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.
Ahh, can’t you imagine the aroma?
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.
This was me on a daily basis
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.
The morning traffic anchor announced this morning's commuter update:
"A truck overturned on I-65 this morning. The driver has been taken to the hospital and is listed is good condition.
However, be on the lookout for frozen chickens spilled all over the road."
Commuting is hard to do.
Whether your driving your car. Taking a train. Or merely pounding the pavement alongside hundreds of others. The daily commute takes a toll.
It’s mentally frustrating. The back-and-forth travel will challenge your motor skills as you dodge other drivers. Or literally jump out of the way as a racing bicycling whizzes past you on the city streets.
Take yesterday morning, in the midst of my 2-mile drive to the train station, I saw a suspicious scene. The main road intersects with a walking/bike path, which winds its way through wooded areas, past a local church, and finally ends at the local police station.
Typically I’ll see a couple of folks enjoying a leisurely walk together. Or a family on their weekend bike outing.
Heck, I’ve seen a few coyotes use the path. They even cross at the proper point in the road. How cute is that!
TrailLink.com
Why, only yesterday I spotted a small Chevy coming off said walkway.It looked like an old Chevette. Does Chevy they even make those any more??
The Autopian
The driver swerved sharply as she aimed for the legitimate road (the one actually intended for driving).
I’m not sure where this poor woman accessed the road in the first place. Did she simply believe the walkway was part of the usual traffic pattern?
Or was she having a mental impairment of sorts?
There was no way to determine an answer for her predicament. I slowed down and avoided her at all costs as her vehicle drove over the solid center line toward my car. “Please don’t hit me,” I thought.
She didn’t. Whew! I continued on my way toward the train station.
All this early morning drama made me think of my husband’s commute, as he carefully navigates I-294 each morning and evening.
Tuesday night driving was like maneuvering through a huge washing machine, as the pouring rain obliterated the ever-changing lanes due to the years-long road construction.
He’s seen it all too. From vehicles rolled over after traveling too fast — or the litterbug who throws their entire bag of McDonald’s breakfast containers out the driver’s side window.
Shaking his head each day, he carries on. And carries the stress of it all throughout his entire work week.
Approximately 75 minutes later, I arrive at my office building. Right there, on Clark Street, I see a City of Chicago fire truck positioned in the middle of the street. Do I detour and go around the other side? I wonder…
Yet all the traffic keeps sailing past the emergency vehicle, so I take my chances.
To my surprise, a woman lies flat on her back in the middle of north Clark Street. Two firefighters surround her. I see that both her feet are wrapped in white bandages, from her toes to above her ankles.
The forceful alarm of an ambulance approaches the intersection. I murmur a small prayer for the unfortunate commuter, realizing full well that her day started out as ordinary and simply as mine had.
Yet, hers already ended in an ill-fated misfortune. I’m glad to report she appeared responsive and was conversing with the EMTs. Such was her unhappy day.
Alamy
I continued my walk into the building. just like any other morning. Where I have to wake up early and try not to think about the commute that faces me four days a week. Where unlucky surprises seem to creep in every day.
So I’m here to warn everyone: Stay safe. Keep moving.
And please keep an eye out for any frozen chickens in the road.
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.
cliqueypizza.wordpress
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.
Wikipedia
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.
For nearly a month, we had stood at the train platform, swatting at flying cicadas as they landed on our shoulders. Our tote bags. Our hair. And SMACK! – right into our faces.
I’ve had enough of ’em. I tried to be kind. After all, they’re harmless creatures… those little cicadas who only come out of the ground once every 17 years.
The first time I experienced the run of these buggers, I was 9 years old. It took me nearly one week before I found the courage to pick up one of their emptied shells. It was interesting in that it was sheer and brittle; I could easily crush the shell between my two fingers. Instead, I held it and marveled how it showed the exact shape of the insect that broke out of its cover and now took over our neighborhood.
Vox
Kids taunted and chase one another with the cicadas, daring to leave one on your shoulder or – worse – jab it in your face. I shuddered each time I went outside to ride my bike, hoping no one sensed my fear of the creatures.
Finally, I took it upon myself to pick up a dead cicada. Hmm… not too bad. At least it wasn’t moving around and twitching its wings. I made myself hold the little guy in order to overcome my fear.
My mom insisted that I get over my fears. “You need to get in touch with Nature,” she advised. “Anyhow, I promise that they wouldn’t return for another 17 years.” Doing the math in my head, I hoped that by the time I was 26 years old, my anxiety would diminish. My maturity would surpass my childish jitters and I’d be just fine.
I’m not sure if my strategy worked, or that enough time had passed and they went back underground. Either way, I had survived the summer of 1973 cicada infestation.
I went back to riding my bike, nurturing a broken arm (that’s another story), while singing along to Tony Orlando and Dawn’s “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Ole Oak Tree.” Yes, things were going to be just fine for the next [nearly] two decades.
1990 Came and Went
The cicadas returned in 1990, but for some reason they were not lodged underneath the mature trees in my Ravenswood neighborhood. It seems the periodical pests don’t travel much — instead, they stay where they’re “planted.”
The Summer of 2007 came along. I lucked out again, since the oldest trees in our neighborhood were several blocks over. Those streets were crowded with cicadas and – later – seagulls as they arrived to help themselves to a smorgasbord of protein-based bugs.
Will Chase/Axios
It’s Now 2024
Here we find ourselves again – another summer with cicadas. At this age (you do the math), my uptight attitude is gone. I have bigger issues that keep me up at night.
These cicadas, though. They’re LOUD. They are not adroit flyers. And they’ve set up camp in our neighborhood.
The other day as I worked at home, windows were wide open due to the lovely 73 degree temperatures. No humidity. Plenty of sunshine and the trees swayed from a gentle wind.
Except those darn insects let out such a shrill buzz that my ears were ringing. The fracas reminded me of watching an old movie where an ambulance buzzed by to bring wounded soldiers to a field hospital during WWII. Their blaring song that day (heck, the past three weeks!) was anything but soothing.
The continuous bedlam was enough to make me shut the windows and turn on the A/C — the last thing I wanted to do on such a beautiful spring day.
Even with all the windows in the house, I could still hear a strong blare of bugs. Was there a window I missed perhaps? Walking round the house, I saw that everything was secure. Yet the commotion was still there. Were those cicadas that boisterous that it sounded as they they were inside our dwelling?
This went on all afternoon until I finally had to take another look. And there he was… one poor little fella stuck between the inside screen and the outside window. His chirp was emphatic as he must have felt trapped (he was!) and anxious to return to his friends.
I cranked open the window and tapped the screen to loosen his grip. “Go, go now and get along!” I spurred him. It took a few times before he seemed to understand and took it upon himself to fly away.
I shut the window and relished the silence in the house. Ahh, Nature can be wonderful, right? As long as it stays outside where it belongs.
Week 3
Week 3 was upon us. As my spouse and I drove into the city to attend the Old Town Art Fair, I kept hearing a grating screech in our vehicle. A wail. A yelp for help, if you will.
I thought I was only imaging things, until we were in River North and the little bugger suddenly appeared. There he was, squashed between my seat belt and my belly. Each time I moved, he squirmed and screamed. Poor little fella.
“Leave him be; he’s cute,” my husbanded pleaded.
“Yeah, well not cute enough,” I commented once the cicada got loose and started flying around my feet. I scooped him up, rolled down the window and encouraged him to fly away. It took a few “encouragements” before he complied and flew off. Landing somewhere in Clark Street, among the taxis, pizza joints and tourist. Hopefully, he’d find a small tree and latch on. At this point, I felt he was on his own. I could no longer worry about one cicada.
Cicada shells under our backyard evergreen tree
Tuesday Morning Came About
Things seemed quieter this morning as we commuters waited for our morning train into the city. For nearly a month, we had stood at the train platform, swatting at flying cicadas as they landed on our shoulders. Our tote bags. Our hair. And SMACK! – right into our faces.
Today was an improvement. There were quite a few dead ones on the ground. Do they die I their own? I wondered. Or were they explicitly stomped to death from frustrated commuters? We may never know. Yet somehow it was a bit sad to see the dead creatures. Overall, they’re harmless. Yes, they can be loud and annoying. But really, they’re simple insects who are just doing their “thing.”
I arrived to work just before 9:00, setting down my heavy backpack and the ice-cold coffee I had picked up in our break room. I was ready for another innocuous day at work.
Until I felt a squirm. And something that seemed a bit crunchy. And a bit icky and off-putting.
Could it be? And, yes, I could sense it. It was. A cicada. Hitching a ride inside my blouse. Right alongside my bosom. Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!! I let out a scream.
I swatted that cicada with my left arm and it landed on the carpet beneath my desk. I wasn’t going to take time to search for a magazine or newspaper to swat it. Nope, this time I used my sandal. And I gave it a good STOMP to let it know how I feel.
The dead bug is in my trash can now. It’s the first one I’ve ever killed. With great relief, I can return to my computer and start my day in an environment devoid of any creepy creatures crawling inside my clothing.
Except now I’m left wondering what Mother Nature thinks of me.
Several years back I sat on a CTA bus. Across the aisle from me were two women — two I saw most days of the week as we commuted to our office jobs.
She Was In A Tizzy
Woman No. 1 was angry that day.
“I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts this morning,” she started.
“Mmm hmm,” Woman No. 2 nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“I ordered a sesame bagel for my breakfast,” Woman No. 1 went on. “Except when I went to the counter to look for it, they told me they’d mistakenly given away my bagel to another customer.
“And that’s when I wanted to kill someone!” she sputtered. She was clearly infuriated.
Woman No. 2 just nodded in agreement. .
I, meanwhile, wondered what could have brought on such a heated and bitter reaction. Not only that, but I wondered how Woman No. 2 seemed to immediately agree with Woman No. 1’s outrage.
A bit frightened at this unfolding, I shook my head and looked the other way.
To this day, I still think back to that funny episode, which I now refer to as the Sesame Bagel LadyIncident. I promised myself to never get to that point. Clearly, she was having a bad morning. Nowadays I can relate since menopause can cause unpredictable emotions. One minute you’re doin’ just fine and the next… well, one innocuous remark will set you off.
Silly stories like those can lighten my mood and morning commute. Yep, the Sesame Bagel Lady still makes me chuckle. When I find myself becoming irritable over innocuous events, I remind myself not to become the Sesame Bagel Lady.
Except these days I feel bad for laughing since there’s so much disturbing turmoil and death happening.
Today’s news spoke of a local incident, wherein an irate landlord accused his Muslim tenants for the controversy in Israel these past few weeks. The landlord stabbed the female tenant and her six-year-old son.
The mother is expected to survive.
Her son has died.
Let That Sink In For A Moment
This is the point of the story where many stop reading and try to catch their breath. Try to take it all in. Try to make sense of it all.
Except there isn’t any sensibility to be had.
This was done at the hands of someone who couldn’t control his anger.
His fear.
His irrational hatred.
This news is disturbing. In fact, there’s no adjective that could fully describe these horrific times. I stopped reading the news articles. I didn’t want to read any longer. Nor listen to a podcast. And surfing Pinterest was out.
Everything else seemed so silly and pointless. Because I wanted to focus on at least one of the many victims from this month. And today it was that little boy. He deserved that much. He deserved my tears and silence, while I sat on the train and stared out the window.
I watched the drab scene from my commute through the city. Train tracks. Box cars. Graffiti. A bit of morning sun defrosting the early morning chill.
The Morning Commute Must Go On
I opened my Dunkin app and ordered the usual: Medium iced coffee. Black.
Decided to add a sesame seed bagel. Untoasted. Cream cheese on the side.
Arriving at the Dunkin shop, I immediately noticed my iced coffee was made with cream. Lots of it.
I was agitated. “I ordered a black iced coffee, please,” I urged the cashier.
She took it back and made me a fresh one — no cream this time.
I finally arrived at my desk. Reaching into the Dunkin bag, I pulled out the sesame bagel. It was toasted dark and smothered with cream cheese, which by now turned warm and gooey, melting all over. Exactly not how I ordered it.
Frustrated, I tossed it in trash.
But in this crazy upset world, I was willing to let go of today’s sesame bagel hassle. Instead, I turned back to my keyboard and started my work.
I love Autumn. Especially October. It’s the crisp, cool air that makes the days more comfortable.
The colors are fantastic… full of warmth and coziness for this special season. Shades of color bring comfort, especially in their different variations.
For example, purple hues are scrumptious at this time of year. Think of raisin, plum, wine or eggplant.
Or how about a burst of gold: pumpkin, butternut squash, amber.
Then we have the reds: cabernet, maroon, scarlet.
Ooh, I love ’em all!
I thought of those brilliant colors as I walked to work on Monday. I was quite comfortable in my navy raincoat with its cozy plaid liner — just the thing for Fall.
I wanted to record the world around me that day — with its magnificent blue skies and puffy white clouds above me. Everything was quite gorgeous.
So I took pictures. Lots of ’em.
But that’s when I realized that color wasn’t necessarily the only perception I was having. There was extra brightness from the sun as the skyscrapers reflected the morning rays back into the surrounding scene.
I saw flowers. Trees. Water.
Birds. Bridges. And boats.
There were parades. Marching bands. And smiles.
And even a frown or two.
What does it take to make October so beautiful?
As I slowed my steps to take photo after photo, I knew that the camera was capturing more than COLOR. It was recording a stunning morning in the City of Chicago. In the month of October.
That’s when I started editing my roll of pics. If the color were reduced, would they still hold their visual impact? Would October still hold its exceptional distinction?
I believe they can.
Here’s proof….
October ’23
Autumn trees
Graffiti
Scenes from staging of the Columbus Day Parade, held Monday, October 9.
“This is the Quiet Car!” she announced to the guilty pair in the upper berth. “No talking!” she warned, shaking her finger at the man and his daughter.
Photo – Chicago Magazine
It’s another fun day on the Metra train. Where the Quiet Car Police take their jobs very seriously. Such was the case just the other day from one such self-appointed “Officer,” who makes it her daily duty to shush fellow passengers.
In case you’re not a train commuter, the Quiet Car was enacted several years back to ensure a designated car with quiet space for riders. Usual rules include: no conversations with others or via cell phone. Typical stuff… nothing too difficult to maintain.
DISCLAIMER: Of course, you’ll hear this story from my own point of view. After all, it’s my blog and I’ll write what I choose. Fair warning: I can be a snob. But most of you already know that about me.
Now, it doesn’t matter that I never cared for the woman to begin with. I’ve thought about saying Good Morning to her several times, except she makes absolutely NO eye contact while we wait on the platform for our morning train. Plus, she’s always scowling.
Nope, she just doesn’t seem approachable.
Plus consider the fact that she wears bright yellow Crocs shoes, which — to me — are hideous enough already as they are made from polyethylene vinyl acetate (“PEVA”). Yuck — Just trying to pronounce polyethylene vinyl acetate is enough to make my mouth frown. Her shoes (slippers to be more exact) are not only ugly, but they are a glaring yellow color. Which, if you ask me, just doesn’t suit a downtown commuter. She looks like Daffy Duck wearing those gaudy things.
Back to my story. I got on the Metra’s Quiet Car and sat in my usual spot on the main floor. I barely noticed the other usual passengers, including a gentleman and his daughter who ride the train each day. One can determine he’s an attorney due to the logo embroidered on his laptop bag.
He and his daughter seem like decent folk. Well dressed. Hard working. You get the picture.
Said daughter apparently had an issue with the strap and buckle on her sandal. Said father leaned over and tried to help her adjust the buckle. It seemed they were having a bit more trouble than expected.
“You’ll be fine for now,” he told his daughter. “I suggest you take it straight to the shoe repair once we reach downtown,” he advised.
Said daughter nodded and returned to scanning her iPhone.
Except this is when Miss Self-Designated Quiet Car Officer (a/k/a Crocs shoes lady) got up from her seat and marched over toward the talking pair. Steam was already coming out of her ears. Boy, I could tell this one was gonna be a doozy! I sat back and watched.
“This is the Quiet Car!” she hissed to the guilty pair in the upper berth. “No talking!” she warned, shaking her finger at the man and his daughter.
The berated gentleman , however, remained cool and cordial. As his profession demands, he was unwavering. “Put your earbuds back in and go sit down,” he succinctly advised. “You’ll be just fine.”
Clearly, this woman was still put out. “This is why I sit on the quiet car!” she insisted, her shrill voice raising. “To have peace and quiet!”
By now she was shaking with fury. She grimaced and pouted her lips at the father and daughter duo. Except they weren’t intimidated with her dirty looks.
She had no choice but to regress. With that, she waddled back to her seat. Ooh, this was getting fun.
And that’s where my arrogant self came in. Because, truth be told, I was experiencing a bit of schadenfreude with this whole situation. I never was a fan of the Daffy Duck look.
“And take your gold ducky shoes with you!” I chuckled to myself, as I watched her retreat in complete defeat.
Of course, I didn’t say it to her out loud. After all, it’s the Quiet Car… Plus, that woman seriously frightens me.
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 