PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

My Opa / Grandpa

Editor’s Note: This story has been reprinted with permission of its author: Ingrid Felsl (who was 9 years old at the time of writing)

My Opa’s name is Howard, and he is married to my Grandma Dorothy. Opa is very silly, but he is also very smart and has had a very interesting life.

Howard was born in 1931 at home in Roseland. That time was the Great Depression. Roseland is on the southeast side of Chicago, not very far from here. My Opa is the youngest of five other sisters. Imagine how that felt!

When Opa Howard was little, little kids had to make up their own fun. One thing he liked to do the most was to camp out at the Indiana Dunes with his family. My Opa saved all his old Batman and Superman comic books. When his three kids were young, they read them.

When he was 17 years old, Opa worked at R.R. Donnelley’s. It was a printing press.

He had eight motorcycles at one time. That must have been amazing. At the same time, he had a Rolls Royce car. That was an old-fashioned fancy car.

After he sold some motorcycles, Opa had a fire truck. They used to ride it in parades.

My mom; myself; my great-grandmother; and my Opa

Howard knows how to say “I love you” in many different languages. When I get to see him, he always teaches them to me. I know he is smart because he skipped two grades.

You might think my Opa is cool, but listen to what I have to say about him that is funny. One time for Halloween, Howard was always hot in his outfit because, back then, the kids trick-or-treated for the whole week. Since he was hot, Howard thought that wearing one of his sister’s dresses would be cooler. He wore that and was even hotter than he was before. I guess he’ll never do that again.

Another thing my Opa did when he was young is go with his friends to the back of a drugstore and steal pop bottles. Later, they would turn in the bottles and get five cents.

One really funny thing is when Howard and his friend made a fire in a garbage can in the back yard. Howard said he saw his dad coming, and they didn’t know what to do. So they started to pee on the fire. Luckily, his dad never found out.

One time at school Howard tricked his teacher. He said to the teacher “Constantinople, spell it,” So his teacher started writing Constantinople in big letters on the board.

Then Howard said, “No, I-T. Do you get it? Constantinople, spell ‘it.'” Ha ha ha ha.

When he was an adult with three children, Howard had a fire truck, remember? After he had painted it, he had some paint left over. So he decided that he would paint the kids’ dresser red. My mom says it was bright red and looked ugly. I believe her (Don’t tell Howard I said that.)

Another time Opa had got some street-yellow paint from the road workers. He used it to paint the patio furniture. My mom, grandma, aunt and uncle said it looked exactly like the street lines and was hideous. I can tell.

Spray painting patio furniture with my Opa – but using brown paint this time

One time Howard and his friend were putting up wallpaper in the hallway of his home. Guess how they put it up — upside down! So Dorothy (she is his wife) came in and said “Howard, it’s upside down!” The men said, “What?” Then Dorothy said it looked the same, so it stayed.

Now you might not think this is funny, but one time Opa left me at home. I was six years old and watching a movie; Opa was fixing a car. I got up and couldn’t find him anywhere. I looked twice. I started to cry and in a minute Grandma Dorothy came home. I told her what happened. When Howard came home, we asked him what he did. He said he forgot I was there and went to test the car. He was very sorry. I hope that never happens again.

Two years ago my Opa and Omah moved to Florida. Howard brought his favorite Indiana Dunes poster and put it up in the screened patio. The poster got torn up because the wind blew it off the wall. It got rained on and fell in the pool. Opa duct taped it up, but it fell down. He bolted it back up. Today you will see the poster torn, duct taped to the wall, and with a bolt.

Well, you now know mostly all about my Opa. You never know what might happen with him (that sounds just like me, too). But anyway, he is very nice and I love him and miss him so much. I hope I visit him in the spring. Well, that is…

My Opa / Grandpa

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

I Killed A Cicada, and I Don’t Care

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.

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.

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.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST.

Coiffures While Commuting

Dare I say it? I seek and admire other gals’ hairstyles while I commute on the Metra train.

I can’t be the only one who does this. Certainly, we can all spot a hairstyle that we envy. Be it short, medium or long. Curly, straight, kinky or wavy. Smooth as satin or even with a bit of messy frizz. It’s all open to my admiration as I ride the morning train, feeling a less than happy with my own coiffure.

Merriam Webster defines the following…

I do try my best each day to style or arrange my hair into the best that it can be. Naturally, a lot depends on the weather or whether I’ve shampooed and conditioned the evening before.

Still, I’m never quite happy with my personal results. It’s never as stunning as when I leave my hair stylist on a Saturday morning after she’s worked her magic with the blow dryer and curling iron.

Obviously, my stylist has lots of potions to add to the beauty of her clients’ hair. That’s par for the course. Plus, she’s professionally trained in styling to make her patrons look their best. That’s why I keep returning to her every six weeks.

Alas, my own skills are lacking in the hair department. I won’t bore you with the nitty gritty details here. Let’s just say, hair styling is not one of my strengths. I don’t have the patience or time to deal with the intricacies of attractive styling.

That’s where watching others comes in. The daily grind of commuting becomes quite ho hum and dreary, so sometimes I simply watch the parade of people as they stream by (a/k/a People Watching).

I see lots of interesting hairstyles. There are those who got 99% of it right, except for that wee bit at the very back center of their head. No worries — I’m guilty of that as well. It’s difficult to reach back there with a comb or brush.

Last week I watched as a girl applied what appeared to be a smoothing balm to her hair, which was pulled back into a chignon. What new product was this? I wondered to myself. I immediately pulled out my phone and found a similar hair balm on Amazon. Will this tame my own frizzies? Probably not.

I also keep an eye out for cute styles to copy for myself. I surreptitiously take photos of fellow commuters, holding my cell phone just so as I sneak a quick pic of their coif.

Snap, snap, snap. I keep taking pictures of those I admire.

My daughter tells me its shameful, taking photos of people without their permission.

It’s all in the name of beauty, I tell her.

After all, I simply must keep up with the trends.

Thank you for reading ~ PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

It All Matches Up

Friends who hang out together dress alike. It’s like they’ve become twins and insist on wearing the same matching outfits.

Marie Claire – (Image credit: ACE Pictures/REX/Shutterstock)

Years ago my sister made an interesting comment:

Friends who hang out together dress alike. It’s like they’ve become twins and insist on wearing the same matching outfits.

Was she correct?

Do we set our sights on those that already mirror our own selves?

I asked my sister for verification, to which she immediately pointed at me and my galpal. Yes, there we were… both in our blue jeans and boho blouses, hoop earrings and sandals. When you looked at the two of us, we even wore the same shade of lipstick. When we realized our “twin-ship,” we immediately laughed at ourselves. What sort of image were we projecting to the world, in our corresponding Saturday clothes?

Had we started out as lookalikes… or was this something that gradually occurred over time? Or was my sister correct? Do we wind up matching one another as friends? Family members? Even lovers?

This first-hand example had me thinking. Do we gravitate toward others who provide a prime replica of ourselves? While navigating life, do we lean in toward those who seem to meet our speed?

This question came up in a Diversity in Life class I took at Roosevelt University. Raising my hand, I suggested that while we should always strive for diversity, many of us initially (while unintentionally), seek out those who are a reflection of our own selves. My professor insisted that I was being less than fair minded. I argued that it’s human nature to seek those that we match.

This type of following others starts early in life. For example, girls tend to group together on the school playground, while boys are inclined to join with other boys.

We connect with each other based on hobbies, backgrounds, personal values, religion, finances. This initial connection brings us together, where we form bonds based on shared interests.

Does this mean we cannot be more diverse and open minded in our alliances?

Of course not!

So what’s my point here today?

ANSWER: There is no point. I merely think it’s hilarious that my sister correctly pointed out that those of us who hang together also tend to dress alike.

Today’s lunchtime pics demonstrate this interesting phenomena:

Twins

Meanwhile, this woman is unique and lovely.

She reminds me of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City…

or Audrey Hepburn.

And I’m lovin’ it!

WHAT SAY YOU?

Thank you for reading PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

This Is What Commuting Looks Like

I’ve written several posts under the category of THE JOYS OF COMMUTING. There’s a post of the so-called “Quiet Car Police.” And who doesn’t love the story about The Sesame Bagel Lady.

Today, I figured, what better time than the present to add another post?

Like many, I’ve been commuting to and from downtown Chicago for work for decades. In fact, it’s been over 40 years for me.

Yikes!

As commuters, we face vehicle traffic, train delays, school zones (darn those 20MPH speed limits!), pedestrians, spilled coffee, rain… sleet… and snow.

Yes, especially in April, Chicago seems to get its snow. Just enough to make things sloppy. And a bit slippery.

This morning’s commute doesn’t have anything unique about it. In fact, as I told my co-worker, it was rather a typical commute, as I started my day by pressing the SNOOZE button once too many times. I overslept by a good 20 minutes; but not to worry, I know how to make it work in the morning.

That doesn’t mean I relish the weekday (a/k/a workday) mornings. The coffee button is the second thing I hit after the SNOOZE button.

Hot and black is the way I like it.

While the java brews, I take a look in the bathroom mirror. Things have certainly changed in the last 40 years.

I slather on the SPF lotion, curl the lashes and check my eyebrows. Nothing too fancy for work. Besides, most of it will disappear from my face as the weather kicks in and I get a free facial from the spitting rain, car fumes, and the like.

Later, I throw my brown bag lunch into my backpack: turkey burger from last Saturday (it’s still good, right?), mandarin oranges, blackberries and rice pudding for an afternoon treat.

TIME TO HEAD OUT

As I step into the cold garage and raise the door, I can finally see the full extent of the morning weather. Not too cold, but wet from overnight rain mixed with snow.

It’s garbage day and the crew already swung by at 5:55AM for its pick up. The garbage and recycling cans are on their sides in the driveway. Usually, my husband takes care of this chore, except today he’s home with a slight fever. No worries. There’s still plenty of time for me to drag them all into the garage before I head to the Metra train station.

The rote day begins as I drive to the station and park in my favorite slot. Alighting from my vehicle, I grab my backpack (heavy with laptop and lunch), along with my trusty cane (still recovering from knee replacement). My hand digs into the right pocket, ensuring my folded dollar bill and quarter are there to pay for the daily parking space. It’s all good and ready.

By this time, I’m feeling pretty good, since I recently discovered an “express” train to Chicago’s Union station. Taking this train grants me an extra 25 minutes at home to slurp my coffee, watching WGN Channel 9 news and generally put off facing my day.

Except this so-called express train usually misses its titular mark. Our train is outranked by Amtrak trains and freight trains. Today seems to be one of those days, with two interruptions of both Amtrak and a coal train taking precedence over ours.

Bummer.

Luckily, our cheerful conductor doesn’t seem to let interruptions phase him. In fact, he presents his passengers with a joke of the day, told over the train’s PARK system:

What’s the difference between a hippo and a zippo?

ANSWER:

One’s a little heavy.

And one’s a little lighter.

ARRIVING DOWNTOWN

We pull into Union station about 10 minutes late. Which means I missed my shuttle bus to the office. I check the time to see if perhaps I can grab a Dunkin’ black coffee before the next shuttle (please, no judging on the number of cups I’ve had!).

However, at this point in time, I realize I must have left my hat on the train. Do I go back and look for it? YES! After all, it’s my favorite hat — a hand-knit beret that I picked up at a craft fair. Plus, it really belongs to my daughter, so that clinches the decision.

The conductors are shutting down the train by this time, but they graciously allow me back onto the car so I can retrieve my hat.

There it is, on the floor underneath my seat. I use my trust cane to grab it and I immediately put it on my head and continue on my way. A girl’s gotta get to work!

By now, I’m doing a run-walk with my cane. Quickly, I check out Dunkin’ Donuts at the train station, except the line is super long, and it’s now going on 8:45 AM. Time to get a move on. I ditch the idea of waiting for the next shuttle at 9AM. Instead, I hop on the CTA 156 LaSalle, which will bring me within one block of my office.

“Good Morning,” I say to the bus driver. She doesn’t respond. Yes, she’s that one that doesn’t speak to passengers. Quite out of the norm, since most drivers are usually cheerful.

I take my seat near the front (mind you, the trusty cane comes in handy) and dump my heavy backpack on the empty seat beside me. Next stop, a gentleman boards the bus and sits directly across from me. I avoid all eye contact with him and the other commuters. This is an unwritten rule in the city. Especially on public transportation.

The same gentleman de-boards after two blocks. And I have to say I’m glad. Since it had been days since he showered. Oh dear. I pull my scarf around my face and take shallow breaths.

NEARLY THERE

My stop comes up in the next few minutes, and I alight from the bus. Ms. Unhappy Bus Driver does not lower the step for me. I do my best “jump” onto the sidewalk and catch myself with trusty cane. What fun.

One block to go to get to my building. Except I slip on the wet sidewalk while waiting for a red light. I didn’t fall, so all is well.

Finally I’m in the elevator. The news display reads the time as 9:08AM. Only 8 minutes late. Not bad.

I almost collide with a fellow employee as I exit the elevator.

“Good Morning,” he bellows.

“Oh, hi to you too,” I say.

I walk the last 50 steps to my desk. Stash trusty cane against the desk and drop my backpack on the floor.

“I’m here!” I tell no one in particular.

No one looks. They are all buried in their own busy schedules. Reading e-mails. On Teams meetings. Drinking Dunkin’ coffee.

And that, dear friends, is what I’ve been doing the last 40 plus years.

All before 9:10 in the morning.

Bonus Joke For My Readers:

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Sorry Easter Bunny… it’s nothing personal

I spent this past Saturday afternoon running errands. Given that it was the day before Easter Sunday, the crowds were a bit larger than normal. Pastel-colored baskets, jelly beans and marshmallow treats were in abundance. I also spotted the mandatory Easter Bunny standing on the side of bustling LaGrange Road, merrily waving at passers-by.

I’m Unsure If It’s Just Me

For my entire life, starting at childhood and continuing into the present, I found human-sized rabbits a bit unsettling. I suppose I felt their size alone was intimidating. I mean, bunnies hopping around in the wild certainly don’t resemble a six-foot Muppet. Real-life bunnies are sweet and furry as they chew on clover. To a small child, six-foot bunnies look as though they can grab you and gobble you up.

Surprisingly, this weekend’s bunny (a/k/a adult dressed in a furry costume with an overly large head) did not scare me. I even waved back at the friendly figure. It was then I determined that I had truly overcome one of my childhood fears.

I never was a fan of visiting folklore characters when I was a youngster. As a child, I shook with fear at holiday events when Santa Claus suddenly appeared in the doorway. Santa was extra loud as his booming voice as he shouted “Ho ho ho” over and over. His cries of cheer echoed through the room as he marched into the fieldhouse with his heavy black boots. Except as a four-year-old , I found his boisterous personality a bit too much to take in. My reaction to to cling to my mother while I encouraged my little brother to do the same.

Still, my mother did her duty and tried to get me to sit on Santa’s lap. I answered her well-meaning prompt with flowing tears, as my outstretched arms begged her to take me away from good ol’ Saint Nick. After a long minute of coaxing, my mother finally gave in and returned me to my seat. Meanwhile, Mom went ahead and accepted the gift on my behalf.

Santa didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he rather enjoyed having my long-legged, smiling mother sit on his lap.

EVENTUALLY I WON

After a couple years of tantrums with Santa Claus, my mother finally relented and threw in the towel. She wasn’t going to waste any more time with tradition. Fortunately, I was no longer required to sit on Saint Nick’s lap.

This pleased me to no end, since I figured, either way, I was still going to receive a Christmas gift.

OTHER HOLIDAYS

I had the same feelings about the Easter Bunny in the springtime. For years afterwards, I watched the same scene carry out with other boys and girls. Children were marched up to the Easter Bunny’s chair, while assistants tried to get the crying child to smile for a photo. I felt sorry for those youngsters. No amount of coaxing, candy, nor over-sized faux Easter lilies was going to convince most of those kids that it was intended to be a bright moment in their young lives.

Not one of those children gave a hoot that their parents wanted a photo record of the event. They just wanted out of that scene. Fast.

THEN I BECAME A PARENT

I became a parent at the age of 30, and I already knew that I wanted to be a hip mom. I wasn’t going to force my child to do anything they didn’t want to do. As a cool parent, I knew I wouldn’t take my child on a visit to see Santa Claus or Easter Bunny.

Really, I should be thanked for being so awesome.

There were a few times when I pushed my young daughter in her stroller through the mall. Oops! There was Mr. Bunny Rabbit, ready and waiting for us as we strolled by. Mr. Bunny Rabbit and his team of photographers did their best to persuade me and my daughter onto the flower-laden platform. Except I wasn’t havin’ any of it.

It was nothing personal, but I did my best to avoid all eye contact with the holiday do-gooders. I held my breath while I pushed my child away from the captivating scene and hoped she wouldn’t point and beg to visit the soaring rabbit.

My wishes came true. Or perhaps my DNA came through. My lovely toddler didn’t give one hoot about the holiday characters. In fact, I think I even saw her roll her eyes at the entire scene of children waiting in line to see a faux long-eared rabbit.

Perhaps she, too, felt the large-scaled mammal was a bit bizarre. Maybe the scene of screaming children was a turn-off to her. Whatever her reasons, I simply figured she was a chip off the ol’ block.

Together, she and I went on our merry way, skipping the sugary scene and instead heading toward the shoe store where I could try on new sandals.

I mean, a mom’s got to have her priorities.

MY DAUGHTER IS AMAZING

And this is one of the 480,324,998 reasons why I love my daughter so much. Like me, she turned down both the Easter Bunny and Mr. Claus. She, too, believed the characters were a big off-putting.

She still received an Easter basket filled with goodies. Each Christmas, there were still presents under the tree. Plus, she didn’t have to visit with strangers in order to benefit. Clearly, it was a win-win.

FAST FORWARD TO PRESENT DAY

From time to time, I like to remind my daughter of what a great mommy I was.

“You know I never forced you to visit the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause,” I tell her.

“I know, Mom,” she responds. “And I’ve thanked you for that. Numerous times.”

“Okay, I just wanted to recap that I definitely was a super cool mom.”

“Yes, Mom, I remember,” she says, sighing. “You tell me that every holiday.”

And she rapidly shuts down that conversation with a traditional eye roll.

Except I don’t mind. As I said, I’m a super cool mom.

This post is dedicated to my Super Cool Cousins, who always ask for more servings of PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST. Thank you!!

Me and My Mop

Each year I look back and determine the best purchase I made for myself that year. For 2023, my O-Cedar Mop Two-Tank System takes the prize. Let’s back up a bit… the full name is O-Cedar EasyWring RinseClean Microfiber Spin Mop with 2-Tank Bucket System.

And it’s fantastic.

The cleaning bucket comes with two tanks: one to hold the cleaning solution mixed with hot water; the second tank accepts the dirty water. There’s a foot pedal and mop wringer built right in, relieving my having to wring out a dirty mop with my hands.

Truly a life-saver for me. It’s something I’ve been searching for my entire life.

This sort of statement may sound a bit dramatic. Poor girl… the highlight of her year is a mop of all things! Yet it’s true.

My obsession with clean floors most likely started when I was 17 years old. That’s when my mom decided one of my weekly chores was to scrub the kitchen and dining room floors while on my hands and knees. There I was, every Thursday after school, lugging a heavy bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush to get the lousy job over with.

But first I had to sweep the floor, removing bits of dust, food crumbs, the dog and cat kibble surrounding their respective food bowls. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.

I proceeded to scrub the floors, making sure I did a thorough job, so I wouldn’t disappoint my mother. I was proud of my work and wanted to bask in my progress. That’s also just about the time when I became the vexatious person who consistently warned others: ”Get off the floor! I just cleaned it!”

How dare they walk on my clean floor. Couldn’t they just avoid the kitchen for the entire week and let me enjoy my hard efforts? The nerve of them.

The cleaning on my hands and knees continued into my adult years. It was all I knew. Get down there and get the gritty dirty and grime. The only way to do it was by suffering and having dark brown spots on my knees to prove it. Ah, yes, I was the martyr who endured the nasty job but was happy with the end results.

In fact, my preoccupation with clean floors became a bit ridiculous. My brother was the first to notice my compulsion, and he quickly pointed it out to me.

While visiting my brother and his two roommates in California, I immediately was repulsed by the looks of their kitchen floor. Let’s just say it needed some attention, what with the who-knows-what spilled on it and left to harden in its place. The floor was filthy in my mind, and it felt gross just walking on it.

So when the three of them were all at work during the day, I took it upon myself to run a bucket of hot soapy water. I gave their floor a good scrubbing on my hands and knees. I finished off with a mop I found in the garage, going over everything a second time for good measure.

My hands became red and sore as I wrung out the sullied mop. Yet, I was determined that their kitchen floor would be scoured by the end of the afternoon. In that, I was successful, as the three roommates praised my efforts and thanked me for cleaning.

Meanwhile, unkind thoughts simmered in my head, as I wondered just how long it would stay clean. Would any one of them ever take the initiative to clean it again? UGHH! I didn’t even want to think about it.

My preoccupation with floor cleaning stayed with me. Years ago, I invited a group of neighborhood mothers and their preschool children over for lunch. When some food crumbs fell on the floor, I quickly apologized to the other mothers. ”I’m so sorry! I ran out of time this morning and never got around to washing my floor,” I explained, hoping they’d forgive me.

One of my guests tsk-tsk’d at me. “Anyone who cleans a floor before preschoolers come over is just stupid,” she remarked.

To that I kept my mouth shut. Instead, I glared at her with steely eyes — hoping she’d catch my silent but scathing reaction to that awful comment she just made.

Boy, I really needed to lighten up.

Offended look Stock Photos, Royalty Free Offended look Images ...

Years passed, and my rheumatologist advised me well after I suffered from a torn miniscus in my left knee.

“But I have to get on my knees in order to clean my kitchen floor,” I pleaded with her.

“Get a mop!” the doctor bluntly ordered.

There went my days of martyrdom. No longer could I suffer merely for the sake of knowing I had clean floors. Because no one else cared but me.

And now I’ve finally found my perfect mop. The O-Cedar is a pleasure to use, as I swish it around my kitchen and bathrooms floors while listening to Spotify. I’m smiling and my floors are shining. All without the struggle that really was pointless and went unrecognized.

My brother still likes to tease me about my fixation on floor cleaning. Once he asked me why I avoided a certain McDonald’s restaurant. He couldn’t figure out what could set it apart from other McDonald’s.

“Ew, the floors there are disgusting!” I pointed out. “Everything is so sticky around the soda machine, where customers drip their sweet drinks all over the floor. I can’t stand it.” I shuddered just picturing the scene.

My brother gave me a look. “Mmhmm,” was all he said, as he arched his brow.

Still, I stood my ground on the argument for a clean floor. A tidy floor should be a top priority for everyone. I folded my arms in response and sighed, realizing that some folks just don’t get it.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Giving Away Santa’s Adornments

There aren’t many kind words spoken about my first husband.

And I aim to keep it that way.

But in the spirit of Christmas, one positive story regarding the ex-spouse came to mind.

It’s a fine tale. One filled with generosity, love and best wishes for children. It has all the sentiments and tenderness one expects for this season.

The Story Goes…

The year was 1985. It was mid-December and Chicago already had its fair share of snow on the ground. More was expected that evening — just enough to make things more slippery and wet. And to snarl up the holiday traffic.

My boyfriend at the time (for today’s purposes, we’ll call him Kent) was enlisted in the Marine Reserves. As part of his duties, he and his buddies were stationed at the US Marine Corps Mobilization center on Foster Avenue on Chicago’s north side. The enlisted men were there to assist with the annual Toys for Tots drive… a holiday tradition wherein local motorcycle enthusiasts load toys and gifts onto their bikes and participate in a holiday parade down the wintry streets of Chicago.

That year, the parade ended at the Marines’ Mobilization center, where hundreds of children waited to meet Santa Claus and receive one of the many gifts that were donated by generous souls.

As luck would have it, Kent was chosen that afternoon to play the role of Santa Claus. One of his superiors handed him Santa’s suit, along with all the bits and pieces that go with: stuffing for the belly; hat; white gloves; black belt with lustrous gold buckle; a garland of bells to create merriment.

Kent gladly changed out of his fatigues and into the Santa suit. He spent time fitting the trimmings onto Santa’s clothing. Finally, he looped a long white beard and moustache around his ears. A jaunty red hat completed his cheerful ensemble.

“HO HO HO!” Kent bellowed loudly, trying out his deepest Santa voice.

He grinned, knowing he was in for a special occasion. An evening of meeting excited boys and girls and making their Christmas a bit more special.

The festivities went on for a few hours. There was music, along with cookies and punch. A decorated holiday tree stood at the front of the hall, alongside which sat Santa’s reception chair, where Santa (er, Kent) took each child one by one onto his lap and asked them what they wanted for Christmas.

“HO HO HO!” Kent repeated for two hours. “Merry Christmas!”

His throat grew hoarse. His face was soon itchy from wearing a false beard and moustache. His feet grew sweaty as he wore the heavy black boots that came with the job.

None of that mattered, as he saw the myriad of responses from the children he lifted onto his knee. Some were shy. Others knew exactly what they wanted and weren’t afraid to ask. A few merely wept from fear of the oversized Kent dressed in bright red, and they reached for their mothers’ arms.

The event finally neared to an end. Except as he looked around for more gifts to hand to the remaining few children anxiously waiting in line, Kent realized there were no more toys beneath the Christmas tree.

He looked at his superiors, who merely shrugged. They were out of ideas. Being gallant marines, they all realized they couldn’t turn away any single child without making their evening special.

That’s when Kent immediately knew what to do.

He removed the furry red hat from his head. “Say, how would you like Santa’s hat?” he offered to the next “customer” in line.

“Oh yes!” the small child cried out. “I’d love that.” She left Santa’s chair grinning from ear to ear, clutching the red hat to her chest.

The next child came and Kent extended his garland of jingle bells. The boy was ecstatic as he returned to his family. “Looky here!” he shouted, shaking the strand of merry makers. “I got Santa’s very own jingle bells!”

Next the belt with shiny gold buckle came off.

Mr. Claus’ gloves.

Even the big black boots.

And finally, the fuzzy white beard and moustache.

Santa’s accoutrements were gladly given to the wide-eyed youngsters.

By then, Kent’s secret was out. He was a Marine merely dressed as Santa Claus for the occasion.

Except the children didn’t seem to mind.

“Those kids were more tickled to receive a piece of Santa’s clothing,” Kent happily relayed to others after the event. “They showed more emotion and joy versus the children who merely received a toy.”

Indeed, the children were celebrating the fact that they had a personal connection to Santa. They were proud owners of something that was an integral part of Mr. Claus. They went home that evening filled with triumph, along with a great story to relate to their friends.

It’s possible that Kent was the one who went home the happiest that night. As he maneuvered through the sloppy streets of Chicago, the messy weather didn’t bother him at all. His evening ended on a lighthearted note, due to the children’s reactions.

After all, he realized the tiniest gestures of genuine caring can bring contentment to so many.

Himself included.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Cross ‘Em Off The List!

Ahh, dating woes. Most of us have a few tales to share. It’s not easy to find the right person. We all want someone supportive, engaging, funny. That’s human nature.

Except it can be super difficult to find someone compatible. And as charming as I am, I ran into lots of difficulties. In other words, I ran into my fair share of fellas who just didn’t make the cut.

In other words, they were soon crossed off The List.

Most of us keep a mental list in our heads while dating. The list contains must-have personality attributes that either make or break a relationship. Communication. Empathy. Honesty. Reliability. These qualities in a significant other are necessary in order to move forward in a solid liaison.

Developing a lasting relationship takes time and patience. While many folks we run into are good souls, we still need to aim for true compatibility. Therefore, the old adage rings true… You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find the handsome prince.

I had my fair share of frogs to date. Although, to be fair, some of them were mighty handsome. Which made the kissing that much more fun.

I met folks through Match.Com. With E-Harmony. Through friends. And colleagues.

Heck, I even met a couple the old-fashioned way: while drinking at a bar.

Stocksy (*Disclaimer: Nope, this wasn’t me*)

For the most part, I met decent, hard-working gentlemen. They were mannerly and well-behaved on the first date.

If things went well, we might have even made it to two dates. Except many times they simply never called me again. One could never tell why. They weren’t exactly forthcoming in their reasons to stop contacting me.

However, during those dates I subconsciously kept a mental list in my head of when I needed to simply cross that person off from any future dates.

Take – for example – the fella who called me on the telephone. He didn’t have much to say, and I felt compelled to enhance the conversation:

ME: “So, what do you do for a living?”

HIM: “I’m a truck driver.”

ME: (looking to enlarge on that topic) “What do you typically haul?”

HIM: “Plastic forks.”

ME: “Mmhmm…”

SILENCE

ME: “Um… what else?”

HIM: “Plastic spoons.”

MORE SILENCE…

ME: “Well, I gotta run now. My pasta water’s boiling over.”

Next…

Then there was the young fella who seemed like a nice prospect.

Good job. Friendly. Nice looking. Check, check and check.

HIM: “Did I tell you I live in a housing development called CheeseLand?”

ME: “I best be going now.”

Speaking of bars, I ran into a hottie who spoke to me about an “agreeance“ he recently entered into with his ex-wife.

Being a word nerd, I had to quickly put the brakes on that one.

But not before we did some serious making out. As I said, he was a hottie.

There was one stand-out gentleman who I dated for a few months. Until the one evening he insisted on nabbing the salt and pepper shakers from the restaurant table and shoving them into his suit pockets.

This all took place at an office holiday party.

In the grand ballroom of an expensive downtown hotel.

In front of my co-workers.

You get the picture.

I broke up with him the following day.

To be fair, he didn’t reciprocate when I handed him his birthday gift that evening (we actually shared the same birthdate). As a generous soul, he let me tip the coat-check person that evening.

And the parking valet too.

Happy Birthday to me.

A few months went by and he talked me into giving him another shot.

I was lonely. So I said Yes.

Until the day he told me the Chicago Park District was giving away free blue recycling bags. He ran over that morning to grab a bundle to keep at his home.

ME: “That’s nice that you’ve decided to separate and recycle your trash.”

HIM: “Actually, I ran home and switched jackets so I could run back to the park and grab another bundle of blue bags. Anyway, I’m not interested in recycling — I’m just gonna use ’em for my regular garbage.”

And BAM!

That darned list of mine just got longer.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Why Is Everything So Perfect?

Your host: PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Below is an earlier post, published several years ago. Please enjoy…

Why Is Everything So Perfect?

How much longer is “Perfect” going to remain the favorite buzzword?

It’s on everyone’s tongues these days… I hear it everywhere I go… Even in settings where it may not be entirely appropriate.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect. “

Is everything really that darned perfect?

That word is a lot to live up to. The Webster’s Dictionary I keep on my desk defines “Perfect” as: 1.a: being entirely without fault or defect: flawless.

I Can’t Take the Pressure!

For example, we were in a training session at work, learning the new electronic filing procedures for the IL state court filing system. Lucky for us, we had an in-person, live demonstration from the spokesperson.

I theorized our speaker was possibly a former military commander. She was a no-nonsense woman, dressed in business-like clothing (grey suit with black pumps), with her hair pulled into a tight bun.

Her crisp, staccato voice certainly had me at attention. And I didn’t want to cross her.

Presenter to the audience:

“Any questions? No? PERFECT. Next slide please,” as she tapped her pointer at the screen.

By this time I was afraid to ask any questions at all for risk of making things less than … well, Perfect. I even abstained from the snacks they offered, for fear of making munching noises.

I’m [more than] Slightly Imperfect

Everyone knows I’m less than Perfect. Such as when I feed food from my plate to the dog, even though the hostess asks me not to do so.

I also eat from utensils that drop onto the ground – without pausing to clean them. Yum.

The “Perfect” Buzzword Is Everywhere

I even hear this standard response when I run my errands or make simple phone calls, such as when I recently phoned to make an appointment to see my dentist:

Receptionist: Your last name please.

Me: V as in Victory – a – n. H – o w –e.

Receptionist: Perfect.

Whew! I’ve been practicing that one for decades.

Receptionist: And what is your main concern?

Me: I have a tooth that’s killing me. Gosh, I hope I don’t have to get a root canal.

Receptionist: [typing] Perfect…

Clearly, she’s missing the irony here.

Receptionist: Unfortunately, it seems the dentist has a full schedule. The earliest time we can get you in is Tuesday, January 2, 2018, at 7:30 in the morning. How does that work for you?

Me: PERFECT.

Have an amazing — imperfect — day.

Thank you for reading — PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST