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.”
iStock
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.
In 1998, my Aunt Annette passed away at the age of 77 after suffering a stroke. As my father’s older sister, Aunt Annette was the third eldest in the line of five children born to my paternal grandparents.
In her will, Aunt Annette left the bulk of her large estate to various charities supporting women’s rights and higher education scholarships. A good amount was parceled out to six of her nieces and nephews — from which I received a $5,000 inheritance.
I put the bulk of that money toward repairing the roof of our house, which was leaking profusely the past year. Damage from the rain caused me to set out empty coffee cans against the windows to collect rainwater that was spilling into the house. It was time to get this business over with.
Along with the new roof, we rehabbed the enclosed porch, turning it from a shabby mess into a cozy family room for watching television and storing our daughter’s toys.
Taking my daughter along, we shopped at Montgomery Ward and purchased a new recliner loveseat and braided rug, thus completing the room. Finally, we had a cozy space where we could watch TV, my daughter could paint on her art easel, while we gazed through new windows to watch the squirrels as they gathered dry leaves for their nests.
wards.com
With our new roof and den complete, I felt it was time to treat myself to a small vacation. I phoned my brother, who lives in Southern California, and informed him my daughter and I were coming for a visit.
California, Here We Come!
The evening before our flight, I awoke from a deep sleep. My body was first hot, then cold, as I felt the beginning of a fever coming in. Shivering from the chills, I pulled the blankets forward to cover my face.
“Why now” I groaned, realizing what was happening. A fever was taking over — right when I was heading out for a well-deserved break.
Still, I grabbed our luggage the next morning, called Flash Cab and ordered a taxi. My daughter and I were off — from Midway to LAX – to visit her uncle.
On the plane, I hunkered down, again covering myself with my jacket. Luckily, my daughter kept herself amused with one of her workbooks, as she drew pictures and letters on its pages. She was turning five the next month and looking forward to attending full-day kindergarten in the Fall.
A full day of school was exactly what she needed at that age — it would soak up her energy and provide her with playmates her own age.
My brother met us at the gate at LAX. Fortunately for me, he was in between jobs and therefore able to serve as our personal tour guide AND driver. This was a huge blessing, since I could sit back and relax without worrying about navigating through unknown territory.
When you have a 4-year-old, it’s expected to take them to Disney Land. In fact, I had several co-workers who insisted that taking my kid to Disney was a requirement. They teased me in the office, as I didn’t understand the need for such a visit. Why, these folks even set up separate bank accounts just to save funds for the compulsory vacation to the Magic Kingdom.
Since we were close to Anaheim, California — and my brother promised to drive – I relented and accepted the fact that we’d spend the day with Disney and the gang. I crossed my fingers and wished myself well and free of any lingering fever that I first felt a few days earlier.
The Best Laid Plans…
We arrived at the parking lot of the amusement park, where I promptly got sick. Right there on the hot California asphalt.
“You know, we don’t have to do this today,” my brother encouraged me.
Still, I assured him I’d be alright and the three of us set off for a splendid day at the Magic Kingdom.
“You’re not getting into this teacup ride with us,” my brother warned, as we approached the entrance to Disney’s classic ride.
He motioned for me to wait on the sidelines, where I could watch the two of them as they went ahead without me. I didn’t have much say in the matter, so I followed his instructions.
Sitting in a giant pastel-colored teacup, they spun round and round, laughing between themselves. I took pictures on the side, minding my Ps and Qs and willing myself not to get sick again.
Next stop, we waited in line for 45 minutes to take a safari ride. Once on the boat, my daughter was less than content since by then we were worn out from standing in the high temperatures. Slowly, the afternoon was becoming less fun.
Snapping pictures of the safari creatures, I quickly realized I was making a great effort to take pictures of plastic animals. “What am I doing here?” I asked myself. Why was I creating a stir out of molded synthetic critters, set out to make me believe I was on a real-life journey to the wild jungle? With that awkward thought, I returned my camera to my backpack.
The end of our Disney adventure was coming to an end. The three of us headed toward the main entrance, trudging along with exhaustion and burnout from a long day at the park.
Inside the Magic
That’s when it happened — my four-year-old tripped on the brick walkway, directly in front of Disney’s landscaped entrance, with its WELCOME sign spelled out in a rainbow of vibrantly colored flowers and grass. Right there at the so-called Happiest Place on Earth.
My daughter was tired.
She cried.
And then she screamed so everyone could hear…
I DIDN’T WANT TO COME HERE TODAAAYYYYY!!!
By now, other guests were watching us with sympathy. I had no more patience myself. I was sick with a fever. Out of money. And I just wanted to get back to my brother’s apartment. Grabbing her hand, we scooted out of there quickly.
“C’mon. Let’s go!” I ordered to my sobbing preschooler. We marched toward the car in the vast parking lot. She was still grumbling and I was more than ornery.
Now, you might say I wasn’t in line to win the title of Best Parent Of The Year. Especially since I was never the kind who socked away money to throw down at a theme park. I simply didn’t understand the overblown hype over such an excursion.
You’re probably correct in your attitude about me. But to me, there was one silver lining to this unfortunate episode. Because I figured I’d fulfilled my parental duty. And never again did I need to return to the Happiest Place On Earth.
All kidding aside — we really did have a MARVELOUS day! Here are pictures to prove it. Here’s hoping my Aunt Annette would have approved.
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.
Dad and I – Moving In Day – Circa 2001
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.
couch.com
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.
My daughter and I were discussing regrets the other day. Specifically… cooking and baking regrets.
They might more appropriately be called failures, since many of those remorseful hours spent in the kitchen turned into disasters for me.
I reminded my daughter of the time back when she was four years old and I tried out a new recipe for a side of rice. To this day, I cannot recall what ingredients went into the dish. I couldn’t tell you if it was overcooked or undercooked.
Possibly it was the spices I tried that gave it a peculiar taste.
Whatever the reason, at dinner that evening I was told in no uncertain terms by my preschooler:
“You need to work on this, Mommy.”
Unfortunately, my rice did not resemble this
My Daughter’s Skills Outweigh My Own…
My daughter’s talent outperform my own. Funny how this works, since I’m the one who initially taught her to cook.
Of course, she has more patience than I do. Plus, she was enrolled in both baking and Italian cooking courses when she was registered for day camp. Who knew an 11-year-old could produce such amazing treats!
Her cupcakes are to die for!
Still, I Keep Trying…
Last year my husband brought home 4(!) boxes of Count Chocula cookie mix. Since he didn’t want to help me assemble the cookies, I was left to my own devices.
After the first box, I gave up trying. I don’t think you can blame me.
The Next Holiday Came…
It was early December and, as my Aunt Grace used to say, I got a bee in my bonnet.
Thinking I could save some $$ and bake on my own, I set out to mimic the White Fudge Covered Oreos. Here’s a version of the authentic Oreo cookie, which makes a special showing each holiday season:
OREOS – Perfectly frosted and yummy!
Now, take a look at my creations. Or, what I call a lot of hard work for nothing:
NAILED IT!
Not All Is Lost Though
I’m not giving up hope. I’ve just learned that it’s best to stick to the basics. No more trying to use a rolling pin, since I can never get the dough at just the right thickness.
No more following intricate recipe instructions just to amaze my friends and neighbors. To be honest, I’m just trying to impress myself. It’s time to let go and keep it simple.
Now, my cooking is kept unassuming. I give you: Brats in beer.
Yum
I give you my chocolate cake:
Simple and humble
Dare I say… NAILED IT!
Thank you for reading – Please SHARE and SUBSCRIBE
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.
Even Dave Portnoy agrees Chicago’s deep dish is da best!
Chicago offers so many types of tasty food choices. The restaurants entice us with their culinary wonders. Everything from pizza (of course!) to Italian beef sandwiches to hot dogs. Those favorites and more make Chicago a go-to place for delicious eats.
I’m not going to go into the finer side of dining. For instance, the city boasts steak-houses with mouth-watering cuts of beef. There’s Asian cuisine. Eastern European dishes. Mediterranean delights featuring seafood and fresh vegetables lovingly seasoned with oregano and fresh lemon.
Oooh, the list can go on and on.
Skydeck Chicago
We all have our favorites. For example, one afternoon my brother phoned me at work…
“I’m catching an afternoon plane from Orange County airport to O’Hare,” he announced. “Can you meet me for dinner tonight at Pizzeria Uno?”
“Of course,” was my immediate reply. After all, what was there to consider? Any other plans I had for the evening were scratched. After all, my brother was coming to town. And I couldn’t resist a deep dish pizza baked in a black pan with high sides to hold in all the goodness.
Uno’s unique crust does it to me every time. Of course, the sausage and melted mozzarella cheese sitting under a layer of tomato sauce makes it all blend together into a rich and delicious delight.
Looks like it’s going to be a two-slice night!
Even Dave Portnoy agrees Chicago’s deep dish is da best! One Bite Pizza Reviews
So Much To Choose From…
I once dated a fella who was born and raised in Chicago. Trouble was, he moved to Minnesota and immediately started missing his old favorites.
When he’d visit me in Chicago, we had to make stops at White Castle. Connie’s Pizza. Bruna’s Ristorante (one of my favs). The Palace Grill (another favorite). It was a food free-for-all the entire weekend he was in town!
When I complained that I had to slow down on the restaurant menus since my jeans were getting tight, he argued that he had to grab all his favorite foods while he was in town. “There’s no places like this back in Minnesota,” he assured me.
Chicago Is Tops
Chicago’s beef sandwiches are so extraordinary, FX even created a television series – The Bear – based on the allure of those savory, iconic meals. Sure, the TV show won 11 Emmy awards. But what truly brought viewers to watch the program in the first place?
The BEEF SANDWICH!
Eater Chicago
My Mom Is No Different
Last summer my mom visited for a few weeks. It’s no secret she loves her Italian beef sandwiches. Since she moved to Florida in the early 2000’s, she has yet to discover a comparable joint that will compare to Chicago’s tender juicy local favorite, filled with just the right amount of seasoning and a gravy-soaked bun.
We picked her up one evening, after she’d spent a couple days visiting a dear pal of hers.
“Hey, Mom,” I offered. “We’re gonna stop for a bite to eat on the way home. Are you interested?”
“Oh, I’m not hungry,” my mom wearily replied from the back seat of our car.
“Okay, but we’re stopping for Italian beef sandwiches,” I slowly teased her.
Mom quickly sat up in her seat. “Well, okay, let’s go!” she sang out.
Since I know better than to interfere with my mom’s wishes, we headed straight to the nearest restaurant, replete with the standard fast-food menu. Italian beef. Hot dogs. Fries. Pepper sandwiches. Italian sausage.
And I’m happy to report that Chicago’s classic fare did not disappoint us that evening.
The secret was out. My grandfather spent his leisure hours designing and building a wooden cruiser cabin in the backyard of their rented home.
Editor's Note: This post was originally published in 2020 -- just as the COVID pandemic was fully established. Enjoy!
For the first time in my life, I’m working remotely from home.
It’s been months, and I sit here alone, except for listening to WXRT Radio as my companion: Fittingly, Beck’s Uneventful Days is on today’s line-up.
The advisory comes through each hour:
“Stay home as much as you possibly can.”
Staying in place. It’s getting more difficult each day.
The isolation is getting the better of me. Plus, I need to distract myself from the pervasive news.
I call my mom.
As usual, she has good advice for me: “Stay Busy.”
Grandpa (Urban Johann) on far right
She relays a story about her own father — Urban Johann — who found himself relocating himself, wife and five children to New York in 1942.
His mechanical expertise was needed at LaGuardia Airport, where he spent long hours working to support the war effort.
To decompress during those stressful times, my grandfather set to work on a venture of his own.
He garnered all the excess lumber he could find in those days, recycling wooden pallets and the like, in order to start his project.
He devised a plan in the backyard of the family home.
“What are you building out there?” his wife asked the next afternoon.
“I’m building you some kitchen cabinets,” was his reply.
My grandmother looked out the kitchen window the following day, shaking her head.
What she saw looked nothing like the cabinets she had requested.
To be sure, the project looked more like a boat.
The secret was out. My grandfather spent his leisure hours designing and building a wooden cruiser cabin in the backyard of their rented home.
Looking toward the future, he knew, once the war was over and his family was back home in Illinois, he would use that watercraft to cruise the bluewaters of Lake Michigan.
The time came for my grandfather to move his family back home. With the help of his buddies, they removed the panels of the backyard fence, allowing enough room to push the new boat out of the yard and onto a trailer hitch to be taken to the railroad yard.
Grandpa paid to have his prized possession sent by freight car to Lyons, Illinois – its new home.
My grandparents enjoyed their cruiser cabin for years by taking excursions on Lake Michigan.
The craft even survived damage from a fire – started when my uncle was careless with holiday fireworks. My grandfather and uncle repaired the beloved boat back to near original condition, ensuring its capacity to act as a source of recreation for many years.
My mom and her dad (my Grandpa) pose with that wonderful ol’ boat of his
Decades later – 1969 to be exact – my grandparents trailered their cabin cruiser by car, down to their newly built home in Lake Placid in central Florida – a tranquil location for their retirement years.
Why did my mother tell this story?
… to remind me to search for a healthy diversion.
… to remind me that it’s time for a project of my own.
My venture won’t be as large. Nor is it likely mine will last 30 years. All I need is a task to occupy my time, alleviate my stress, and influence my imagination.
It’s time to make a plan.
Thank you for reading — PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST
Grandpa + Grandma’s Portage, IN home – built circa 1953 – built after the war by Grandpa himself (with help from his unwilling kids)
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.
September 4.
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.
Widescreenings.com
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.
youtube.com
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…
Earlier this month, I was diligently working at my desk when my husband of 12 years phoned. “How about we go to Navy Pier this weekend?” David suggested. “It’s Chicago Navy Week and the USS Constitution is going to be there!” he announced excitedly.
The USS Constitution — a/k/a Old Ironsides — is a U.S. Navy ship built in the late 1700s. As the oldest commissioned warship afloat, its current home is in Boston Harbor.
Photo: Navy Times
This ship has special meaning for both of us, since it’s where my husband proposed to me… right there on the deck of the huge vessel. So, naturally, his suggestion sounded sweet and romantic.
Still, I was a wee bit skeptical. “Is the USS Constitution still seaworthy?” I asked him. After all, Old Ironsides was built in the late 18th century!
“Yeah, it’s all good!” he promised.
How could I say No, when he was so full of enthusiasm?
Unfortunately, I felt a bit lazy about going downtown…
What kind of wife am I? To be honest, I didn’t relish going back downtown on a Saturday after a full week of commuting to Chicago from our suburban home. The drudgery of the train, the traffic, the people, the motorized scooters, etc., etc. You get my drift.
Still, I said YES to him. Just like I did when he proposed back in 2011.
“Let’s take the Metra train downtown,” I suggested. Since my husband adores trains, I thought it would be nice for him to finally ride the Metra — it would be a first for him and let him experience the hustle and bustle of commuting on the train.
We decided to take the BNSF Metra line, which has a train leaving each hour toward downtown. Since neither of us were familiar with BNSF’s Cicero Avenue train station, we looked for a pedestrian cross in order to wait on the south end (city-bound) platform. Strangely, we found no signs pointing us in the right direction and there was no way for us to cross over.
“Sometimes they come in on the opposite track, especially on the weekends,” I explained. “Let’s just wait here since there’s no where else to go.”
And so we waited, donned in sunhats and doused with plenty of sunscreen. My husband was fired up about taking the commute, and we eagerly waited on the lone bench at the station.
We heard the train’s whistle as it approached the station. Once it passed the blind curve, however, we were in shock to see the train was using the opposite tracks. As there was absolutely no pathway in sight, we couldn’t figure out how we had made this incredible mistake!
And so we stayed glued to that bench, watching as the train heading east into the city approached on the southern track.
I felt so stupid! And embarrassed. “What the heck do we do now?” I cried.
“We’ll simply wait for the next train,” David said good naturedly. “It’s only another hour. Hey, what else were we going to do today?”
“Uggghhh!” was my only response.
After the train went on its merry way, we walked the perimeter, once more searching for a way to the south platform. Eventually, we found a small ramp, leading toward Cicero Avenue. From there, we walked about 1/4 of a block and came upon a pedestrian tunnel. It was this very tunnel that led to the other side of the station. Well, there you go!
Union Station – metra.com
Fast forward to the city…
Eventually, we found ourselves downtown at Union Station. By this time, it was close to 11AM. From there, we couldn’t decide whether to take the CTA shuttle to Navy Pier, or simply walk along the River Walk. It was a lovely day, so we decided on the latter, since we were both up for a walk.
Chicago’s River Walk
Except my knees weren’t happy with my decision. It’s been a rough year for them, having endured my second knee replacement last winter. Recovery has been sluggish and painful.
Still, we walked over a mile and made it to Columbus Drive, just west of Navy Pier. By now, my mood had gone downhill and I had enough. “Let’s take a taxi from here,” Dave suggested.
“I’m not moving from this corner!” I cried. “Anyway, there’s no taxis to be found.”
Luckily, we spotted the CTA bus stop for the shuttle to Navy Pier. You know the one I’m speaking of… the one we could have easily grabbed 45 minutes earlier just across the street from Union Station. We decided to wait for the bus.
My knees weren’t budging and neither was I. We waited another 20 minutes for that crowded bus and gladly got on, each hanging onto the overhead straps since it was standing room only.
It’s now 1:00 PM and we’re finally at Navy Pier
Except we’re really not there yet. The traffic into the pier was horrendous. It took another 12 minutes for our bus driver to maneuver her way through the throngs of vehicles, all headed in the same direction. After all, it was the same day as Chicago’s Air and Water Show, which always brings thousands of people to the city for this astonishing event.
Once we were off the CTA bus, we walked (I limped) the length of Navy Pier, all the way to its eastern most tip. That’s where the ships were alleged to be on this bright sunny day. Except for one important thing…
There were no ships to be found.
“Where’s the U.S. Constitution?” my husband wondered out loud.
I wondered some things myself, except this is a PG-rated post and I aim to keep it that way.
By this time, the sweat beads were rolling down our faces due to high humidity, causing the sunscreen to burn our eyes.
“I’m sitting right here on this stoop,” I announced to him. Both my knees were shouting out in pain. On top of that, my big toe hurt. I sat on my shawl, not wanting to burn my bottom, crossed my arms and plainly showed my disappointment. Oy veh, what a day for me!
Yours Truly
“Well, we can at least stay for the air show,” proclaimed my patient husband.
And to that, we did. We watched a stupendous show from the U.S. Navy pilots, as they swooped across the city, showcasing its skyline.
They roared directly over our heads, dangerously close to the brick tower of Navy Pier. The pilots made breathtaking moves across the water, supplying their audience with exceptional prowess and tremendous courage.
Now you see ’em… now you don’t!!
After the show ended, we found a kiosk selling — of all things — Lobster Rolls! I regret to say that day’s sandwich was nothing like the tasty and oh-so-wonderful fresh lobster roll we shared back in 2011 near Old Ironsides in Boston.
I won’t bore you with the rest of our commute home, but I can say we were much more successful on the way back. We took the CTA shuttle back to Union Station and unexpectedly ran into David’s brother and his galpal. From there, we shared a four-seater on the train and shared details from our excursions into the city.
Forgive my finger covering the lens. Bonus points for the port-a-john in the background.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to see the U.S.S. Constitution,” my dear husband apologized later.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “The best part of the day was that you wanted us to tour the ship where we got engaged. It’s a very romantic gesture on your part. And that’s what I appreciate the most.”
By the way, I also appreciated a cold draught at the end of the day.
So, really, who’s complaining?
Certainly not I!
Update: We eventually learned the “crew” of the USS Constitution was in town that week… not the actual ship… LOL
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.
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 