite German songs (In heaven there is no beer / That's why we drink it here / 'Cause when we're gone from here / Our friends will be drinking all our beer / hey hey hey).

The market's goods revealed that fall is in fact on its way. One vendor had watermelon for sale next to crates of squash. Another vendor had huge pots of mums (three for $20) and a few pie pumpkins along with ears of corn. I love this time of year.

Sabotaging My Workout

I have decided to try to get back into a regular workout schedule. I was seeing a personal trainer -- Stephanie -- when I was still down in Champaign. Dave and I were making wedding plans, so I had the wedding dress incentive, and a doctor had informed me that I needed to change my diet and start working out or go on medication for hypertension, so I had the high blood pressure can screw with your life incentive.

Stephanie was outstanding. I saw her once a week. She immediately identified my personality type and used it against me. She was subtle but persistent, and always got me fired up. We managed to laugh most sessions, too. I was a beginner in every sense of the word, but she wouldn't let me use that excuse. During one of our sessions she introduced me to an 80-year-old woman who had just started working out also. She put us both on exercise balls for push ups -- you roll the ball down between your knees and your ankles and do push ups from there causing both your arms and every muscle you never knew in your whole gut region to get a work out. The work out room was mirrored so that you could watch your form. I watched the 80-year-old. There was no way I was going to let that lady squeeze out more or better push ups than I did. (Lucky for me, she was not there the next week when I was doing push ups on the ball and fell off.)

I always dreaded going to the gym -- that never got easy for me, it was never a habit. But I almost always loved it once I got about 5 minutes into our session. Stephanie mixed it up a lot, let me do the things I liked (any arm work while on the ball), and constantly introduced things I hated (anything having to do with squats or lunges and the damned medicine ball). I felt success and achievement after every session.

To top it off, I felt great in my sleeveless wedding gown and my blood pressure was an unprecedented 120/80 at my last doctor visit in Champaign. (The nursed ended up checking it twice and then the doctor later checked it herself since it was a much lower number than I had ever posted.)

And now all is lost. I did some workouts on my own when I moved up to the big city last August and up until the wedding. Stephanie had educated me enough to do some real work on my own and I found a great book to put a plan together. She even gave me her email address so I could ask for advice. After the wedding, and then the honeymoon and the holidays, I just plain quit.

Ironically, it is the end of summer that is pushing me towards getting back in shape. I've never liked my warm weather clothes -- but I love fall and winter wardrobes and I am worried about my size this year. I am concerned about how I look, not what I weigh. I also know that my blood pressure is probably not good. I haven't had enough information or the nerve to find and go to a new doctor up here yet (please refrain from emailing me about this -- I know, I know), so I haven't confirmed that I have lost what I achieved down at school in terms of the blood pressure.

So, I dusted off the book, cleaned off the exercise ball, and dug out my weights last week. Yep, I still hate lunges and squats. I wanted to ease back into it. I worked out on Thursday and was still hurting on Saturday. Stephanie taught me (pushed me) to do my very first push up -- of any kind. First we did them on an incline -- my hands higher than my feet, then I started doing them on my knees, and then I did my first bona fide push up. It was excruciating to do. Stephanie had me up to two sets of ten real push ups by the time I moved. We joked each time I groaned out in struggle that I would soon be doing them one handed or maybe even the cool ones where you clap in between them.

I did two push ups on Thursday -- on my knees. Ugh.

Today, I put on workout clothes when I got up so that I had no excuses when I got back from dropping Dave off. I had my mat, weights, book, ball, and step stool (I need to get one of those aerobic step sets) at the ready. I turned on the tv. Mistake.

I worked out today while watching Martha Stewart make roasted chicken and spoon bread. There was more butter in the spoon bread alone than we have in the kitchen right now. I changed channels. Oprah was doing some makeover show. Iman was talking about losing the 50 lbs she gained after having a baby at age 42?! She started boxing to get back to a size 6. Victoria Principal (of Dallas fame) was on -- she's 50-something and just can't give up eating chocolate every day. She looks better know than I did at 20.

I learned this morning that some television programs might sabotage my workout. And I also learned that lunges with hand weights are easier to do if you think about stepping on someone's head. And then punching them.

Gemütlichkeit

The German-American Fest is in the neighborhood this weekend. It's 9:00pm on Sunday night and I can still hear strains of Ein Prosit and covers from songs popular in the 50s and 60s as I sit in our living room.

Our neighborhood – Lincoln Square – has been German for a very long time. The Chamber of Commerce here holds a May Fest every May, and a German American Fest every September. Dave and I often traveled up to this neighborhood from the old place on the el in order to attend these Fests. Now we are lucky enough to live just a block away – which means no PortoPotties for us!

The weather has been beautiful this weekend. We headed out to the Fest Friday night after Dave got home from work. The crowd was tremendous, the lines were enormous. We waited in line for about 20 minutes to get our tickets to buy Wurst und Bier. Then we tried to get to the Wurst und Bier. Wow was it crowded.

We successfully traded our tickets emblazoned with German and US flags for two Thüringer sausages – veal, my favorite. We quickly pumped some excellent mustard on the sausages and downed them pretty much where we stood. Then the hunt for beer began.

Those of you who know the love of my life know that his size is advantageous when trying to maneuver through crowds. He is great at clearing a path and is easy to spot above the masses. Before we enter crowded places I always check to see which baseball hat Dave is wearing so I can spot him. Perhaps due to our purported "equal relationship" (I throw that one around a lot), I ended up walking point as we began to reconnoiter the beer.

Does that make sense? Send the 5'5" person out in front to divide the Red Sea and have the 6' guy (on the button, by the way – I made him take off his shoes and flatten down his hair once to prove it) follow in the human wake. Right.

So that didn't work. I stopped at one point when I was trapped by lines of people to buy tickets that had converged with lines of people trying to get into a tent that had been pitched over a parking lot that served beer. I questioned our plan of attack.

When we finally got inside it was chaos. German-music-fueled chaos. Dave got us each a 32-ounce plastic mug of Beck's Oktoberfest. The mugs are classic – they have pictures of Generals Washington and von Steuben over German and American flags on them. Not only is the von Steuben picture horrible, but I'm not even sure von Steuben ever saw the black, red, gold of today's German flag. I love them.

We found a spot to stand away from the major currents of traffic – next to a stinking sewer grate. Dave and I are both big people watchers – German oom-pahs, German beer, and a stinking sewer grate that has a bit of a slope and some water settled around it made for super people watching. We enjoyed watching young people and old people alike. People in costume and people in great t-shirts (All American, Made From German Parts). There is a German-American police office organization -- they all have shirts and jackets with their logo on them. The logo borders on, hmmmm, not tasteful? We saw one old guy who had a metal helmet on with a big eagle on the front and the spike on the top. Excellent. A vendor was selling wreaths of silk flowers with ribbons to trail down your back so that even the trixies could be Deutsch for a day.

Dave and I were able to settle in between some tables and swing along in time to the music. Our favorite band was playing – we have no idea who they are, but they are at all of these events. One of the band members plays cowbells?! You have not enjoyed Edelweis until you hear it played by an old guy in Lederhosen grabbing differently-sized cowbells from a huge table and shaking out the melody.

There was a group of young men in front of us who were enjoying the entertainment of an old guy wearing a captain's hat dancing with any woman he could get close to. I thought it was funny that this group of young guys were dogging the old guy. The old guy got a lot closer to a lot more females than they did. Oh, and he ended up polka-ing with a folding chair when the female population waned. I have finally witnessed first-hand the power and benefit of cell phones that have cameras on them.

But the kids were alright – they had purchased more beers than their college-trained stomachs could handle and therefore spread the wealth. Somehow, people started introducing themselves to us. I think different groups at the tables thought that we were with them, a friend of a friend kind of thing. One of the young college men started our interaction by leaning over and screaming in my general direction, "So are you from the homeland?"

The college kids seemed to enjoy singing (every traditional and stereotype German song there is) and drinking with Dave. I realized that although they all had some connection to the "homeland," and all recently been there, they did not have much German beyond "ein Prosit," "oy oy oy," and "who the hell is Alice?" All of them were quite beschwipst and bordering on blau by the time the band played the last song. Walking (briskly) home, I was thankful that we live in a neighborhood that holds great Fests that allow us to safely enjoy ourselves. Gemütlichkeit was experienced by all.

I could tell you about our experience at the Fest on Saturday and how good we were to drink a reasonable amount of beer and leave at a reasonable hour because we had to get up early today because today was the first Sunday for choir. And how after mass we went to Vanessa's for a bagel and coffee (for me) and a whole shebang (for Dave). And then how we went across the street to watch the Cubs game but left at the end of the game because the Bears game had started – but it is late and the music is lulling me to sleep.

A Mixed Marriage

I have been avoiding comments on the recent Cards-Cubs series here in Chicago. They played 5 games in 4 days in fall-like weather. Monday was supposed to be a double-header, but the first game was rain delayed for several hours. So, the double-header was on Tuesday. The first game went 15 innings.

I love these series. However, this time my team took only one game. One. Chicago, St. Louis, and Houston are in a love/hate triangle at the top of the Central Divison. Last I saw, all three were within a game and a half of each other.

I am excited that my super husband gets to enjoy baseball in September. But his team cannot win the division. For years, we have made bets on the season series between our teams. The bets were usually cash and the results were often meaningless in the grand baseball scope of things -- neither team has been that great lately.

I've always told David that I would be thrilled for him to see his team in the World Series -- on the sole condition that they did not beat my team to get there. Now we're both fighting for the division title. [Note: As exciting as the division battle is, I am not so naive as to believe that any team coming out of the NL Central will play for very long into the post-season.]

Since the race to the division title is more interesting this year, and since I am not making my own money yet, we changed the bet this year. Our bet is on either of our teams taking the division. I will not go into the particulars of the actual bet -- I will say only that if the Cards or the Cubs win the Central, our friends and family will find out what the bet was.

I have to say that David has been a tremendous sport about his team taking 4 of 5 from mine. There were no victory dances, no giggles, no taunting me when we saw parts of games in public. He did not make fun of Cardinal players (he often makes fun of their names -- Bo Hart is a new favorite). David is usually good about such things -- especially with so much of the season left.

However. I went to the craft store the other day. Dave stayed at home (not surprisingly). He was a sweetheart and agreed to go through some boxes of his stuff. I came home to find he had done that and more. The office/guestroom in our apartment (that I often unconsciously call "my office", that I spend most hours of the day in) had been transformed.

On the wall that one sees upon entering the office are now affixed a large plaque and a framed photograph. The plaque holds a photograph of the 1984 NL Eastern Division Champions -- the Chicago Cubs. The Cubs logo is outshown only by the two Old Style logos. The plaque includes their record (96-65), and the words "The Chicago Cubs Do It With Style." The framed photograph is an 11x14 image (yes, I measured) of a young Ryne Sandburg. Which my own loyal Cardinal fan mother gave to Dave.

I'm wondering if minitures of the the Stan Musial statue are for sale. It would look super on our mantel. Or maybe a plaque bearing a picture of the 1982 World Champions -- the St. Louis Cardinals -- over our bed?

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today's date is special for two reasons:

(1) It is my marvelous Mom's birthday,

(2) I met my wonderful husband David 12 years ago today.

How cool is that?

The weather is cool and beautiful, my mosquito net curtain project for the porch door is finally finished (I'll explain later), and I will soon go pick Dave up from work so that we can go to our favorite bar for dinner.

That's pretty cool.

From My Friend Eric

The following post was written by our good friend Eric. Eric was present when Dave and I met each other 12 short years ago in Germany. For those of you at the wedding, he was the tall guy who did a reading. Eric sent out the following story via email on July 28, 2003. I received his permission to post it -- and was not surprised to learn that I am the second friend/blogger to ask permission to rebroadcast this masterpiece. Enjoy.

I will try to get back to my regular blogging when I dig out from under some Oktoberfest work.

So here's Eric's story:

Stealing shamelessly from the Sportsguy, a running diary of last night's
concert-going affair at Wolf Trap.

5:15pm I bolted the office early after changing into shorts and a shirt my
wife will find distasteful. "A closet full of nice clothes, and you wear
that?" Victory. The simple fact of leaving the office early is enough to
put a bounce in my step. But tonight's even better - headed out to Wolf
Trap for a real throwback to college - Big Head Todd & the Monsters opening
for Hootie and the Blowfish. Walking through my old neighborhood in the
Foggy Bottom section of DC, where I lived during grad school, brought back
more warm memories.

5:30 Meet Tara at the Watergate, transfer the kiddies to her sister, who
works there, and we're off, over the Memorial Bridge, up the GW Parkway,
full of good cheer and that blind hope that builds expectations entirely out
of sync with reality. But hey, this qualifies a a real live date for us.

5:45-6:30 *%@! Washington traffic. Apparently, the entire city has decided
to get to Wolf Trap via Leesburg Pike today. No worries, Tara and I are
enjoying a conversation in the car free of interjections every 8 seconds
from the toddlers who usually ride in the backseat. It's life's little
pleasures that keep you going.

6:32 Arrive Wolf Trap. For those of you not familiar with the DC area,
Wolf Trap is a gem of a national park, tucked away in the Virginia woods
west of the city. The Filene Center, tonight's venue, is a fantastic
ampitheater built into a bowl in the woods. You can visit it here:
www.wolftrap.org All the seats inside are great, but the real pleasure lies
outdoors on The Lawn, a sloping hillside running up from the open back end
of the auditorium. The outdoor seating gets the highest ratings because, of
course, you're allowed to bring food and beverages of any kind. We haul our
gear & booze out of the car and join the throngs for the half-mile trek from
the parking lot to the theater. Brilliant people all around me are pulling
coolers on wheels - must upgrade cooler technology. And, to make matters
worse, I'm carrying a full-fledged picnic basket because Tara wanted us to
look "cute". Bless this woman, only for her.

6:45 By the time we get to the Lawn, it's already jammed with people in
full blown picnic mode. Blankets spread, beers out, a happy crowd. Tara
navigates to a great spot with a clean view straight down to center stage.
We spread out and save room for friends who will join. We lose no time
breaking out the first bottle.

7:00-8:00 this is good. not too sunny, not the usual beastly heat of a DC
summer night. A slight breeze even keeps the mosquitos at bay. Our friends
arrive and we split a shared feast of middle eastern mezzes and pan-Asian
spice. My stomach posts notice that this, combined with beer & wine, will
be an issue, but I'm in no mood to listen. [insert first red flag here]

8:00 Showtime, BHT is opening act. They're on their game. Great blues
fusion, they play several signature pieces from Midnight Radio and Sister
Sweetly - probably the two albums I listend to most (excessively) in
college. The entire crowd consists of thirty-somethings like us, and no one
is drunk or rowdy - drinking yes, but polite, chatty, conscious of not
intruding on someone else's blanket. Yep, we're all definitely old now.

8:30 This is great, (for the Drake folks raised on BHT) like sitting in
Peggy's, but outdoors (no $1 draws of Old Style, however - we'll survive).
We're far enough outside from the stage that you can hear the music cleanly,
but it's not overpowering. Low buzz of picnic banter and laughing blends
nicely with the music - did I mention that we're old? I lay back to look at
the sky (foreshadowing) thunderheads approach from the west.

8:45 BHT is winding down with Broken Hearted Savior when the first
dinner-plate size rain drops start slowly to fall. Our neighbor perks up -
"Oh, big drops mean it'll pass fast." Since I lack a degree in meterology I
demur, but yank out the rain gear.

8:50 The rain is getting into gear. The sallies in the crowd are making a
break for the parking lot. We are secure in our rain togs and umbrellas,
comfortable in our superior preparation. We mock the departing wussies. We
rule. [insert second red flag here]

9:00 The stage crew is changing sets for Hootie. This rain is quite
serious. Pelting, torrential, DC-style thunderstorm. The remaining crowd
outside roars in approval at every cracking boom of thunder. The spectators
inside the ampitheater are now having fun watching the few hundred remaining
hardy souls outside. I've stood up, and make my way to the 'facilities'.
Shoes are taking on water, shorts damp. But rain coat, cap and hood keep me
dry. The upper reaches of the lawn and entry area have turned into a wet
t-shirt contest as people continue to dash for the parking lots. But
everyone is still having fun.

9:10 So much for that. The crowd is turning. Still no Hootie, a restless,
wet crowd. Ragged cheers for sound men tuning up the occasional guitar.
I've returned to our encampment, standing in the rain, which is now pounding
the earth into submission. Tara has the umbrella, a rain coat and a garbage
bag wrapped aorund her legs. She is well prepared, imperturbable. She
implores me to sit back down. I ignore her. I am invincible. I quote
Abbey quoting Charlemagne. "Rain, je t'appelle de ta rigueur"

9:15 HOOTIE. Cheers all around. The storm identifies the band as
competition, and ratchets up the intensity.

9:20 It is raining so hard, you cannot hear the music. It's their new
stuff, so the rain nosie is not such a bad thing.

9:30 The group of six in front of us has been cut to four. They are
hunched under a tarp and negotiate a swift maneuver; spinning in unison they
retrieve a cooler while all managing to stay under the tarp. I am
impressed.

9:31 The tarps cannot locate their bottle opener. Shouts of horror, anger,
accusation from under the tarp. I procure our opener and offer it around.
I am a hero. I am offered beer. I toast the rain.

9:34 Columbia rain jacket has been breached. This is unbelievable. 8
years, countless south China downpours, three Force 10 hurricanes in Hong
Kong, numerous wet treks in the swamps of DC, and this jacket chooses this
moment to fail. Memo to Columbia: you suck. At this point, I realize too
that my shoes have actually become portable aquaria. My feet are afloat.

9:45 I finally acquiese to Tara's request I sit back down. How much more
wet can I get, anyway? Apparently, very wet. Sitting on a hill in a
downpour has but one consequence - immediate rainwater enema. I
am...displeased. I stand again, trying in vain to separate my shorts from
my colon, where they have been relentlessly forced by surging rainwater. I
note that even the tarp folk have abandoned the battlefield.

10:00 Our neighbors leave, they have had enough. They are wise. "Let's
go!" I shout to Tara. No way. She has paid her money. She is now standing
inside a trash bag, with it cinched around her waist - waterproof head to
toe. And her raincoat is better than mine. We agree to "one more song".
Hootie implores the crowd to "stay dry", and then says that their CD's are
on sale at the gift shop, or are also available online. At this moment I
hate Hootie with a passion normally reserved for war criminals, guys who
kick their dogs, and Howard Dean.

10:20 Predictably, "one more song" has rabbited into 4. My shorts have
taken on as much water as cotton allows, and are dumping the excess runoff
straight down my legs. I am cold. I am wet. There is no beer. The rain
of course, sensing its advantage, takes it up one MORE notch.

10:25 My stomach announces it has formed an axis of evil with the rain.

10:32 Tara gives in, deciding correctly that she has married a wimp. I am
fixed with a look of considerable disdain. She is tougher than me. But I
prevail. We gather our sodden gear and make for the car. I am now carrying
a blanket that weighs approximately 75 lbs. in addition to my "cute" picnic
basket. My shorts have been stretched to such an extent by the water that
it appears I am now wearing knickers. Fore!

10:40-11:20 I of course choose the long way home. "Brilliant! Just
brilliant!" shouts my stomach.

11:21 Arrive home, hurriedly thank sister-in-law babysitter, dash for
bathroom, lock door, pray.

11:30 Pray harder.

11:40 Epiphany.

12:00 recover, let out dog, let in dog, find bed

0530 alarmshowerdressbusssluglinemetroofficecoffee

Argh.

Autumn and More Little Car

The weather this morning is so autumn! I love fall -- it is my favorite time of the year. I woke up under the comforter this morning. Dave gave me a kiss as he got up and asked me if I wanted some coffee. Do I want some coffee. Please. I snoozed for a little while and was awakened by my marvelous husband who had returned with coffee cup in hand (and saying "Ow, ow, ow. Take it. Take it, it's hot!"). I sat up in bed and fluffed the pillows so that I could sip my French vanilla coffee and flip through my latest Real Simple magazine which is, of course, full of autumn-oriented stuff.

Fall has introduced itself and I love it. I just started making a head wreath of autumn flowers to wear to Oktoberfest. The colors are a lot like my wedding bouquet. I wasn't really feeling it when I started making it a couple of days ago while sitting in front of the open porch door to stay cool – maybe today is the day to finish it off in the right weather setting.

And just now it has started to drizzle outside. Time to put another pot (this one decaf) on.

I wanted to add a couple of things about my little car, my Wagenschen, today. I remembered another story about my car. We once traveled together from Champaign to Ypsilanti, Michigan to go to a conference on English for Business Purposes. It was the only time the car and I were paid for our miles. I don't really remember the conference or what my paper was about, but I vividly remember the drive home. It was spring. It had rained the whole two days I was there. The weather was changing as a front moved in. The front brought tremendous wind with it – and I was driving into it to get home. My Wagenschen's mileage was not as good as usual that day.

At one point I stopped at a rest area to give my car and my bladder a break. As I pulled in, I was still driving into the wind, and then pulled into a diagonal spot according to the construction of most rest areas. Which means that now the wind was blowing against the driver-side door. I pulled into the spot, turned off the car, unlocked the door, pulled the handle, and pushed. I nearly broke my foot on the car door that I had expected would effortlessly swing open as usual. I could not get out of my car! I felt embarrassment before panic. Maybe I had neglected to unlock the door. Clearly, it was not an electrical failure as everything on my little car (save the transmission) is manual. I checked the lock – it was open. I was disappointed in my little car door. I contemplated a Dukes of Hazzard move through the window – I contemplated climbing to the passenger side.

And then I looked around and noticed that the rest area was experiencing an epidemic of driver-side doors refusing to open. I looked around and saw that a few cars had actually pulled out and then backed in so that they would be able to exit the car from the driver's side. One lady parked behind a van – but then had to crawl through the passenger side of her car when she returned to her car because the protective van had left.

I knew now that the wind was the culprit. I briefly thought that I might be able to out muscle the wind, but then pictured myself being crushed in the gap by so many pounds of metal and fiberglass as the door closed on me. As Dave will willingly tell you, I hate breaking the painted rules of parking lots – I could not bring myself to back into a pull into spot. So, I locked the driver-side door, gingerly climbed over the gear shift, and casually exited my little car on the passenger side.

That was a weird driving day. My little car did a great job – she may be light-weight, but she sits low enough to the pavement that we did just fine.

Mom and Dad protested that I did not reminisce about trips my little car and I have taken to St. Louis. My Wagenschen and I have traveled together to St. Louis from Champaign and from Chicago. The trip from Champaign is not too bad, but it is about 45 minutes longer than the trip from Champaign to Chicago. Therefore, you start to get that "Are we there yet?" feeling long before you are there yet, and the math required to avoid having to fill the tank must be more accurate than usual. The trip from Chicago to St. Louis starts out nice enough, but becomes a nightmare after the first couple of hours on Interstate 55. My little car and I love to spend time together – but 5 1/2 hours? Hypothetically, it's kind of like loving your sisters who are spread out all over the country. And then you all arrive at home and have such a great time together catching up, playing games, etc. And then you've been together for a week and you all begin to get frustrated and annoyed. It doesn't mean that I don't love spending time in my little car (or with my sisters), but quality over quantity can make a big difference.

My Little Car

So Dave drove himself to work on Friday. He claimed that I was "more passed out than usual," so he let me sleep. As is typical on days when he does that, I woke up about 15 minutes after he had left. Friday was beautiful. I had some Oktoberfest work to do – as usual, but then wanted to run some errands. Which means I had to take my Geo Metro.

The Metro (aka little car, Wagenschen) has been parked on the street since the first week of August. It was covered with a fine sheen of tree sap and decorated with leaves and cobwebs. It wasn't very hot inside the car, which is good since the only downside to my little car is that the air conditioning died a couple of years ago. I would get it fixed – if it weren't the compressor that needs fixing. I think the cost of a new compressor is somewhere around the Blue Book value of the whole car.

As I drove my little car around I was reminded how great a car it really is. This car and I have spent a lot of time together. I bought it in September 1996 when Dave was leaving Champaign for the big city to work – and taking his 1993 Geo Metro with him. [Note: My Geo Metro is not as little as his was – mine has 4 cylinders, his had 3.]

After several bad car shopping trip experiences, I headed 20 minutes north of Urbana to Rantoul to look for a car at Rogers in Rantoul. Their main business was trucks, but they had a selection of regular cars made by Chevy and Pontiac. Our salesperson was a woman. The second time we were there she let us take a Geo Metro "sedan" out for a test drive by ourselves (lots of people were at the dealership buying trucks). Dave had gotten information from the credit union about what price the car should be – what the dealership probably paid, what price they would shoot for, what price we should be able to get, etc. We then calculated that out to monthly payments after figuring my college graduate and first-time buyer incentives. We were ready.

We sat down with Brenda fully prepared. We talked about the picture of her kids' heads poking through a large corn cob painted on a piece of plywood at the Sweet Corn Festival in Hoopestown (pronounced "huhpsten," not "hoopsten"). We were familiar with the photo op from our own visit to the Sweet Corn Festival that year with our friend Chris Wonders. I was not able to convince those guys to have our picture taken amid the corn kernels.

Brenda wrote down the price they were offering on a piece of paper along with what the monthly payment would be. She handed it to me (Dave was being nice and continuing to allow me to think that I was doing this all by myself.) I handed it to Dave. Brenda noticed the look we gave each other and said she would be happy to give us a chance to talk about it. She left us alone. Dave got out his notes, I grabbed the calculator. How could this be? Her first offer was lower than the number we were going to try to get her down to?!

We went through the math. Everything seemed correct. Brenda came back and we all shook hands. Because I was buying a 1996 car at the end of the 1996 model year, they didn't have what I wanted on the lot. They were going to trade for it. So, I had to give Brenda the specifics on what I wanted – or really, what I did not want. We agreed on the purchase of a 1996 Geo Metro "three door" hatch with automatic transmission, a/c, stereo/cassette, and "cargo cover" for the tiny space behind the back seat visible through the back window, and rear defrost. I gave her my top choice for color: silver sage metallic, and a list of colors I couldn't do: super black, cool white, super grape. We finalized the list. She told me it could take between seven and ten days to find the car, make the trade, and get the car delivered. Though I was let down after writing a big check and not getting a car, I was excited about finally being close to having my very own new car.

Around the time that I was car shopping, Saturn was running a commercial that featured a young woman with brown, shoulder-length hair who was buying her first new car. The first time I saw it I almost cried. The salesman gathered the people in the dealership around to announce that this woman had just bought her first new car. The camera zooms in on the new car keys dangling from his hand just as you see her shaking, nervous hand grasp them from him. How exciting!

About four days after I signed the initial paperwork, Dave and I were at home making lemon chicken at about 6:30. The chicken chunks were about half-cooked and awaiting their lemon bath when the phone rang. It was Brenda at Rogers in Rantoul. She said they had made the trade, got all of my first choices, and that the car had just pulled up. All they had to do was clean it and put their name on it and I could have it! She asked if I wanted to come up and get it that night. I looked at Dave – he said he would be willing to dump dinner and go! I looked at the clock. It would take us 20 minutes to get there and the dealership closed at 7:00. I told Brenda it would be just before 7:00 when we go there. She said that was no problem – she and her manager would stick around so I could take delivery.

She and her manager were going to stay late to finish the paperwork on a car that cost as much the tires and bed lining on their pickup trucks?! Dave and I turned off the stove and jumped in his Metro. When we got to the dealership, I couldn't see the car. Brenda said they were finishing the cleaning after its drive from Kentucky. We did the paperwork with Brenda and her manager in her manager's office. He was a very nice guy in a very bad green suit. After everything was signed, we walked back out to the showroom floor. And there it was. My new car.

Rogers in Rantoul has a red carpet that leads from the middle of the showroom to a big glass door that opens to let cars in and out. The pavement outside the glass door is painted red also. You drive out on the red carpet into downtown Rantoul. Before I left, Brenda apologized that it didn't have a full tank of gas. The garage guys had already left and couldn't take it over to the gas station that they used to fill it up. She handed me an envelope and explained that her manager had given her ten dollars to give me to fill it up (ten dollars was more than enough to fill my Metro back then).

Dave pulled his car up in front of the dealership. I got in my new car and as I drove out on the red carpet I felt even more excited than the woman on the Saturn commercial looked. We drove to the gas station first. There was a ten dollar bill in the envelope that Brenda gave me. I filled the tank. We headed south on highway 45 through the corn fields back towards Urbana. Since we had left the lemon chicken to die, Dave suggested we go out to eat. We met at the Steak n' Shake on University Avenue and parked our Metros next to each other. I was in heaven. After we ate, I told Dave I would meet him at home. I had to drive around for a while to enjoy my car and reset all of the preset buttons on the radio. They were full of country stations.

My little car and I have spent over 93,000 miles together – mostly on the trip between Champaign and Chicago. A lot of people have cars with that many miles on them – but I’m betting the miles were accumulated during short trips to work or quick runs to the store, and maybe the occasional road trip. Most of the miles that my little car and I have spent together have been on the two and a half hour trip to Chicago from Champaign. We escaped together almost every Friday (sometimes Thursday) by pulling out from in front of the Foreign Languages Building in Urbana and heading straight for I-57. Sometimes we would stop at the gas station on the edge of Champaign for a fill up, a bottled water, maybe a candy bar, and usually a lotto ticket. We didn't stop until the traffic in Chicago forced us to.

My little car has gotten one new set of tires, and a new muffler. It has may dings and scratches from being parked on Chicago streets. It has hit a box spring and a load of sand on the Dan Ryan Expressway in Chicago. It has been hit by a dingbat in a monstrous SUV who put her SUV in reverse after a fender bender on the Kennedy Expressway in Chicago. It has saved me from countless crashes – including being crushed by a load of scrap metal plummeting from a tractor trailer that overturned on a ramp that crossed over the Dan Ryan Expressway. We spent three hours just sitting on the Dan Ryan and reading and eating M&Ms smartly purchased after a rare stop to hit the bathroom in Peotone. I don't know what made me stop to use the bathroom. The trip had become a commute at that point – I would go when I got to the city. I stopped that time and went to the bathroom and bought a treat. As I reached the city I learned that all lanes of the Dan Ryan were closed because someone in a Pepsi delivery truck decided to tell a police officer that he had a lot of guns and was planning to kill himself.

My little car has afforded me parking spaces that no other car could fit within. I have eaten countless meals and sung countless songs in that car. We have survived major thunderstorms and inches and feet of snow. I even have pictures taken from inside my little car of tornado conditions on Interstate 57. My little car and I got hit by flying debris as we passed a wall cloud that was brightly lit by the setting sun. We headed off at the next exit ramp that then crossed back over the interstate so that we could sit up high and get more pictures. [Note: Dave was not pleased when he learned about this and still does not like to talk about it.] I left the light blue smudge from flying housing insulation on the car for a while like some kind of badge.

As I drove around the north side of Chicago and Skokie running errands yesterday, I found myself falling in love with my little car again. She has been waiting patiently for me. I used to drive her every day – and fill her with gas twice a week – and sing songs with her. She has been sitting alone on the street. I drive Dave's VW a lot and I like it – but I find that I like driving my little car a lot more. Everything is simpler and tighter. No automatic buttons or automatic steering. No Bauhaus interior or big key fobs that open and lock the car with a loud retort from the horn. Just a small engine and little seats and two long keys (I had to have a new ignition put in when the car key broke off in it once) that say GEO on them.

I look forward to having a job someday and making enough money to buy a new car. But I know I will cry when I retire my little car. We have seen a lot together.

Oktoberfest - Rejected Again - and Baseball

Not a good start to today. It's supposed to be warm again, I've got killer cramps, and there was a message on the machine waiting for me when I got back at 8:30am after dropping Dave off at work.

Oktoberfest work is piling up. I know it must be bad because I avoided some of it yesterday by cleaning the entire living room (front room in Chicago-speak) instead of doing Ofest work. And I mean cleaned. Once I had all of the furniture stacked on the area rug like some kind of poltergeist tower in order to mop the remaining border of hardwood floor with Murhpy's Oil Soap, I knew I was possessed. I must have vacuumed, mopped, and dusted up a few pounds of dark red dust from the recent tuckpointing and porch rebuilding on our building. The living room and the bathroom are now sanctuaries of pine-smelling clean. (I won't relate the details of cleaning the bathroom. I will only say that I am amazed that Dave and I are not bald.) The office -- where my work patiently waits for me -- is a sty. The pathways between piles of paper and items removed from the living room are the only spaces left clear for me to walk through -- that is when I am not tripping on the phone cord that shares the space since the office does not have one phone jack. I find myself thinking of the phone cord that trails out the office door and through the dining room to the the odd jack just past the bathroom door as my tether to salvation from this mess.

So the phone message was from a man who works on one of the Oktoberfest committees -- his company (he) donated $1000 to the Oktoberfest. Which is outstanding. Except that the deadline to get logos on tshirts was yesterday. I spent the morning on the phone with him, a woman in his office, and the woman who is doing the tshirts for us. I really have nothing to complain about. The tshirt woman was outstanding and helped me to make it happen. I had a Barbara Ann moment (or 30 of them) when I ended up chatting with the tshirt woman about life for a half hour. She is also a parishioner and a 37-year-old first time mom! We talked about having babies in our 30s, raising babies in the city, becoming a stay-at-home mom but maintaining a work life with at-home work projects (she started a greeting card company), etc. It was great. So actually, I should not be complaining at all, but rather be thankful for the opportunity to get to know the tshirt lady.

While I was online to send company names and info to various Ofest committees, I got an email from The Chronicle. The Chronicle is a weekly publication about life in academe. They also have a job section that publishes available positions and articles on getting jobs, writing CVs, etc. One of their regular columns is called First Person and is columns written by people out in the job market. They write about their failures and occasional successes in finding a job or changing jobs or dealing with family and work. They are often funny and usually informative, if not supportive/sympathetic articles. The Chronicle recently advertised a call for submissions for this coming academic year for people to write about their job hunt experiences. Ten people are picked to write about four columns each. And they get paid for it. I decided to give it a shot. I wrote an article according to the guidelines they stated. I rewrote the article, I made Dave read it, I deleted huge portions, I changed the jokes, I glossed over details to protect the innocent, I made final edits. I got the rejection this morning. I got rejected from a project that would have me write about getting rejected. How am I supposed to feel about this? The email was nice enough -- which is nice since I have had many other colder rejections from "real" jobs. I didn't realize how badly I wanted that gig. I may post my article later just to set it free.

At least I'm alive. Yesterday was not a good day in Chicago for people planning on staying alive. Six people and the gunman were killed in a warehouse shooting on the south side, two people were killed and several others seriously wounded in a terrible crash on the Eisenhower (causing one of the warehouse workers to be late for work and thus saved from a violent death), and a truck driver died after his tractor trailer crossed opposite lanes of traffic and plowed into some rowhouses setting them on fire.

And then there's baseball. Dave's Cubs are playing my Cards in St. Louis. We saw the end of Tuesday night's game. We went to the bar after my Ofest meeting. The pitcher for the Cubs that night -- Mark Prior -- is amazing. Though he is a Cub, I often find myself rooting for him. He is a super pitcher. He didn't pitch a complete game that night -- which he has been doing lately. The Cards lost the game, but got to see some of the Cubs' pen that night after Prior got pulled. I told Dave and Sean the bartender that the few runs the Cards scored at the end of the game were a positive in an otherwise negative outcome for losing the game. I acknowledged that the Cubs have some great pitchers, but said that my team just needs to get to the guys in the pen for a shot. They both said "Yeah, okay, but you lost." So last night the Cards had to face Wood. He got pulled in the 7th due to the number of pitches. Long 8th inning short -- the Cards ripped through the Cubs pen and came from behind to tie and then go ahead two runs. Dave came home from an alumni meeting when the Cards were up in the 8th. He didn't know. The last time I had talked to him I told him that his team was winning 1-0. He couldn't see the TV. He asked about the game. I said,
"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"
"The bad news."
"Your team is losing 4-3 in the 8th."
"What's the good news then?"
"I was right about your bull pen."
I had to explain to him why that was good news.

More Thoughts

There are a few things I would like to blog -- but today is a crazy day. I have an Oktoberfest meeting tonight and much to do.

I regret my earlier posting on "The Heat Day." Yesterday it was 95. Today we will do the same. The computer and I can't take it. Luckily, the humidity is lower than it was last week. But still. I know it is hot when I tell myself at 9:30 am that I should wait until I have to leave for the meeting to take a shower since the better-smelling benefits of taking one now will be lost by then.

I have been thinking about hot dogs again. How is it that my hometown is not a hot dog city? Click here to read the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council's history on the dog in the US. St. Louis is linked to the history in at least two different possible ways (selling dogs at baseball games -- definitely, the invention of the hot dog bun in 1904, debatable). I'm going to have to look into this. I've done a little investigating so far. I read part of a (suburban) St. Louisan's blog about buying her nephew a hot dog in downtown St. Louis from a "bona fide hot dog stand." Really? How have I missed those?

I talked to Lucy about her Christmas outfit streak. She tried to claim that it was due to having to wear the dresses that belonged to older sisters when Mom dressed us alike, causing the youngest girl -- Lucy -- to enjoy some fashions for many consecutive years. No dice. The outfit in question was a Mom one-of-a-kind, light blue, corduroy jumper. I was looking through some of the pictures while we talked. A future blog may include a survey of all of the repeated Christmas outfits over time. I hadn't seen the patterns before. There are also a couple of good examples of 'the slippers I got this year' in there. Lucy mentioned having to wear navy blue Capezio's that had ribbon bows on them for many years due to the hand-me-down policy. I'm thinking now that maybe Lucy does not have feet as large as she claims, but rather used the excuse of having size 9 feet to avoid wearing black patent leather Mary Janes and navy blue Capezio's to this very day.

Some Thoughts

Dave and I splurged at Sam's and about an assortment pack of individual serving-size cereals. The assortment could be named "All the Cereals Your Mom Never Let You Buy." Somehow some Frosted Mini-Wheats slipped in between the Fruit Loops and Frosted Flakes, though. Anyway, I had a bowl of Frosted Flakes this morning. Are the boxes smaller now? Wow. Clearly, the usual serving size of cereal that I measure out for myself is way out of control. I thought about putting two boxes in one bowl. Then inspiration hit -- what if I mixed two different kinds of sugar-coated cereal in *one* bowl? No, the milk did not become the cool color I predicted.

I have been scanning my family's traditional Christmas pictures for preservation. Interesting to note that my sister Lucy wore the identical outfit in 1986, 1987, and 1988. My sister Rachael wore the outfit before her in 1985.

I spent part of last night looking through blog directories. I found a directory for St. Louis and one for Chicago. Common themes: most bloggers are male and (often) under the age of 30. Many bloggers are under the age of 22. Their interests include movies, anything sci fi, and all things technology. Blogging themes in Chicago include the Cubs, food, and on the occasional female blog, dating. Blogging themes in St. Louis include Christianity (?) and the Cardinals.

The Cardinals, Cubs, and Astros are all within a half game of each other at the top of the central division. This level of competition at this late date in the baseball season could create not-seen-before levels of stress for Dave and me as we cheer on (and occasionally curse at) our favorite teams. Dave is quietly optimistic about the Cubs, I am worried about the Cardinals' pitching. The really interesting thing is that neither of our teams would be worth squat were they competing in most other divisions in baseball. Go Cards!

Finally, our friend Frank loaned us the book Moneyball by Michael Lewis. Dave has already finished it and wants to buy it so that we can own it and he can read it again. I am halfway through it. It has changed our lives. We have become converts. We see baseball in a whole new way.

I'd Like to Supersize That

Dave and I just got back from Sam's Club. Let me just say, God bless Capitalist America.

We haven't been in almost a year. We braced ourselves for the suburban throngs equipped with our club cards, full bellies, and a list. We're a pretty good relay team once we're in the warehouse. Dave always drives the cart, I work as a scout an aisle ahead or in tight squeezes.

We had to laugh at ourselves today. We got so excited about the great deals. People have been asking us how married life is treating us -- I know that ours will always be a happy marriage when I can spend time with my husband shopping for home essentials and share the same giddy excitement about a finding a deal on 36 rolls of (quilted!) toilet paper.

Toilet paper. We were actually enjoying ourselves over the price of toilet paper. We were beside ourselves when we encountered the shampoo quantities that will outlast your hair supply, a poultry-farm's worth of frozen chicken breasts, and enough Sweet n' Low for oceans of coffee. The high point for me personally was finding my brand of tampons at a price I couldn't pass up, though I did hesitate at the size of the box. I'm pretty sure I'm supplied now for the rest of my child-bearing years.

We also got office supplies, some submarine computer game for Dave, a Harry Potter DVD for me, and countless other dry goods that have shelf-lives that may require us to pack them up when we move into a retirement community.

We didn't have to rationalize the the total price when we headed out into the blazing parking lot, we have experienced no buyer's remorse. And -- making the trip all the more enjoyable -- we didn't have to haul our plunder into the apartment in strangely shaped, poorly packed boxes. Sam's now has bags!

The Heat Day

We were supposed to have a heat wave this week. The summer has been unusually mild this year, so a few days of heat really wouldn't be that horrible. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were slated for high 90s with high dew points to make it feel like it was 100 plus.

I don't think we broke 86 here on Tuesday or Wednesday. The humidity made it a little moist, but nothing too horrible. Yesterday was another story.

The heat index hit 110 even close to the lake. It was miserable. I had to create errands to have excuses to get out of our sauna of an apartment and sit in the comfort of an airconditioned car. I haven't been that uncomfortable in a long time.

A front was scheduled to move through last night. The excessive heat advisory was posted until 9:00 pm -- then we had the chance for storms due to the front. The storms formed over the lake, missing us entirely. We went to bed sticking to the sheets -- and woke up with the comforter on us.

I love the Midwest.

Today's high will be 78, then 80 and 82 on Saturday and Sunday respectively. Humidity is under control, and there is no rain predicted until Tuesday. There is a light breeze blowing through the apartment. I actually put on a long sleeved cotton shirt to take Dave to work today!

I apologize to those of you living points south of here where it is still hot. We have an office/guest room with clean sheets for the futon to protect you from the goose bumps...

I am sure I will regret this posting later.

Nervous Breakdown in Aisle Seven

I had to go to the grocery store yesterday. I hate going to the grocery store. I originally planned on using the hot weather as incentive -- we have no AC so a trip to the store would be refreshing, right? It didn't get as hot as they said it would and I remained comfortable until I saw the time and realized I would not be able to get to the store, back home, and then downtown to pick up Dave.

Plan B: We still had the cooler in the back of the car from our road trip and we needed only some essentials, so I planned to hit the store, buy some ice, chuck the perishables in the cooler, and then continue heading south to the loop to get Dave.

The store was strangely quiet for a weekday at 5:30 pm. Excellent. I grabbed the essentials (a few were even on sale!) and also had a nice chat with the lady at the deli counter about how to tame crazy hair on humid days. At the last minute, I decided to grab some Wheat Chex. I hit the aisle, grabbed a box on the fly, and then had to put on the brakes.

An elderly couple had parked their shopping cart on one side of the aisle and was standing in front of it trying to combine the powers of their dimming eyesight to read jelly labels. The woman saw me coming and gently nudged her husband into the shelves in front of them to let me pass.

But I was stymied again. A young woman looking very much like a Lincoln Park Trixie walked toward me and stood exactly between the elderly couple and their cart.

[Note: A Lincoln Park Trixie is a unique breed of 20-something females -- and some 30-somethings who wish they were 20-something -- who see themselves as some sort of Ally McBeal professional, single woman searching for the right (wealthy) man and live in the Lincoln Park neighborhood. They own Kate Spade bags and drive Volkswagens and live six to an apartment if necessary to afford the neighborhood. I can't really describe them. Click here to visit their society website. It started out as a few women making a parody of themselves back in 1990, but has grown to something much more. I'm afraid the typical trixie doesn't even realize she is making fun of herself.]

She stood there with a blank look on her face. The elderly woman didn't see her and was looking at me wondering why I was letting her crush her husband against a thousand jelly jars and wasn't moving. I said "Excuse me" and looked at the trixie so the elderly woman would know what was happening. The trixie looked at me and smiled. And stood there.

I nearly lost it. I took the aggressive approach and just started moving towards her.

Once I cleared that gauntlet I headed for the three out of twenty check out lanes that were open. I found one that had one woman and her 13-year-old-looking son at it. No line!! I moved in behind them. The mom was yelling at the son for not helping her put groceries on the belt. He stayed behind the cart and claimed he couldn't reach any of them. She ended up emptying the three different kinds of chips and four kinds of cookies and two tubs of ice cream et al. onto the belt herself. Then her son said, "Were you looking at the candy? I can get the one you want for you." Nice move.

The check out person scanned everything and then predictably looked at the mom to receive payment. The mom said, "Oh I'm sorry, we need to wait for my husband. He has the debit card."

What? I did not sign up for this. This is not how this works.

We waited. By this point, my blood pressure is higher than usual and I'm getting a vein on my forehead like Dad's. I've noticed that people have stopped making eye contact with me.

The husband showed up in a minute or so. Clearly, he doesn't often buy the groceries. He had never used one of the boxes that you swipe your own card on. He tried -- and failed. And then failed again. The mom and the check out lady tried to show him how it works. Nothing. It turns out that it probably wasn't his fault. Apparently, lots of ATM and debit machines have been devastated by the latest internet virus.

He found a credit card that worked. Then he signed the receipt. At which time he saw the total. "Does that say one hundred sixty-four?" He glanced at the ten bags, checked the total again and became upset. "What did you buy?"

"Honey, it's okay. We do this all the time." Not a good answer.

"What do you mean 'all the time?' What is so expensive?"

"You're the one who wanted the Boca burgers..."

They continued in this vein while the son helped himself to some variety of chips that were not a natural potato-chip color. Oh, and they didn't leave the check out lane.

So now my groceries are finally being scanned and I can't push my cart forward so that the nice looking (and very calm) young man who was bagging could load it up. The good-looking bagger kept bagging my things and then in one motion pulled their cart out of the way. He was maybe seventeen and had the darkest skin I've ever seen. His eyes were brilliant beacons on his face. He wore a bracelet of bright woven threads. He was tall and lanky. He worked quietly and efficiently.

The family continued fighting, but moved along with their groceries. I finally got my total, gave the checker my cash, and got my car keys ready while waiting for my change. At this grocery store, the change gets shot out of a separate machine near the customer so that the checker only has to deal with the big round numbers on paper money.

Not this time. My thirty-three cents did not shoot down the ramp like some kind of slot machine winnings. The checker gave me my eleven dollars and my receipt and shut the cash drawer. When I explained that I still needed thirty-three cents I got the strangest look. Had I asked for the impossible? Was the vein on my forehead pulsing now?

While the checker tried to figure out how to liberate my thirty-three cents, the bagger walked to the ice freezer, grabbed my bag of ice for me, put it in a shopping bag, put it in my cart, looked me straight in the eye and smiled.

Nervous breakdown averted.

I'd Like One With Everything

There is nothing better than a good hot dog. I was reminded of this last night when I picked Dave up from work. Since there is no food in the house, I suggested we go get sandwiches or sandwich makings. I left the particular choice and location up to him. A few minutes after leaving downtown, we pulled into the parking lot of Demon Dogs.

I grew up in a dogless culture. Frozen custard? Sure. Toasted raviolis? You betcha. Thin crust pizza? The best there is. A hot dog with everything? Not that I'm aware of.

The only dogs I remember enjoying while growing up were at home (boiled when we were very young, later barbequed, for a time we feasted on the cheese *inside* the dog food fad), or grilled at the school picnic or baseball stadium. I also remember getting a dog at a tavern (girl scout field trip) owned by a family we knew who cooked their dogs on a grill after splitting them open lengthwise. Previous to that experience, I thought dogs were split like that only so that they would fit on orphan hamburger buns. The one thing I can find in common about some of those dogs is that they were cooked on a grill rather than boiled.

When I got older, I met and fell in love with a Chicagoan -- a real one who was born and raised within the city limits, he'll tell you. Chicagoans are a proud people. They are proud of their city, their sports teams, their pizza, and their hot dogs. My first experience with a Chicago hot dog was at Demon Dogs. Demon Dogs is tucked under the el tracks of the Brown (or Ravenswood) Line at the Fullerton el (elevated train) stop. Demon Dogs is on DePaul University's campus and is named for the DePaul Blue Demons. It is a shoebox of a place with paraphernalia from the band Chicago screwed onto every vertical inch of the place. I can never remember the actual connection -- I believe the owner of Demon Dogs is the father of one of the band members. I'll have to check with Dave.

When you walk into Demon Dogs you are immediately accosted by several women behind a long counter who are all wearing Demon Dogs t-shirts and hats who start screaming "Can I help you?" You should not approach the counter and expect to look at a menu. You should not approach the counter and ask any questions. You need to be aggressive and assertive and plainly belt out your order "Yeah, I need a dog with everything, no peppers, no celery salt." [Note: hot dogs in Chicago do not have ketchup on them. Ketchup is not a possibility. Kethcup is only for the very young, and even then it is questioned.]

The woman behind the counter will yell out to a person standing next to a wall of deep fryer baskets "I need one" (or "uno" as the case may be). This means fries. You don't have to order fries, they come with the dog. She'll call this out because every order of fries at Demon Dogs is fried to order -- no soggy ones left under a lamp to die. Someone else might ask you what you want to drink. Dave likes to get a small vanilla shake. I like a small Pepsi. The cups at Demon Dogs often have the name of some other restaurant on them. I haven't figured that one out yet. Your dog, fries, a drink will cost about what you have in your pocket in change.

We like to sit at the counter to eat -- you can also sit at a small collection of tables and chairs, and there is seating outside next to the el tracks. I forgot to mention that the music played at Demon Dogs is from the band Chicago (for example, "Hard Habit To Break") -- all the time, on a loop. I'm often amazed that the people that work there don't go ballistic and smash the gold records and plexiglass-protected horns. If you choose to sit outside, you are not neglected the Chicago experience -- the music is broadcast outside on loudspeakers.

Sitting at the counter inside is advantageous in that it is easy to go up and order your second dog. Unless you're there for snack, you'll need the second dog. Demon Dogs are Vienna Beef hot dogs (another Chicago tradition) that are boiled to perfection. The smallish dog comes on a steamed bun. "Everything" at most dog places in Chicago includes mustard (yellow), relish (sometimes an unnatural-looking bright green), onions (diced), tomato (slices that are cut in half), pickle (long enough to fit on the bun), sometimes celery salt (I don't know what it is, but a little on a dog is good), and sometimes hot peppers -- it depends on the place.

Dave and I have become hot dog connoisseurs. We saw a PBS documentary on hot dogs across the US and became obsessed. We use our "Eat Your Way Across the USA" to find places when we're on the road. We've made notes about other places we've seen or heard about. We've hit three new places in two states in the last couple of weeks.

We've already started plans to bring hot dogs to the city of my youth when we win the lottery. Naturally, they'll be cooked on grill. We will also offer the classic boiled Chicago dog -- oooh! and maybe a variation on the grilled dog on the 'garbage plate' that we saw (but didn't dare try) in Rochester earlier this month.

I'll have to post another time about the hot dog places we've visited.