Hog Heaven

A friend of mine went to a pig roast today. I settled for pasta and frozen vegetables at home. Call me crazy, but when I look at my food, I don't want it looking back.

Sometimes, humans do the darnedest things. Say, for example, taking a pig just barely out of diapers, killing it, then skewering it over a flame so everyone can watch its grinning face get burned to a crisp while its innards, presumably, melt like butter off the bone. People actually find this appetizing, and will devour the tender pork, oblivious to the pig's blind stare.

I was thinking about this bit of barbarism as I sat on my front stoop with Manny last night, listening to the trees scream their summer chorus. We could barely hear ourselves think, but that did nothing to mar the companionable silence we enjoyed, as we do on many Sunday evenings out on the front stoop.

Summer is full of simple pleasures, pig roasts notwithstanding. Yesterday, after retrieving my younger daughter at camp so she could come home for the weekend and, as far as I could tell, take a decent shower and have her laundry done, both daughters and I spent the afternoon stuffing ourselves with ice cream and fudge and french fries and laughing about the most stupid things. Bliss. Sheer bliss.

By evening, we each went our own way, which is how I ended up on the stoop with Manny. Sure, I could have gone to the pig roast, but I would have felt as uncomfortable as, well, a Jew at a pig roast, so I opted for a lazy evening with Manny and a few more nibbles of fudge.

We listened quietly as the crickets screeched, and thought to ourselves how lucky we are to be able to enjoy summer at dusk. He may be blind, and I may be a tad bit lonesome on occasion, but things could be a lot worse. Just ask the pig.

Power Outages

If fancy Manhattan orthopedists were really the supreme beings my mom thinks they are, wouldn't the prominent doctor who gave her the go ahead to run marathons have anticipated that her spine was about to break in two? So much for blind faith.

Yes, just as the mayhem of May seemed to really be behind us and mom was happily going about her business on two legs, she was struck down again, this time by a compression fracture in her spine. Whether it resulted from the strain of her accident related breaks or eighty years of normal wear and tear on her bones, it just plain sucks.

The gods (with a small "g") on the Upper East Side are scrambling to ascertain the source and remedy the problem; hopefully, they will be able to restore power to my mother faster than Commonwealth Edison has been able to restore power to deep dark suburbia. It's been five days since the latest devastating storm hit, and many folks remain without lights, without air conditioning, and, most tragically, without the use of their favorite health club.

As if I didn't have enough problems, the doors of my trusty old gym have been closed all week. Even in the wee hours of the morning, when the air outside is still cool and heat stroke is probably not that much of a concern, they won't make an exception and let the diehards in to get a quick fix. A little stretch, a few quick lifts -- what would be the harm?

Apparently, Commonwealth Edison does not grasp the situation. Desperate, endorphin starved faces are pressed against the glass doors of the dark health club each morning, and the electric company looks the other way as it misguidedly prioritizes its work on the grid. For some reason, places like doctors offices are deemed more deserving of immediate attention. And this isn't even the Upper East Side of Manhattan!

Where, mercifully, there is power, so the supreme beings there can get to work figuring out how to fix my mother. Again.

Rules of the Road

Four way stop signs need to come with instructions. Especially when they are placed mere yards from a railroad crossing with a three way stop, where cars routinely turn in front of other cars appearing over the slight blind spot of the tracks even though that means the person behind the person trying to turn becomes a sitting duck for the next train speeding through.

How many people do you know who approach a four way stop and are immediately conscious of the order in which the other three stoppers arrived. Add in the complications of right and left turns and a four way stop sign becomes an invitation to a free for all. Sometimes I think the best policy is to close your eyes and go, and hope for the best. An occasional leap of faith is a good thing, right?

Life is full of four way stop signs, crossroads that leave the already indecisive among us stymied. It's not so much about where to go -- we all have some idea of what we want and where to get it -- but when. How quickly do we take our foot of the brake and move forward? Some forge ahead, without worrying too much about the consequences. But most of us spend a lot of time waiting for a sign, a sign far less ambiguous than a four way stop, often in vain.

I sometimes envy my mother, whose "black and white" view of the world allows her to receive instructions and signs with great clarity. Sure, she may be one of those folks who wait too long at the corner (she doesn't care; she can't hear all the honking), but she has unshakable confidence in her authority figures, and she knows exactly when to pull the trigger.

Last week, when I visited her, I told her I was sure she could ditch the cumbersome walker she's been dragging around for weeks and put the full pressure of her hundred pound frame on her bad leg. The official doctor visit was still a week away, though, and she steadfastly refused to take the plunge and set her foot down, even for a moment. She was feeling absolutely no pain, mind you, but, alas, like I said, the official doctor visit (i.e. the audience with God) was still a week away.

I knew I should have stuck with pre-med. The other day, the very prominent Manhattan orthopedist in charge of monitoring the progress of my mother's elderly bones pronounced her fit to walk on both legs. Shocking. Even the physical therapist's cautionary words, that she should not ditch the walker completely yet, fell on deaf ears. Okay, well everything you say to my mother falls on deaf ears, but you know what I mean. God had spoken, and by golly, you do what God tells you to no matter how tired you get or how much you start to ache.

So mom is now hopping around like a bunny, exercising her atrophied left leg with reckless abandon. Sure, it hurts like hell by the end of the day, but the very prominent Manhattan doctor said it was okay. When you're stuck at an intersection with mere mortals (like your daughter, who gave up on medical school after her second organic chemistry exam) urging you on, you hold your ground. But when God speaks, you listen.

Brains Down the Drain

Yesterday, my entire kitchen counter seemed to shake as I dumped several Rubbermaid containers of old leftovers down the disposal. I can only imagine the tremors that resulted from the penis some angry woman in Los Angeles recently disposed of in her sink.

How angry does one have to be, I wonder, to lop off her husband's member as he comes to from a poison induced stupor, realizing he has been tied to the bed and his soon-to-be-ex wife is wielding a sharp knife in the vicinity of his crotch. I bet alimony started to look pretty good, in retrospect. Whatever he did to deserve this, I'd venture to say they are, at this point, more than even. At least they'll save on matrimonial attorneys' fees, since she'll be spending a good portion of the immediate future in jail.

If you have a close friend, as I do, who never misses a sordid news article, you'd realize, as I have, that men can be even more of a danger to their own penises than your average scorned woman who's gone off the deep end can be. Take, for example, the guy who cut off his own penis to spite his religious parents for not allowing him to marry the woman he loved. Or the genius who attached a dumbbell ring to his own penis in an effort to elongate it. It got bigger all right, swelling around the heavy metal weight to five times its normal size and, for good measure, turning black. No, I refuse to go there.

The biggest problem with the penis mutilation epidemic, I think, is the brain drain. Months ago, I wrote a post which I think contained pretty strong scientific evidence that mens' thinking centers are located in their penises. Under the best of circumstances, the synapses don't fire all that well, but is cutting it off (in essence, performing a lobotomy) really the answer? Forget about wondering how these guys will pee, or have sex; I'm worried about the frightening drop in IQ. How low can it go?

The guy in Los Angeles has nobody but himself to blame. What idiot allows the woman who is divorcing him to cook him dinner, and then, when it tastes funny, goes to bed and allows himself to fall asleep in her presence. It seems to me the loss of that brain is no great loss at all.

Dumbbell.

Paradise Lost, Paradise Gained

I fell in love with Chicago twenty-seven summers ago, and moved out here a year later.

It's hard not to fall in love with Chicago in the summertime, with the lake glistening bright blue against the backdrop of skyscrapers towering over sandy beaches crowded with folks playing hooky. In summer, it is impossible to imagine the frigid, wind whipped wasteland our city becomes in January, impossible to imagine that this urban paradise can be anything but a playground for kids of all ages.

Especially for twenty-somethings. As I strolled along the lake with my daughter yesterday in her new downtown neighborhood, I was reminded of how, when I was introduced to this place at twenty-four, it seemed as if everyone in the world was twenty-four, give or take a few years. That hasn't changed. The lakefront of Chicago's Gold Coast is still packed solid with people of that certain age, when the world is full of possibility but you're too young to see it. It doesn't take a genius, though, or even someone made wiser by age, to appreciate the moment that is summer in the second city, a moment that passes swiftly but is powerful enough to last twenty-seven years and beyond.

Over the years, as I have migrated northward, distancing myself ever further from the magical urban neighborhoods by the lake, I have often forgotten how beautiful this place can be. It's my daughter's turn now, and she seems to get how lucky she is. She seems well aware that this unencumbered phase of her life will be fleeting, and she is poised to take advantage of all Chicago has to offer. Even in winter. Sure, the lazy days at the pool in her building will become a distant memory, and runs along the beach will be temporarily forgotten, but who can beat not even having to step outside to go to Whole Foods? Winter in Chicago can be just as magical as summer, if you make the right living arrangements.

At the risk of being a royal pain in the ass, I will visit my daughter downtown often. I will enjoy the memories -- of being twenty-something at the beach, of being thirty-something with two young children in tow for a walk along the lake, of being a person lucky enough to have found a city like this. And I will enjoy watching my daughter enjoy it as she passes through the different phases of her life, creating her own memories of the city by the lake.

Woman's Best Friend

They say that dogs often take on the personalities of their owners, and I have no reason to doubt that. Take the dog around the corner, the one with absolutely no impulse control and a nasty habit of eating any morsel of food left on a counter, no matter how gross. A virtual chip off the old blockhead who owns her (and I say that with the utmost respect and affection for both of them, just in case they decide to read this).

Manny has certainly acquired some of my personality traits. Like me, he sleeps on his side, with only one pillow. Like me, he can't resist a good nosh, and will bite the fingers off of anyone who tries to get between him and his snack. And, like me, he prefers superficial, hasty butt sniffs (his version of cocktail party conversation) to deep personal entanglements, and is always happy to exchange pleasantries as long as the encounter is brief.

What worries me, these days, is that owners might take on the personalities of their dogs. This occurred to me as I lay sprawled on one end of the couch the other night while Manny lay sprawled on the other, our toes touching as he nibbled on a bone and I shoveled in a few peanut butter Snickers bars (which, if you haven't tried them, are a must for your next shopping trip). The television blared in the background, but, for me as much as for him, it was just white noise, inoffensive accompaniment to the real joys at the tips of our tongues. I won't admit to passing as much gas as he did, but I'm sure he'd point an accusing paw in my direction if asked. Frighteningly, we both stretched and shifted positions at the same time. Woof, he whispered. Oy, I whispered back.

Needless to say, when the orthopedist suggested I take prednizone for a week to help ease my lower back pain, I was horrified. "Thanks, but I'll pass," I told him. He seemed puzzled. Recalling Manny's brief experience with the same drug, I explained that I was not willing to suffer the humiliation that goes along with peeing and pooping all over the house and doubling my body weight within a week. Hmm. He still seemed puzzled. And he went to medical school and everything.

Sure, I know someone rational might tell me I'm not a dog, and my reaction to prednizone would not necessarily be the same as Manny's was. But the way things have been going lately, I'm taking no chances. A doctor friend assured me that the worst thing that would happen to me from the steroids would be a poorly timed surge in energy that would have me cleaning the house in the middle of the night. Frankly, that sounds even worse than peeing and pooping all over the place and getting fat.

My back still hurts, but no meds for this chick. I'm just going to join Manny on the floor for a little nap.

A Moving Day

Bread, salt, sugar? Or is it bread, a broom, sugar, and candles? Or maybe bread, salt, sugar, and wine?

There are a variety of theories out there as to what one should bring as a gift to a new Jewish home, and just as many theories as to why. Bread seems to be on every list, some say as a symbol of abundance and freedom from hunger. Others say it's what Russian royalty expected when they paid a visit. Whatever. Everyone loves bread. Salt, for flavor, and sugar for sweetness. Makes sense. Wine -- who cares why? Wine always makes sense.

The broom and candles came to me in an edict from my mother, who has commanded me from the mountain (okay, well, the apawtment) to bring these traditional Jewish housewarming gifts to my daughter when she moves into her new apartment today. Not surprisingly, mom offered no biblical explanation for the items, not even a reason steeped in tradition. It's just what one does, so I had better do it, and I will, because I do not want to be struck by lightning or, worse still, be badgered incessantly.

But what does one bring to the mom, the woman left behind as she launches her oldest child into the "real world?" A box of tissues? A photo album? A cleaning crew to help with the hurricane-like aftermath of the move? I'll need all of those things.

And wine. Definitely wine.