Great Expectations

Wednesday was a day filled with expectations.  Here's the scorecard.


Expectations Exceeded:

We had an appointment at Fidelity to update some of our records.  We fully expected to have to endure a meeting with some slick young product pusher.  Imagine our surprise.  There were two of them and they were young.  They were also knowledgeable, personable and very respectful of our wishes not to make a lot of changes to our account.  Their follow up was superb. We would now be open to their suggestions for changes to our account.  GRADE:   A +

Expectations Met:

There is never a doubt that Mariano's will provide us with good food at fair prices and with the best of service.  Their employees  love ( or are trained to act like they love) shoppers and are helpful at every turn.  The meat and produce are exceptional.  We decided to go big and stock up and ask for delivery.  The charges are somewhat high and the time for delivery a little longer than promised and one item didn't make it to our home, but the delivery guy was so apologetic and helpful, that all is forgiven.  GRADE:   B+

Expectations shattered and dumped into the abyss.

 

 

  We have loved the Chicago Shakespeare theater since the days back at the Ruth Page Theater.  We really don't mind classic theater set in modern times.    Rigoletto set in Vegas in the 60s was good.  The music was true and the performances stellar.  This production of Julius Caesar was violent, noisy,  and populated with jerks - set in Washington, D.C. in modern times.  That would have been okay.  What wasn't okay was the bad acting, the inability to project voices and the NOISE, NOISE, NOISE.   I pity the poor ushers who have to endure this night after night.  I question why Ms. Gaines would put her reputation on the line with this inferior product and why it got generally okay reviews.

 

 

GRADE:  D-  The only reason I didn't give it an "F" was that the woman sitting next to me was delightful and the bar service at intermission was great.

 

 

So much for Wednesday expectations.  Take that, Miss Havisham.

 

 

  

 
 

The Dilemma

“#$@%.  It’s still there. Damn it all to hell you %^$#.  I know you’re there.  **%$#@….go away!”

As my kids faced an imaginary monster, named Chunky, in our basement several times a year, many years ago, I face this very real monster several times a day, every day. I have survived raising six kids, the deaths of loved ones, giant jackasses in the workplace, two great recessions, two terms of “W”, the promised rapture a few years ago and the recent Mayan end of days.  Why then, is this a challenge?

I’m a procrastinator by nature and a terrible housekeeper.  That being said, I am amazed that since emptying a big house – garage – attic – basement and all, and downsizing to a condo, I have managed to limit the amount of clutter that surrounds me.  The one exception is my monster… the bedroom closet.  Every day it confronts me with its ugly disorder and forces me to grab my clothes and run. Because of its size, this closet has become the repository for all things labeled “I’ll deal with that later”.

 It is the boxes of photographs, including the ones I salvaged from my mother’s own closet when she died over a decade ago.  I really ought to throw them out because once I am gone nobody else will care about them – they’re not digital. Both of my aunts who could help me identify long gone relatives have macular degeneration – so I can no longer ask them to help.

  It is also the assorted paperwork that was so darned important to keep, that I don’t even remember what it is.  Then there are the boxes of mementos that I’ve set aside for my kids and will one day really ship out to them.  I want to relieve the sense of loss they are suffering without their old little league shirts and their 3^rd grade class photos.

 Did I mention the 20 years of tax returns?  And the documentation to back them up?

            I am holding on to a pair of shoes with high heels that I can’t wear now – high heels always make your legs look great – and who cares?  Add a Pendleton suit that I just know I will need on that someday when an old colleague calls on me to impart my banking knowledge as a paid consultant. Banking has changed and so has my body.  I cannot bear to face trying on that slim, fitted suit to discover that it can no longer be buttoned and is wildly outdated.

Gaze upon my colorful supply of gift wrapping paraphernalia that I should give away.  We no longer shop for gifts – we write checks.  Ditto what’s left of the box of sand dollars that I collected from the Gulf of Mexico and lovingly bleached and polished for my grandchildren?  I have a few that have not been distributed – and keep meaning to pack and ship the rest of them.  They were little kids when I collected them and now they’re college kids whose friends would LOL were I to actually deliver them.

Glance through the box of assorted items that really need repair at a jewelers.  The bullet that came through my office window that I want to make into a pendant, one of the kids’ baby cups that needs the handle re-attached and the one I am saving for the first grandchild of my oldest daughter. My favorite bracelet needs the clasp fixed. I also have the costume jewelry – both mine and my mothers, that I was going to divide among my granddaughters to use to “play grown up”. You guessed it – they’re all grown up.

Need medical supplies?  I have two back bolsters that helped me through a herniated disk, assorted bottles of crap that I ordered from the TV – all guaranteed to make me live longer- and a lifetime supply of diabetic testing needles.  I had forgotten I had a heart monitor and a pedometer for my walking and treadmill days.  Somehow they got on the same shelf with the heating pad, the incontinence aids from the hospital, a navy blue arm sling  and three old Mickey Mouse watches that need new batteries and resetting.  Rolled up in the corner of that shelf is the Velcro fitted heavy weight belt that was supposed to be worn while active to restore my waistline to 21 inches.

Whatever messy picture you are getting of this closet is absolutely correct, and then some.  I know that with a scanner, a box of big garbage bags and a shredder I could knock this sucker out in a few days.  I really want to.  This is not procrastination – this is the dilemma.

I keep saying to myself, “I really need to clean this closet out before I die.  I don’t want to be embarrassed. And… I don’t want my kids embarrassed when they have to sort through this stuff.”

 Therein lies the problem:

 If I don’t clean it out, I will  have this  closet as a future project and final embarrssment.

If I do clean it out,  the powers that be might take it as a sign that I’m ready to die.

What do I do?

 

 

Four Thanksgiving Weekend Football Conversations

#1.  Facebook with my writing coach and hero.

Somebody needs to tell me why I should give a rat's hinder about football.

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  Lynn S. Crawford Because you like to see grown men who make more money than teachers, firefighters and police combined bashing each other in the head in expensive uniforms and equipment that changes weekly so the uniform companies can make as much money as the sponsors of these asinine grunt sessions. Got it?

  22 hours ago · Like

 

#2.  Thanksgiving Day host to the assembled guests:

 

" We need to say grace.  Where are the kids?"

 

Someone answers:  "Watching the game."

 

Someone else:  "Which game?"

 

Host:  " It doesn't matter.  Thanking God for our blessings is the only game that matters."

 

 

#3.  Neighbor to me:

 

"Think about that poor U of A quarterback.  His last college game and he blows it in the last few minutes of the 4th quarter.  He will carry that with him for the rest of his life."

 

Me to neighbor:

 

"Think of our great-nephew.  His first week in Afghanistan and he is shot and has to kill his shooter. He will carry that with him for the rest of his life."

 

Neighbor to me:

 

"Okay, I get your point."

 

#4.  Me talking to myself.

 

Me.  "  I can't stand it.  Joe is watching USC vs Notre Dame.  My mom told me not to hate anything or anyone.  I strongly dislike both these teams."

 

Me: " Why USC?"

 

 

Me:  "Try being at the U of A in the 50s in the Western Athletic Conference and having the arrogant, self centered Trojans coming to your so-so stadium and lording it over you.  Arggghhh!" 

 

 

 

Me: "Why Notre Dame?"

 

 

 

Me: " Try living in a town where grown men have the Notre Dame fight song as their car horn and/or doorbell sound.  Try living with the ND wannabees who wear the gear and prance around like the ditsy, self important leprechaun. Gives me the heeby geebies."

 

So, knowing that Joe is rooting for Notre Dame, I decide to go along - but only because of Uncle Dave and Uncle Vince.  (You'd need to know them to understand.)  At least Uncle Vince might sneak me into heaven for my one night love of the Fighting Irish.  Uncle Dave will just hoist a brew to thank me.

 

Having made that decision - I have also decided to retire to the living room and continue reading my book.  I can find out the score later. I don't really have to watch it.  Next week I can go back to rooting against both of them.  Life is too short.  Prioritize.

 

 

Jersey Shore Memories

This is an excerpt from the second of  my beach stories. The working title is New Jersey Beaches, Part II, High School.   It is much longer in its entirety and actually is a true adventure story.  I have chosen only a few paragraphs to post.  Names have been changed to protect the innocent. The boardwalk in Seaside Heights is now just a memory.  How sad, that Sandy left such devastation.

.............. When school ended we headed to the Jersey Shore, Seaside Park to be precise.  My mother and sisters and I would head for our trailer with the nifty bunk beds and the minuscule kitchen. They didn’t call them mobile homes then and the one we had couldn’t have moved if we had wanted it to.   Dad came on the weekends.  We were a short run down a sandy lane past the real beach houses to one of the most beautiful beaches I have seen in all my travels.   There, life took on a whole new dimension for me.

Our cousins,  who were sisters, were our neighbors at the shore.  They came from the wrong side of a big town and went to a tough school. Their high school had a lower set of standards and tolerated behaviors different from those at Chatham High School.  They were a little wild and very street-smart and they talked funny.  One would ask “Why we goin’ home so early – it ain’t even 10:00?” and her sister would respond “Don’t make no difference to me.”

 They were so different from my Chatham friends that I loved hanging out with them. Time flew by and our skin darkened and our hair lightened as we enjoyed the beach with our families all day. Sandy bologna sandwiches from earlier years were still a lunch staple, but the wax cartons of birch beer had been replaced by bottles of soda that we would religiously gather up at the end of the day to return for the two cent deposits. We’d spend it later playing ski-ball at the boardwalk.

  After the sun went down we headed for Seaside Heights and “the boards.” I can still imagine and crave the taste of Jersey Shore pizza. A piece was huge with an airy crust full of bubbles and the most delicious toppings of sausage and peppers.  We washed it down with milkshakes and ended the night walking around with French fries in a newspaper cone sprinkled with malt vinegar and lots of salt. 

 In "The Heights", without my mother and little sisters, it was easy for me to step into the rebel without a cause mode and hang out with the wrong crowd which, of course, included my big city cousins.

Our routines rarely varied and, except for weather glitches, life was literally a day  at the beach. At the shore my cousins were the top dogs of the boardwalk scene. The boardwalk crowd consisted of the townies who worked in the restaurants or helped run the carousel or the Ferris wheel on the boardwalk. Add to that, the summer people who weren’t rich and were shunned by the popular crowd on the beach who hung out with the lifeguards in their Jantzens.  Had I lived in a real beach house and not in the trailer, I might have been part of that crowd.

Because I liked my cousins and they didn’t mind me tagging along, I followed them to their turf. I was clearly a minnow among sharks – a position that was unnatural for me.  I ratcheted up my makeup and shortened my shorts and wore my hair up to fit in.  I learned to swear, and to flirt with the greasers who hung out on the boardwalk just looking for someone to take to that night’s beach party. Beach parties consisted of a big bonfire, a lot of beer and no responsible adult in attendance - everything our Chatham mothers warned us about. It made summer a lot more exciting and naughty and just a little dangerous.

To be continued................

 

Someday I'll publish the whole series of beach stories, starting from childhood to today.  (As soon as I finish cleaning out that one last closet.)

Is Anything Still Real?

Reading the papers today got me thinking and blinking mad.   Read about the Hollywood and TV set designers brought in to Tampa to "create the illusion of a likeable Mitt Romney".  He is what he is.  Let it go.

Next - in the business section a two page profile of a guy who gets paid to write phony, positive reviews for self published authors.  He is making a fortune and he no longer believes ANY  reviews that he reads.

How about the phone app that lets you send yourself a phony phone call so you can lie your way out of  a date?  Just be honest and walk away.

Political campaigns are buying Twitter followers to pump up their perceived popularity.  Don't blame the guys selling the followers - it has become a hot market.

The Polish store in Lincoln Square is trying to pass itself off as German to better appeal to the locals.

My bank changed its ethnic name to an Americanized version.  Who are they kidding?

I get numerous Facebook and Linkedin requests to connect with people with whom I have no connection and don't even know.  Guess what they are up to?

I did run across a profile of someone who is for real.  She is a 73 year old Chicago triathlete who actually admitted that her second place finish in the last triathlon was because there were only two contestants in her age group.  She is going out today to better her record.  I wish her well.  In the article she decries how kids nowadays all get trophies at the end of the season even if they didn't win anything.  Homework projects that look like the parents did them also irk her, as they irk me, as well.

http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2012-08-26/features/ct-tribu-remarkable-ann-smith-20120826_1_firsts-ann-smith-insurance-business

  Hers is an inspiring story of firsts, hard work and grand results.  I recommend you read it in today's Tribune  in the Sunday section- well - at least they aren't still calling it the magazine, bcause it isn't really a magazine anymore.

See what I mean?  Nothing, well, almost nothing, is real anymore.

Don't Mess With My Space

Today I  got mad enough to sit down and write about it.   I've been leaving my footprints on the southeast corner of the Oak Street Beach for decades.   My beloved piece of the beach was  a refuge where I could read, do crossword puzzles or just veg out.  In April and May it was pretty much me and the seagulls.  After that is was me and my beach friends or my kids.  In September and October it was back to blessed solitude.   It has gradually been getting more populated, probably a result  of a combination of the economy, the lack of crazed volleyball players and, sadly, the violence at North Avenue.  More and more young families are now Oak Street beachers.  We welcomed them and their $1000. strollers and their crazy excess of beach toys. 

 It was okay when Bruce the "massage guy" set up shop at the head of the boardwalk.  He's a good guy and his clients quietly enjoy their therapy under his awning.  It really wasn't okay when Anthony put up the restaurant, but we learned to live with it because it was classy and actually had good food.    We made fun of his prices, but we liked him and his staff. Also, he was so kind to the elderly Gold Coast grandmas who loved his Sunday buffet.  The city did not renew Anthony's lease and instead gave it to a well connected restaurant group who has turned it into a gaudy, cheesy overpriced concession stand.  Then came the vendor with the outrageously priced rentals of lounge chairs and beach umbrellas.  Taking  up good beach space and practicing sporadic hours - that's good business?

Today was the last straw.  I got there before my friend, Marcia.  I settled in, opened my crossword puzzle, oiled myself up and sank into my chair. I got about 30 minutes of solitude.  Then they came..... the tourists including the foreign ones with no clue about protocol or courtesy, the locals with their abundance of pricey toys, and about a million 20 somethings who belong many beaches north of here.  They set up too many volleyball courts, tossed around too many footballs in high traffic areas and displayed way too much skin (and flab).

The so called restaurant started some amplified "music" that interfered with my brain - was trying to complete a crossword puzzle and read a book.  Then I finally got it. 36 years of sacred space down the drain.  It happened gradually, but today it hit me smack in the face.  Oak Street is turning into North Avenue - or even worse - Coney Island

HELP.

Man Vs. Machine

Technology is amazing.  The electronic voice instructed me to" Please proceed to register 8."  I did as I was told.  I unloaded the contents of my basket onto the counter.  The young, artistically tattooed cashier started scanning my $80.52 worth of items and bagging them.  All this while engaging in a lively and flirtatious conversation (gripe session) with the young, artistically pierced cashier at register 7.  I swiped my credit card, followed the prompts, signed the box, picked up my three expertly balanced bags and proceeded to the exit.  There was no eye contact, no "hello", no "goodbye", no "Thank you for shopping at Walgreens,"

Next time, I''m not going to do what I'm told.  I'm going to wait for register 1 where a gentle, older woman -with a sparkle in her eye and who works from a seated position,  will greet me, engage in conversation and thank me sincerely.  It may take a minute longer than register 8, but I'll feel better and hopefully, so will she.