It Happened in Chicago – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

This Is How Old I Am

Let’s go way back…

We from the Gen X generation love to reminisce. We grew up with a terrific music soundtrack to our lives. Think: Rolling Stones, Bob Seeger, Queen, AC/DC.

Pop culture included Civil Rights. Space Exploration. And Peter Max.

We watched the end of the Vietnam War and this country’s First Earth Day. Movies included The Godfather and the summer splash hit… Jaws.

Later, in our high school years, we quickly found and loved: Prince, Madonna, Michael Jackson, R.E.M, Billy Idol.

And we can’t forget disco’s funky hits that made us want to dance: Donna Summer, The BeeGees, KC and the Sunshine Band.

SIGH. I do enjoy daydreaming about that era.

I will readily admit those times are still so close to my heart. My friends from that generation can still picture those moments in time and feel the actual vibe that was generated.

Like others, I still feel that those memories are a mere 10-15 years ago.

Except they were definitely not!

Those times were decades ago. A different zeitgeist. A long-gone past that lives on in our recollections. I cannot deny… that life is from many moons ago.

Some days, I may feel 28 years old. Others, I feel like I’m 42.

But to truly think back to when I was young (let’s be honest!), it was a looooong time ago.

This Is How Old I Am

Here’s a sampling of how long ago those memories actually area. Enjoy this peek from the past…

This is me with the full baby cheeks. My mom looks like she hasn’t had much sleep. My older sister looks grumpy as usual. And will you check out that refrigerator?! (Or did we actually call it an “icebox” when back then?)

A few years went by, and I could get around on my own. Here I am at my grandparents’ home in Roseland, blowing bubbles with my sister, Kim. Do kids blow bubbles like this anymore? Or is it all done with a large bubble wand?

But that’s beside the point. Here, I want you to check out the TV tray with the cabbage roses on them.

And what about that PLYMOUTH? Hubba hubba.

Later that same year, my sister and I posed with our parents, Howard + Dorothy. My mom was expecting our baby brother at this time.

Folks, what do you think of the lamp from Sears Roebuck? We were a stylish family.

Adding a few more years and – VOILA – I had an adorable baby brother named Holden. I was trying to be the star of the show and show off my teeth. But it’s the high-chair that stands out here. When have you last seen one of them??

Almost one year later, we visited the Morton Arboretum on a splendid Fall day. My mom still wonders how she got us all dressed up and out the door in those days. I tell her it’s because she’s AMAZING.

My question here: what do you think of our coats? I thought we looked divine. I wish folks still dressed this way.

The Arts Scene

Both of our parents “dug” culture. Mom dressed us up and we all went to see the unveiling of the Picasso in Daley Plaza – Chicago.

We lived in the era when mothers sewed our Halloween costumes. Here, I was a princess. My sister — a drum majorette. Holden was a cowboy. And our dog Fido played himself.

What talent my mom has! Her creativity always impresses me.

Okay, some years went by and the family took one of many road trips. This time we landed in Missouri to see Tom Sawyer’s famous whitewashed fence. Again, we were very fashionable. Ahem.

Back to Reality

And here we are today — its 2025. Not too shabby, for all I’ve seen.

In fact, this past weekend, I saw an 80-year-old Rod Stewart show us his groovy moves in live concert. He’s still got it! And I’m glad I was here to see him.

Rod Stewart – Still sexy at 80!

What do you think?

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

The Soggy Suitcase

Enjoy this previously published post from PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST…

This story is as told to me by my father-in-law – Bill – who always has a fond memory to recall from days spent visiting his grandmother in southern Illinois.

When I was a boy, my grandmother lived in southern Illinois in a small town named Nokomis. I visited her there every summer. In fact, I didn’t spend any of my childhood summers in Chicago. Instead, my father drove us downstate in his 1938 Dodge to visit his mother at her modest home. It was an enjoyable way to spend the hot summers, away from the crowded city and, instead, enjoying the rural life.

Since I was the only grandchild, it was natural that my grandmother doted on me. She didn’t speak much English, and consequently, I quickly learned the Slovak language from her (her native tongue). While in Nokomis, I learned to catch and clean fish, raise chickens, and collect coal in the neighboring town for use in Grandma’s stove.

I hunted for squirrels and rabbits too. My love for the outdoors grew, and I had unique opportunities that I wouldn’t find back home in my own neighborhood.

When I grew older, my parents put me on a train by myself for the visits to my grandmother. I didn’t mind going alone. I expect I was about 11 years old at the time. It was a good experience for me and helped me to be independent.

My Travel Buddy…

It was a couple years later, when I had the company of my Uncle Steve along for the ride. I can recall it was the summer before he entered the U.S. Naval service in World War II. Together, we headed to Chicago’s Union Station, where Uncle Steve and I boarded a passenger train. Once we were downstate, rather than wasting a good amount of time back-trekking from the St. Louis stopover, my uncle asked the conductor if we could hop off earlier in Coalton, Illinois (an unscheduled stop).

Back then, such a request wasn’t unheard of (times were indeed simpler). The conductor notified the engineer of our request. When we approached the town of Coalton, we could hear the train’s engine slowing down just enough. That’s when Uncle Steve and I jumped off early with our bags and waved Thank-You to the train crew. From that spot, we could see my grandmother’s house in the distance.

And So, Another Summer Goes By…

We enjoyed that season together before my uncle was deployed — fishing and hunting were favorite past-times for both of us. As is typical, we made a good haul and had plenty of fresh meat and fish for our meals.

My grandmother stored our skinned rabbits on her back porch, ready for stewing and preserving. When it was time for us to return to Chicago, Grandma wrapped up a dozen or so rabbits in newspaper and packed them away in an old suitcase for us to enjoy at home.

It was much later that same afternoon when Uncle Steve and I were seated on the crowded train when we both noticed spots of water on our knees. We didn’t know what to make of those suspicious droplets. Finally, glancing up toward the overhead luggage rack, we realized our suitcase was leaking.

The rabbits were thawing out!

Uncle Steve immediately signaled the conductor to come over. In a nervous tone, he asked how much time we had before the train reached Chicago. I kept my 13-year-old mouth shut and willed the train to move faster.

It was warm on the train — I certainly don’t recall any air conditioning back then — and we had several more stops until we were home free.

We made it to Union Station without further incident. From there, we hurried out of the station into the humid summer evening and anxiously waited for a bus home.

All in all, we had a pleasant visit with my grandmother, but we were exhausted when we arrived home. Like most travelers, we just wanted to change out of our travel clothes and roll into bed.

But regrettably, we still had an exceptionally soggy suitcase to unpack before doing so.

**Bill’s 95th Birthday Party – May 2025**

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Things I Learned From My Grandmother

The other day we ran out of tartar sauce at home. I know this is a big deal for my husband — since he loves the sauce whenever I make fish for dinner.

No problem… I recall watching my Grandma Martha whipping up her own version of tartar sauce when she was visiting us. She grabbed the mayo and pickle relish from our ‘fridge, stirred them together, and we had the tastiest, tangiest sauce for our dinner that night.

“Wow, look at you, Grandma!” I cried in teenage-like wonder. “How do you know how to do that?”

Grandma chuckled. “How do you think things are made? You can do it yourself and not bother with buying everything pre-made.” She shook her head and went on with her dinner preparations.

Needless to say, I was impressed!

Grandma taught me other things as well.

During my high school years, typing and shorthand were part of my curriculum. Since she once worked as a secretary for the airlines, Grandma had some advice for me. “Now, remember,” she advised. “Speed will come with time and practice. For now, be sure you focus on accuracy while typing.”

Of course, I can’t say I liked this advice… since I typically like to rush through things. But we all know she was correct… exactness is critical, especially since taking time to go back and correct my typing mistakes took unnecessary time.

Grandmas are good for reminding of these fundamental practices.

I adore a solid IBM Selectric!

I also learned a bit about dating from my grandma.

“You know, I kept dating other fellas even after I got engaged to your grandfather,” she confided to me one afternoon. “I figured I wasn’t married yet, so I still had every right to see other men.”

“Grandma!” I gasped. I could only think of my kind grandfather, who had no idea (or did he?) that his fiancée was still kickin’ it with other gentlemen.

Grandma just smugly smiled to herself. Even though it was many moons ago, I could tell she was satisfied with her decision and that’s all there was to it.

Grandma was full of surprises.

Another time — years earlier — our grandparents came to our home to “babysit” us while our folks vacationed in Germany. One evening, as my sister and I sat up late on a school night watching television, Grandma came downstairs in her flannel nightgown. What did she have in her left hand — of all things?? … a wooden rolling pin!

Immediately, she started chewing us out for not being asleep in our beds. I started laughing at the irony of her raising the rolling pin over her head, threatening to use it on us. Do people really use those things? I thought to myself, giggling over the scene enfolding before us.

But Grandma didn’t find it funny one bit. Still waving the rolling pin, she chased me and my sister until we ran upstairs and out of her rage. I guess Grandma wasn’t messin’ with us that evening.

Grandma was a good cook.

Like most grandmothers, my grandma was a good cook. Our entire family loved her homemade potato pancakes, Lithuanian sausage, and a bowl of steaming sauerkraut. My mouth waters each time I envision those delicious meals at her table.

Grandma make some kick-ass orange juice as well. When we’d visit her home in Florida, she’d get up extra early to squeeze oranges for us, using the ripe oranges right off the tree in her backyard. Talk about FRESH! I can’t begin to explain the difference between fresh-squeezed juice and something from the grocery store. There’s just no comparison!

Grandma had a lemon tree as well. She took the fresh-squeezed lemon juice and used it when making her beloved lemon meringue pies. Mmmm! That tartness hit just right on your tongue. A bite of that creamy dessert had the perfect amount of sour, with sweetness to balance.

What a delight that was!

Oh, how I miss it.

But most of all, I miss her.

Myself, Grandma Martha Johanna, and my daughter on Grandma’s 99th Birthday

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

How I Kicked the Ironing Habit

Please enjoy this previously published post from PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST…

I wore my favorite blazer to the office the other day. My co-worker complimented me on its look.

“Thanks, but look here,” I replied. “I recently washed this jacket, but the lapel is sitting funny and not lying flat as it should.”

“Try ironing it,” my dear friend advised.

Was She for Real?!

She was trying to be helpful.

But I was aghast.

I vaguely recall ironing. Yes, I believe it was back in 1993. That’s when I finally put a stop to that bad habit.

The Ironing Room

Actually, I do recall ironing very well, thank you very much. In my childhood home, we had an entire room devoted to ironing. My mom put that loathsome task at the top of our chore list:

“I want you to go downstairs and spend one hour in the Ironing Room,” she directed.

You heard correctly. We had an official Ironing Room (hence the upper case letters used here).

It was a small room in our basement, located just off the laundry area. It had one tiny window, filled in with glass blocks. In the past, it had been used as the maid’s bedroom for the home’s first owners.

In fact, that’s how we referred to it when we first moved in: The Maid’s Room. When we’d nonchalantly mention the Maid’s Room in passing, our friends thought we were rich folks with a live-in staff.

The Poor, Poor Girl

I couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping in that room, away from everyone… not even remotely connected with the rest of the upstairs living quarters. I took pity on someone I never even knew.

I Dreaded That Room

The linoleum floor was cold. The window offered no view. I envisioned spiders popping out of the cedar closet. Or worse… a lost mouse scampering by.

Except I had to stay in that lonely room until my required time was up and I was allowed to scurry back upstairs to the bright kitchen.

Plus, I was never good at smoothing out the clothes in the right fashion. The iron was heavy, and trying to perfect a sharp crease was all but impossible for me.

Once, I ironed over a t-shirt logo and the colors immediately became scorched onto the flat surface of the hot iron.

Mom was not happy.

Redemption

So, there are the dreadful scenes that pop in my head when I think of ironing. [insert shudder here]

I still recall when I finally released myself from the unhappy chore. A shirt I had purchased on vacation had a tongue-in-cheek notice on its label: WARNING – Ironing this shirt is unlawful.

To be honest, I took this caveat seriously for several days before I realized it was a joke.

Indeed, I was a sick, sick woman. And with that admonition, I vowed to try to live life without an ironing board.

Update…

I’m still doing well these days. I only iron for special occasions — which are dwindling at this stage in my life, so that’s helpful.

Next weekend, I may pull the iron down from the top shelf in my closet and have a go at this beloved jacket of mine. It’s worth the effort to have the lapels lay just right.

But then I’m done for a while. The iron will be returned to a high shelf in the closet, gathering dust along with my high-heeled shoes.

Because at this stage in my life, well-worn wrinkles work for me.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Saying Good-bye to Coffee

Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and now… Thursday. Day Six without coffee.

And I’m ready to break.

I’ve been drinking coffee since I was 18 years old. Before there were trendy coffee shops, my pals and I would hang out at a neighborhood diner and drink coffee at night. We’d catch up, laugh at silly stuff, and enjoy our java the best way we knew how: Black.

All was fine and dandy until now. I’ve had to make this huge change in my life, due to the painful heartburn I’ve had for the last several months.

Rolaids just aren’t doing it for me any longer. I’d pop two of ’em whenever the familiar burning sensation ran from my stomach, up the esophagus and generally making my entire day miserable. Unfortunately, the antacids are no longer working.

Woe is Me

And, so, it goes. It was time to make the switch. The extremely difficult switch of replacing my morning coffee with black tea.

So far, I’ve been good. I did have a sip of iced coffee yesterday morning from the workplace. Surprisingly, it didn’t taste good at all. I threw it out.

Success was mine!

The positive take away is that my heartburn has finally gone away. About 99% of it, believe it or not! I can’t tell you how soothing it is – both mentally and physically – to not have that hot, burning feeling push through my chest multiple times each day. It really does feel good to have relief from the daily pain and uncomfortableness.

It’s Still a Hard Habit to Break

This morning I waited — impatiently— for the tea kettle to come to a boil. Then I still had to wait a good five minutes for the tea to brew and cool down so that I could sip it.

“This is bullsh*t!” I said to no one in particular.

Already I’m seeing the effects of “coffee sobriety” on myself. For example, my husband asked me to proofread an email for him. I impatiently answered, “I know, you asked me like 19 times already!” Honestly, he only asked me about 4 times.

Not very nice of me.

My Morning Commute Was No Better

This morning, I needed a last-minute gift for a departing co-worker. Running into Dunkin’ was the closest and quickest in order for me to grab a gift card. Was I taking a chance going into that delicious shop? Yes, I was. But I figured I’d be quick about it…

“Do you have any gift cards?” I asked the cashier.

“Huh?” was his reply.

“Gift cards!” I responded more boldly than was necessary.

“How much do you want on it?”

“Twenty dollars,” I stated.

“Okay, forty dollars,” said the other cashier.

“Twenty!” I reminded them (my eyes revealing my impatience).

Meanwhile, a lovely young lady was ordering a medium coffee for herself. She looked happy, holding her nice, warm cup of morning joe. It all looked so yummy. And delicious. And coffee-ish.

I frowned at the entire scene. Will I ever make it to this Saturday and make it a full week without my favorite beverage?

With courage and determination, I took my $20 gift card and threw it in my backpack.

With my head held high, I turned on my heel and left the building.

That’ll show ’em!

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Essential Strategies for Commuting

We all have our own methods for navigating our daily lives — this includes commuting to and from the workplace.

Be it train, bus, ferry, car or good old-fashioned walking, we must know the tricks to get us past the hurdles, the surprises, the challenges that we face almost daily.

My spouse has his troubles as he navigates the tri-state each morning on his way to work. I worry about him, as other vehicles cruise right past him and he’s already doing 70MPH. Yet, this stress is typical for most of us before we even arrive at our workplace.

A little over one year ago, I started taking a shuttle bus between Chicago’s Union station and my office building. The first six months went well, until a replacement driver was thrust into play.

He’s a mild-mannered fellow, and I don’t mean to throw him under the bus [pun intended]. Problem is, he’s a very timid driver and that’s not something you can be when driving in Chicago’s Loop — especially during rush hour.

He once turned the bus and rolled up onto the curb. Hey, this happens to the best of us. Except he didn’t come down from the curb — rather, he kept driving with his port-side wheels running along the curb for another half block. Somehow, he didn’t seem to be bothered by this episode.

He also drives very slowly and hesitates when there’s a stale green light. Rather than taking his opportunity and crossing the intersection, he slows down and eventually stops at a yellow light. Because of this habit of his, there were a few times when I caught my evening train by the skin of my teeth.

And I’m not happy when I’m frustrated.

I SEARCHED FOR ALTERNATIVES…

Fed up, I realized it was time to find alternative options. Fortunately, there are many available choices in this City.

I TURNED TO THE CTA

I found CTA’s No. 156 LaSalle bus takes me very close to my office. Plus I’m saving at least $40 per month with the bus vs. the private shuttle. Two positives for me!

A third positive occurred when a slight bus detour went into effect due to bridge repair work. Now I can hop on/hop off the CTA bus since it stops right across the street from my building. How lucky is that! For once, I’m hoping construction work takes a very long time.

TROUBLE ENSUES

Sure. This was all going quite well with the CTA. That is, until they change their departure schedules at whim. In the morning, I’ve missed a few buses, since the departure time had been amended and the bus leaves two minutes earlier than what I expected.

My frustration builds…

One evening, I was waiting for the bus around 5:15PM. There I was, happy as a clam that I only had to cross the street to get to the bus stop. Two other commuters waited along with me, as we stomped our feet and wiggled about in order to keep ourselves from freezing in Chicago’s sub-zero temperatures that week.

Imagine our surprise when the 156 bus swooped by us, as the driver clearly took the incorrect route and sped right past us down a different street!

THIS IS WHERE STRATEGY KICKS IN

I uttered a few words which I will not repeat here. However, all was not lost. I “quickly” trudged back to my building and caught the 5:15 shuttle to Union Station.

Discussing this new route with my co-worker, she had troubles of her own. It seems the bus driver on the detour was unaware that he should stop at the temporary detour stop. Even as she jumped up and down on Clark Street and furiously waved her arms, the driver sailed right past her — not once, but twice! — on a frigid January evening.

She and I made alternative plans. We now catch the bus two blocks further down, where we know the driver should not miss us. It’s not something we look forward to in the cold weather, but what choice do we have??

THINGS ARE NEVER PERFECT

I took my 156 bus this morning, and all went well. I pulled down the “stop cord” as we approached my destination. I made my way toward the front of the bus and readied myself to alight at my stop.

Except today’s driver just kept on driving — no slowing down — no hesitation whatsoever.

“I need to get off here, please!” I called out.

He said nothing. But he did swing his bus over the corner, where I alighted for the 99th time this year and made my way to the office.

I guess I shouldn’t complain too much. At least I have options for transportation. Plus, I’m saving $$ overall. I always consider the fact that I’m utilizing my brain cells in a positive manner, as I maneuver and strategize my way through the city — morning and night. At this point in my life, keeping my cognitive skills in order is imperative to me.

So, if commuting doesn’t keep you on your toes — nothing will.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

What’s the Deal With Empty Containers?

Some go so far as to call it “weaponized incompetence.”

What’s the deal with empty containers left in the refrigerator? I know I’m not the only one who finds empty containers left in the icebox at home. Somehow, the food is entirely gone from its vessel… yet a lone plastic or cardboard container is still sitting there.

Or how about a glass milk jug that sits vacant on the shelf without any liquid within? Are we simply keeping the bottle for no particular reason?

I know who the culprit is at home. You guessed it… it’s my spouse.

He blatantly ignores me when I angrily ask “Why is there an empty carton in here? Why can’t you just throw it out?!”

He looks the other way, knowing that I’ll growl out of frustration and take it to the recycling bin myself.

IT’S NOT ONLY AT HOME

I was chatting with a pal at work this morning in the coffee room. I opened the refrigerator door to place some strawberries inside. There I spotted a dinner plate.

A completely empty dinner plate — except for a few crumbs.

“Um, does this need to be in here?” I asked my chum.

She took a peek. “Oh, gee whiz! Take that out!” she ordered.

She took another look inside the ‘fridge. “Look,” she pointed out. “There’s an empty glass just sitting there.”

And so there was. It was nestled in the door, among the bottles of salad dressings and packaged protein drinks.

What the heck? This is a professional office, for crying out loud!

I took both items out and placed them in the sink.

“Men!” my friend chided.

“Mm-hmmm” I agreed, in my self-righteous tone. I was downright aghast. Just to prove my point, I placed my hands on my hips and shook my head.

That’ll show ’em.

WHEN WILL IT END?

I went back to my desk yet remained curious. I couldn’t concentrate on my work. A quick GOOGLE search should solve the question that ruminated in my head.

With intent fingers, I typed in my question of the day: Why do people put empty containers back in fridge?

As usual, I found like-minded folks like me who were having the same sensitive issue.

Apparently, it’s a common problem for many. Research reveals it’s typically the domestic partner who’s the habitual offender. Indeed!

Remedies ranged from putting the dirty container under the partner’s pillow, while others stated it “demonstrates contempt” and go on to strongly recommend a prompt divorce.

Others chimed in, calling the behavior “weaponized incompetence.”

Interestingly, there was one individual who finds this conduct annoying, yet fixable — they leave comments to the effect: “My partner’s partner does it sometimes. They’re working on it though.”

IS THERE ANY HOPE FOR REFORM?

I’m still waiting for this tragic habit to end at my house. Yet, it’s not just empty containers. Sometimes it’s just old, moldy food that sits in our ‘fridge for way too long. Just the other day, my partner pulled out the cocktail shrimp he buys every week when it’s on sale at Jewel.

“Is this any good?” he asked.

“I don’t know… what does the expiration date say?”

“Expired three days ago…” he mumbles.

Without hesitation, he returns the old shrimp straight back into the refrigerator and shuts the door.

Meanwhile, I just roll my eyes and remember that divorce attorneys are expensive.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Little Pink Couches For You and Me

Think. Think. Think.

This is what authors go through as they face the dreaded Writer’s Block.

Objective: Come up with an idea — a compelling story to share with others. Grab their attention. Start gradually and then finish with a BANG! as you leave readers wanting more.

Yep, that’s the key to successful prose. Bonus points if readers click LIKE, SHARE and COMMENT. We writers love feedback in any way, shape or form. Heck, even the negative comments are welcome. “Bring ’em on,” I say!

So Why Am I Suddenly Writing About A Couch?

Today’s story is about a simple couch. Why a couch? you may ask. The answer is simple. I ran out of stories to share here.

In desperation, I reviewed old NOTES on my iPhone. There was a note to myself, written in 2023, that mentioned “pink couch from Rhonda.”

What can I possibly write about a couch? I thought to myself, more frustrated than ever before.

Here’s the Story…

It wasn’t part of my Master Life Plan… but suddenly – in May 2000 – I’d found myself in the midst of a divorce and without proper housing for myself and my six-year-old daughter. One year later, in May 2001, I purchased a home for the two of us. It was situated on a quiet residential street in the West Beverly Hills neighborhood.

A 900 square foot two-story home provided us with a main floor, two upstairs bedrooms and a bath, basement with laundry, a backyard with room for a garden, as well as a one-car garage.

The only thing missing from our home was furniture. And pots and pans. A shower curtain and bath towels was high on my list. Even the everyday items we all use but never give much thought: cutlery, dish soap, oven mitts and cleaning cloths. Yep, it would take a while before I accumulated the typical sundry items for our new abode.

That’s when my friends and family stepped in. My best buddy at work provided me with dish cloths and linens for the kitchen. (Thank you, Carrie!)

My parents donated a brass bed. Two Oriental rugs. And a black iron bench which I still covet and use to this day.

Then there was my cousin Rhonda and her husband Mark, who gladly gave me their second-hand pink velvet sofa. I recall Mark was a bit embarrassed about handing over a well-used couch.

There were a couple stains on it and the armrests were worn — the mark of a well-loved piece. But I still saw its charm and envisioned the piece sitting in my new living room. I was thrilled to receive it.

For one, the price was right (Free!). Plus, I had always admired the rose-hued sofa in Rhonda’s living room. The velvet material was cozy and comfy, while the lovely color was pleasant on the eyes. With its rolled arms and tufted back, one of my friends remarked that it could pass for the couch from the FRIENDS television show.

Everyone Has Sofa Memories They Can Share

Although I never gave that passed-down couch much thought over the next few years, I can now think back and recall fond memories when the sofa took center stage in the front room of our home.

It was a couch where my daughter and I watched The Blues Brothers movie over and over again.

It was the divan where a couple gentlemen callers sat… before I sent ’em packing.

It held multiple members of my family and friends, as we celebrated Christmas. Birthdays. Report cards with lots of A’s.

There were numerous happy times. Some somber moments. And a few sad endings.

My daughter + my father on said couch – Circa 2001

All Good Things Come To An End

It finally came to the point where I had some extra dough and chose to purchase a new davenport and loveseat for my living room. Thus, it was Good-Bye to my Friends Couch… but Hello to my new ones from La-Z-Boy Furniture!

It was out with the old – literally – as my reluctant neighbor and I dragged the family couch out the back door, down the steps, across the grassy yard and finally into the back alley.

The next day was Garbage Day in my neighborhood, and I knew the fine workers at Chicago’s Streets and Sanitation would quickly pick up the couch and give it a proper disposal.

Except The Unexpected Happened

The next morning, I drove out of my garage and proceeded down the alley as I headed toward my commuter train. There I saw it — the pink FRIENDS couch — sitting outside and adjacent to the back entrance of a local bar.

Apparently, the folks at the bar liked the couch as much as I did. They must have come across it the previous evening and decided to salvage it for their own use. Therefore, it became part of their “outdoor patio,” if you will.

It was an area where the bar’s patrons gathered for a smoke. Typically, they used cast-aside folding chairs for their purposes. Except this dewy morning, my rose-colored velvet couch sat in the place of honor in the rear parking lot– among the gravel and Dumpsters.

Although it was a forlorn scene, the couch still seemed to hold its tufted arms high, as it sat among empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. That piece of furniture refused to be shut down.

All I could do was sigh and shake my head. Truthfully, I was happy they kept the fantastic tradition going on that beloved ol’ pink sofa. Plus, it added a bit of class to the back alley, so I kept my mouth shut and kept driving.

Cheers!

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Happy Anniversary To Me

I still loathe getting up in the early morning hours.
I still wear gym shoes while commuting to the office.
I still brown bag it most days.
And I still drink my coffee black.

September 4.

“Why do I keep repeating that date over and over in my head?” I asked myself yesterday. “What is its relevance?”

This morning it clicked. Yesterday – September 4 – was my work anniversary. It’s been 34 years. September 4, 1990 was the exact date.

Or, 300 years, as I like to tell folks who still ask.

Some Things Have Not Changed

I still loathe getting up in the early morning hours.

I still wear gym shoes while commuting to the office.

I still brown bag it most days.

And I still drink my coffee black.

Ch.. Ch.. Changes

Of course, we all know the changes that have occurred over the last three decades. Technology has taken off like a rocket ship, and we’d better be holding on to its contrails, or we’ll be left out of the loop.

Here’s What I Remember…

Our law firm had five floors of office space at the time. Each office was filled. Each desk in the corridor was taken by an Assistant (Legal Secretary as it was called back then).

Mailroom personnel made approximately five daily runs on the floors, collecting inter-office mail, courier packages, FedEx envelopes. Our number one mail item was business correspondence, typed on embossed stationery with a watermark. We creased them into the standard business tri-fold and placed them within a No. 10 envelope — also embossed our our law firm’s logo.

Items were delivered to each and every one of us. A daily bulletin was printed and distributed, covering the day’s news, the court docket, and personal news such as work anniversaries or congratulations on a co-worker’s newborn baby.

Smokers Unite

There were no rules for smoking. If your co-worker smoked next to you, you dealt with it. Truly, the smoke wasn’t too bothersome, since we were all used to it permeating our space.

A few years later, smoking laws went into effect. Our employer dutifully complied by reserving two smaller offices to be used for lighting up.

Quickly, the walls inside those tiny rooms lost their white paint color and took on a dull yellow hue. The doors would open and one could watch the smoke tendrils waft through the air and wander outside into the corridors.

I myself utilized those smoke rooms. Not to have a cigarette break. Instead, I chatted with my smoking friends and shared a laugh with them while we caught up on the latest gossip. Good times.

We Hobnobbed a Lot More

We walked through the corridors, saying Hello to those we passed. We utilized the elevators and stairs often, as we had to visit a colleague on a different floor in order to have an in-person discussion.

We retrieved courier packages from the front Reception Desk. And we visited the Duplicating Department often, waiting on urgent faxes to slowly roll off the fax machine.

In fact, I recall a survey was once distributed — on paper! — to each office worker:

The Firm is re-assessing its business resources.

Do you require two fax machines on each floor?

YES □ or NO □

It appeared we all marked YES, since three weeks later, additional fax machines appeared on each floor. Such technological progress! What joy to be had!

We Talked — and Laughed — Often

One afternoon while in the office, a tune ran through my head, over and over on a loop.

Don’t you, forget about me
Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t
Don’t you, forget about me

“Who sings that song from The Breakfast Club movie?” I asked several of my co-workers. “It’s driving me nuts trying to figure it out!”

Quickly, that inquiry became the Question of the Day in our office. It was our diversion. Our relief from the mundane. It was how we entertained ourselves during an 8-hour workday.

Since we didn’t have Google, we wracked our brains trying to recall the artist group who sang that catchy tune.

One girl finally gave up and phoned a friend, who happily supplied us with the answer…

Simple Minds!

And that, my friends, is how we did it back in 1990.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Sun Visors, Incense, Double Belts…

I attended Chicago Public high school and quickly became acclimated to riding the CTA bus each morning to my classes. It was about a 3-block walk to the bus stop, where I waited for clearance in traffic before I ran across Western Avenue to my bus stop. (Even though a long-standing Illinois law calls for vehicles to stop for pedestrians, that usually doesn’t occur.)

I took the 49A bus, heading further south down Western Avenue. At 111th street, I transferred to the 112 Vincennes, which dropped us students right across the street from Morgan Park High School.

However, I remained unskilled at navigating CTA El trains. I can still recall one of my first CTA elevated train rides.

The year was 1979 and my mother decided it was high time to show my older sister and me how to get ourselves downtown if needed. We lived on the far southwest side of the city, where we walked several blocks down to catch the 103rd bus, which would take us east to Vincennes, and eventually take our trio to the 95th street bus station, where it sat atop the Dan Ryan expressway.

Back then, we called it the “Dan Ryan El”

We followed our mother dutifully, as we rode the El on that hot summer’s day before my sophomore year of high school began. Mom showed us how to bring exact change for the bus fare — the driver gave no change. That sign was apparent (and still is) on all CTA buses. El chofer NO tiene cambino.

“Sun visors. Incense. Double belts,” a 20-something-year-old vendor walked through the CTA cars, hawking his wares. His voice was low, calm and deliberate — his sales delivery was perfected. His hips seemed to move in sync with his words, as he worked his way through the cars, trying to spy an interested customer.

Sun visors. Incense. Double belts… he repeated, over and over.

His products were easy to spot. A myriad of PVC transparent sun visors ran along his left arm — a virtual rainbow of color selections.

His opposite arm displayed several double belts — the oh-so popular accessory with us gals during that zeitgeist. We wore them with our jeans and t-shirts, to highlight our waists and our sense of style.

Lastly, the vendor displayed a profusion of incense sticks, which he wore in a suede pouch about his neck. It seemed as if he had quite a collection of scents to choose from. He strode through each car, hawking his products to the CTA riders on the Red Line – patiently waiting for anyone to make a purchase. Nice and easy, no pressure whatsoever from him.

This vendor didn’t need a license to sell his products — at least, licensing wasn’t exactly enforced. Then, it was simply part of the ambience of riding the El train to and from downtown Chicago.

I kept my 14-year-old eyes on the traveling merchant, as he continued through the connecting train cars. This type of off-the-cuff peddling was new to me. Quickly, I was impressed with the young man’s efforts… making some ca$h for himself… in whatever way he could.

We arrived downtown, at the Adams Street stop. Taking the steep staircase down to Wabash, we walked one block toward State Street, turning north toward Madison Street. There, Mom took us to Wieboldt’s Department Store, where she bought each of us a pair of knee-high vinyl boots which we could wear to school.

We thought we were somethin’ in those boots. For Christmas that year, I received a pair of boot socks, with a fuzzy top cuff, which I creatively folded over the top of my boots. With that final touch, I was clearly rockin’ it as a tenth grader.

After leaving Wieboldt’s, we followed Mom once more like dutiful ducklings — back to the El stop on Adams, where she pointed out the opposite staircase in order to return back home once more.

It was steamy and sultry that afternoon. Our El car was an oven, with the A/C completely out of order. One rider took it upon himself to open the rear exit door to let in a blast of outside air. It was still sweltering — but at least we passengers felt a bit of relief.

I watched for more vendors, just in case the double-belts guy came through again. I even had some ca$h of my own, in case I wanted to treat myself.

But the fella never returned.

The three of us rode that El train in silence, sweaty and tired while we each tightly held onto our shopping bags. Heading south toward 95th Street, we’d then transferred to the 103 Bus, which would take us close to home.

That was a warm, muggy afternoon, that somehow I’ve never forgotten, thanks to my mom…

to Wieboldt’s Department Store…

and to the peddler with captivating sun visors, incense and double belts.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST