All trash, no trailer

Trust me when I say I've had a busy week at work, but I've stayed late a few nights to bring this blog up to date and keep you posted on the adventures Kate and I have been having while she's visiting Chicago.

Kate has done a lot of travelling and has experienced so many things, that it's rare to be able to offer her a truly unique experience.  But I was able to do just that the other night when I scored us tickets to the "Jerry Springer Show", which is taped in Chicago at the NBC studios.  Anyone who knows Kate has to know that she loves reality TV, or at least really trashy TV, for its sheer cringe value.  And EVERYBODY knows that there is scarcely anything more cringe-worthy than Jerry Springer's talk show.

I took a bit longer to be convinced that I wanted to see this show, because my boss had taken her son a few months earlier and they saw the equivalent of a full-on peep show.  Fair enough if the bodies are decent, but somehow with Springer, you know they won't be.  But Kate's enthusiasm was infectious, and we lined up at the studio with my boss's other son and my colleague, Biggsy.

Getting to the front of the line slowly but surely, we were informed that Jerry Springer would NOT be hosting his show, but that the bald security guy Steve would be the compere for the day.  Kate was initially disappointed (and I was too I have to admit), but then I reminded Kate that it was Steve she really wanted to see in the first place.  Too true, she said, too true.  And anyway, we reasoned that Jerry does 160 shows a year, and Steve only does 20, so technically we were a part of TV history here.  Of sorts.

After a very long wait, we were ushered into the studio and got great seats, right at the spot where Steve walks up and shakes hands with his audience members!  Believe me, there was no influence of the Consulate there - it was pure fluke, but what a fantastic stroke of luck in the long run.

Steve's guests ranged from a guy sleeping with his sister in law, to a young 17 year old kid who is having a baby with a girl who was raised as his sister but wasn't really, and a woman who agreed to be a surrogate mother to her friend's baby but who now wants to keep it bla bla.  All the guests were ugly, had bad hair and no brains.  But no story was connected - it was really weird.  Just when the story started to get juicy, the guests would change over and a new storyline would start.  It was so clear that the show is staged, but I tell you - the acting is pretty good.  They must recruit from prison or something, because the 'actors' are so convincingly trashy and are such good liars, you have no idea where they finish and their characters start.

The audience was in fine form though - booing and hissing and chanting evil insults at the losers on stage, all in jest and good fun.  And then one rather rotund young girl in the audience stood up to heap insults on this skinny girl on stage, and they started having a war of words, in typical "Jerry" fashion.  Figuring this was her 10 minutes of fame, the girl from the audience turned around to all of us and pulled down her top, revealing a chest that had obviously not seen any sort of Triumph underwire support in a LOOOOONG time.  Very droopy.  Very hard to erase from one's memory [shudder].

And so it went on for a few hours, and the show came to an end with Steve thanking us all for coming and walking into the audience to say his goodbyes.  He walked around to our row and shook hands with me (crushing all my fingers in the process) and then shook hands with Kate, and then with Daniel - awww it was great!  He's a huge man with a big shiny head and kinda looks like Mini Me from Austin Powers in person.  Well actually, Steve's about 400 times bigger (maybe he's more of a "Supersize Me" instead).

After the show was over and the audience filed out, Kate paid $10 to have a Polaroid photo taken with me and Steve - and then Steve signed it!  What a souvenir...and we both look really thin in the picture too, so that made my night.

I'm not a fan of the Jerry Springer show, and I'm still not, but I have to admit that I had a really good time and enjoyed being part of a crazy crowd experience.  I'm still puzzled at my readiness to chant stupid things like FIGHT LIKE A CHICKEN! and BEAT UP YOUR SON!  But I did it.  And how.

Dude, where's my Cava?

[In this litigious American society, it is important right up front that I publicly acknowledge the wit and creativity of my friend Courtney who inspired the heading of today's post]

When Andrea and I arrived in Paris last February, Kate had bought tickets for us to attend a James Bond Ball for expats living and working in Paris.  I was so excited to see what that was all about, and I remember clearly that the snow started to fall as we got into taxis to go to the event - that was my first snowfall away from the ski fields, so it was a big night for me.  Amidst all that excitement, the wave of jetlag hit Andrea and me like a freight train, and while adopted Parisians danced around us, we were leaning against a pillar fighting the fatigue that threatened to engulf us.

So on reflection, I'm not sure why I thought Kate would be any different arriving in Chicago.  Nevertheless, I bought us tickets to a Spanish wine tasting - complete with tapas and paella.  I guess my thinking was that the festivities all started late in the evening, which would have given us time to get back from Toronto, steal a few hours nap if necessary, and party on all refreshed.

Good intentions, perhaps, but not very practical in the long run.  Kate was starting to feel more human again after her bout of food poisoning, but the pace of the last few days in Toronto was starting to catch up with both of us.  I had a quick shower before we headed out to the wine tasting, which admittedly helped a little bit, but I was stifling some yawns in the taxi ride over to Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba.

Once I got there though, things improved.  Courts and Irene came along and got a chance to meet Kate, which was great.  We made the circuit around the tasting tables, sampling various sparklings, whites, and reds along the way.  

Citing an article I'd read in some two-bit magazine or other, I informed the girls that cava (Spanish sparkling) is SO last season dahlings, and in fact it is Italian prosecco that is the sparkling du jour.  But I was nevertheless on a mission to let own palate make that decision, so I sampled the cavas on offer almost to the exclusion of everything else.  I wouldn't declare cava dead just yet, but I am still enjoying my long-distance love affair with all things Italian, so give me a prosecco any time.

Touring Toronto: Part 3

SPLASHY SPLASH
My first exposure to the majesty of Niagara Falls came from viewing the Marilyn Monroe movie, "Niagara". Not a cinematic masterpiece by any means, but certainly a wonderful backdrop for the murder-mystery plot. And back in those days, movie-making isn't what it is now; but even then, the awesome power of the Falls was obvious.

When Kate expressed an interest to see Niagara Falls with me, even though she'd visited them some years before, I was really excited. I mean, water is water but I knew I was in for something special with these Falls. And taking the train from Toronto to Niagara Falls (about 2 hours each way) was a great way to get there. The scenery on the train ride was beautiful, but will be even more striking in a few months time when all the trees have their leaves back and the grass isn't quite so dry and brown. Admittedly the gentle rocking of the train lulled me to sleep so I did miss some of the scenery but what I did see, I liked.

LINDA BLAIR, EAT YOUR HEART OUT
Now unfortunately for Kate, the late-night bistro dinner of pasta with several prawns that she'd consumed the night before decided to vehemently disagree with her and, as a result, vomiting of the kind only seen in "The Exorcist" ensued upon arrival at Niagara Falls train station. I have never seen nor heard expulsions so violent and Kate emerged from the ladies room at the station a shade of green that humans should never be. By that time her body had started to shake and she was feeling so unwell. Our return train to Toronto was not leaving until 5.45pm that night (only one return journey takes place each day), so the decision was made that Kate would check into a nearby hotel for the day and possibly sleep, but definitely make good friends with the bathroom. Poor thing, it was awful. But she wouldn't let me stay with her either, so I was instructed to get out and see the Falls and experience them for myself.

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE
And when I did, I was honestly blown away. The Falls are enormous and noisy, but they are such a contradiction. They are at once both enormously powerful but at the same time beautifully peaceful.

There is a wide footpath (oops, sidewalk) on the Canadian side of the Falls and it was really nice to just enjoy the sunshine and walk along the path observing the Falls and taking lots of digital photographs from all different angles. Being Easter Monday, and one of the country's major tourist attractions, the crowds were out in full force, but everyone was pretty well behaved, and there was lots of room to move at my own pace along the mile or so pathway.

COME ON GIRLS, WET YOUR T-SHIRTS!
But I had come to the Falls primarily to see them up close, and to do that I booked myself onto a tour that purported to take visitors 'Behind The Falls'. Well that was a bit of a crock really. The tunnel tour takes you behind the falls, but only gives you two opportunities to glimpse the water crashing down through little open peepholes. I was imagining something like the scene in "The Last of the Mohicans" where Daniel Day Lewis walked Madeline Stowe right underneath the waterfall and they could just see the world through the crashing water. In retrospect, I suppose OHS&W laws prevent Niagara Falls tourism operators from exposing tourists to that sort of experience. Boo to them.
My second attempt at getting up close and personal with the Falls took me on The Maid Of The Mist, a boat that takes about 100 tourists right out around both Falls for a half hour each time, and you get to feel the pull of the current and the sprinkling of the water on your face. So much so actually that each person on the boat is given a blue plastic poncho to put on before the boat sets sail. On this occasion, I abandoned all 'grownup-ness' and actually elbowed some kids out of the way so I could stand up the front of the boat and feel the full force of the Falls experience. I was not missing out on this one for some gunky and unappreciative kid.

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD
At about 4.30pm, I'd seen all there was to see around Niagara Falls. It is an unashamed tourist trap, and so there aren't any 'normal' shops or sites to see. Everything that will stand still long enough gets slapped with a Niagara Falls sticker and sold for a fortune. I hadn't seen so many ultra tacky souvenir items in one spot since Lourdes in France. And that's saying something! Suffering from sensory overload, I returned to Kate's hotel room, and we hung out for a while before grabbing a cab back to the Niagara Falls train station for the return train journey to Toronto.

Kate was feeling a bit better, but certainly not up to doing anything grand on our last night in Toronto. And I was tired after my busy day walking around in the sunshine and jostling with tourists, so it certainly didn't phase me that we stayed in and ordered room service and watched about 10 episodes of "Friends" back to back.

I JUST BLEW INTO THE WINDY CITY
The next morning, Kate and I bade a sad farewell to our beloved Sweetsleeper beds and grabbed a limousine (as you do) to take us from the Sheraton to the airport. Our flight to Chicago was smooth and relaxing, and we spent the rest of Tuesday doing a load of laundry each and taking a leisurely stroll with Preston the puppy around the streets close to my apartment.

Toronto was such a beautiful city and I would definitely go back there. It's so multicultural, and easy to get around. The Canadians are friendly and engaging, ready with a laugh and an easygoing sense of humour. Being able to visit the city with Kate was just an added bonus, and though both of us were exhausted from our Easter holiday away, we were ready to tackle the bright lights of Chicago until Kate flies back to Paris on Sunday.

Touring Toronto: Part 2

FOLLOW THE WHITE RABBIT
Easter Sunday when you're a kid is all about a visit from the Easter Bunny, waking up to find chocolate eggs of various sizes and degrees of cavity-inducing sugar rushes. When you're an adult, it's about sleeping in, and THEN waking up to find chocolate eggs of various sizes and degrees of cavity-inducing sugar rushes.

But if you're me, and it's Easter 2006, it's about a fabulous shower at the Sheraton, donning a fluffy white hotel bathrobe, and devouring double-choc Tim Tams and baby Easter Eggs direct from Paris. Jealous much?

Following these chocolaty treats, Kate and I decided there was much we had to accomplish on our Easter Sunday, so we set off from the Hotel early, pausing only briefly to fill up on the healthier breakfast options on offer in the Club Lounge.


THE "HIGH POINT" OF THE DAY
One of the key attractions in Toronto is the CN Tower, which stands for the Canadian National Tower. Visible from our Hotel, the Tower is the highest of its kind in North America. Visible from our Hotel room, Kate and I made the decision early on in our holiday to get to the top of the Tower and take in the view from the top.

And that's exactly what we did on Sunday. We hitched a ride with Troy, a representative of the tour company we had travelled with the day earlier. Troy dropped Kate and I off at the CN Tower straight away rather than making us sit through the entire tourist route we'd already seen and, given that we had bought our CN Tower tickets from the Hotel concierge, we walked straight to the front of the already-forming queue. After a ride on the uber-fast elevator to the top of the Tower, we stared down at the City waking up to Easter, 553 metres below where we stood.

For mine, the CN Tower is actually more impressive from the ground because, once you get up the top, it's just a viewing platform and some photo opportunities. Sure, there are some information boards and some historical photos, but it's nowhere near as impressive as the Sears Tower in Chicago (a bit of 'local' pride there doesn't hurt).

HAKUNA MATATA
Leaving the CN Tower behind, Kate and I got a subway and a cab to go to the Toronto Zoo. Now Toronto is the only city in the world that I know of where the zoo is a million miles away from the main city centre. I mean, seriously, if you don't have a car, going to the Toronto Zoo is insanely inconvenient to get to. But despite the difficulties, and the crowds of young families that we KNEW would be there, Kate and I wanted to see the as-yet unnamed baby orangutan that was born at the Toronto Zoo in January this year.

Arriving at around midday after a subway AND taxi ride, Kate and I parted with $19 Canadian each (I know!!) just to get in the gates. But the cash and effort we expended was well worth it. The Zoo was just amazing. Spread out over 287 hectares (or 710 acres, for those of you playing along at home), the Toronto Zoo is so expansive, it was a good thing both of us were wearing sneakers! We did so much walking to make sure we saw all the exhibits, we were very footsore by the end of the day.

But not all the Zoo entertainment was found inside the cages. Two teenage girls were prancing around together, close behind Kate and I as we walked through the Africa Exhibit. As Kate and I made the obvious references to the "Lion King" after visiting the warthog enclosure, I began to walk away as the girls approached the fence. As they looked in (in the familiar "where is it? do you spot it?" routine), I was just in earshot long enough to hear one of the girls ask her friend, "where is the warth-og?". Yep, that's right - she pronounced it WARTH-OG, as if it were a villanous Tolkien character or something. Poor misguided Canadian young person. And she didn't even get to spot the crazy animal either, presumably because he was elsewhere in his enclosure devouring illiterate Canadian hobbits. Or something.


YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE
On our return to the Hotel at about 6.45pm, Kate and I were positively exhaused. So much so that rather than revive myself in the hotel swimming pool or spa, I chose to fall onto the Sweetsleeper bed and pass out for 3 hours.

I wouldn't say that I awoke feeling VERY refreshed, because I'm never much of a 'nap' person, but I was at least feeling up to heading out for some dinner in a part of Toronto known as "The Entertainment District".

By 10pm on Easter Sunday night, "The Entertainment District" was anything but. Some restaurants were closed for the Easter break, others looked to be closing up for the night, but we did find one bistro whose kitchen was still open, and eagerly awaiting our custom.

A plate of pasta each, some more red wine, espresso, and a restorative Baileys, Kate and I were starting to feel human again. But the next day of our holiday promised a day-trip to Niagara Falls and that meant another early start.

So without feeling too much regret, we went back to our Hotel and watched an in-house movie before retiring for the night and sleeping like the proverbial dead. But honestly, we were The Grateful Dead, having had a really great Easter Sunday in "The Livable City" of Toronto.

(Touring Toronto: The Third Day will follow, and I haven't forgotten about the photos....)

Touring Toronto: Part 1

A RENDEZ-VOUS
Okay so I may have let out a squeaky squeal when I saw Kate at O'Hare airport on Thursday evening after she made it safe and sound to Chicago from Paris.

And within about 10 minutes of 'speed conversation' (that I actually kept up with!), Kate and I were pretty well up to date and simply glad just to see each other and to sit still together for a while. Our 55-minute flight to Toronto was effortless, but the search for an ATM that took VISA cards at Tornto airport was not so carefree. Fortunately our taxi driver had no such qualms about credit cards and, after checking into the palatial Sheraton Center Hotel in downtown Toronto around 11.30pm, we retired for the night in the most comfortable double beds that either of us had ever been in. Memo to travellers out there, I wish to submit a shameless plug for the Sheraton's Sweetsleeper beds. They truly live up to their names.

WAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
The morning after gave Kate and I a proper chance to see the beautiful view of Toronto from our hotel room (the heavy fog - not to mention the darkness DUH - had made it impossible to do so the night before). Well, we were utterly spoiled. We had beautiful facilities in our room, and the view to match. Actually, I have to confess that I loved the shower so much, it was hard to determine whether I wanted to sleep in the Sweetsleeper bed or in the bath. In the interests of both convenience and hygiene, I chose the bed.

So there we were on our first day in Toronto, with the city literally at our feet, and neither of us had consulted a guidebook or website to give us an idea what to do first. Our stomachs decided for us, and sent us up to the Club Lounge for a buffet breakfast and yet another stellar view of Toronto.

Venturing down to the concierge desk, we were just in time to book ourselves on one of those hop on-hop off City Tours and the bus even came to pick us up at the Hotel. Our tour was run by Tim, a young and good-looking, but very enthusiastic Toronto native [imagine Steve Irwin running a bus tour and you'll know what I mean].

Because Kate and I weren't familiar with the city, and given that our bus ticket was valid for two days, we just sat back and relaxed as Tim drove around and narrated about sites we passed and points of arguable interest along the way. We pulled up at the Saint Lawrence Market, a massive fresh produce market reminiscent of Adelaide's Central Market on a Friday night. The sights and smells, particularly the Greek pastries, freshly-ground coffee, and the oozing honeycombs, were a treat for all the senses.

The bus would not be around to pick us up for a further hour, so we just walked up and down the street past the Market, and wandered in and out of the small shops lining the road. I was in a good mood, and not being jostled by too many fellow tourists, so I chatted amiably with the shop keepers, and even bought a few little keepsakes to remember the trip. I was disappointed to learn, however, that unlike most of Europe, Toronto did not offer any postcards resplendent with glitter or holograms. Nothing. Only sensible ones - well, except for the one with the moose dressed as a Canadian Mounty but that was too silly even for me. As you can understand, it was very hard for me not to write a letter to the Canadian Tourism Minister right there and then.

But I digress. Having found our way back to the agreed meeting point for the bus, we returned to Dundas Square (the central public square in Toronto) and wandered through the shops. The Eaton Centre is a massive shopping mall that occupies an entire block, and we went in there. And emerged with nothing but a coffee and a cookie each. We were so disciplined. One shop was full of Asian import clothes that smelled distinctly of gasoline, and the other shop had a terribly tacky range of prom dresses in it that Kate and I were seriously tempted to pretend to be bridesmaids and have a fashion parade in the store. But we grew bored with that idea just as quickly as we had thought of it.

But Kate then started to nag me about not having brought my bathing suit with me, given that the Sheraton had such a beaufiul and inviting swimming pool bla bla bla. Now my body has not seen a Speedo in years. And nor have I submerged myself in a pool in just as long. So I initially laughed at her comments, until I realised she was serious. Next thing I knew, I was up in swimwear in the shopping centre, and buying a two-piece black swimsuit. For anyone not fortunate enough to be legally blind, you will be pleased to learn that my swimsuit top is actually what the fashionistas call a "tankini" (which I believe is French for "mercifully covers your fat stomach"). But I have to say that my new purchase held up well in the pool and the spa, and I was feeling most relaxed at the end of the day.

IS THERE A CARNIVORE IN THE (STEAK) HOUSE?
Chicago is famous for its steak houses, but Toronto has its fair share too. And one of them was conveniently located right downstairs in our Hotel. So for our first dinner meal in Toronto, Kate and I enjoyed delicious steaks with red wine. Yes, friends, it was definitely the life.

(More Toronto adventures to come - plus photos of course)

A straight flush

Putting on or touching up makeup in a ladies restroom is hard enough at the best of times.  But when the lights are dim, and the bathroom extra small, the process is made even more difficult.  As I found out last night at the pre-party for the Spring Benefit hosted by the Lincoln Park Zoo Foundation.

Dressed all in black, accessorised by my colourful and sparkly sequinned clutch bag (a gift from Kate the Fashionista), I rested my bag on the top of the toilet while I carefully applied some gloss lipstick.  It was then that I heard an almost indistinct, but nonetheless scary, sound.  Sliiiiide, KERPLOP.

And staring up at me from the bottom of the toilet, was my cell phone.

I'd flushed, and the toilet was clean, but I was still struck by the conundrum - to fish it out, or not to fish it out?  Discovering some primal maternal instinct that outweighed my initial icky feelings, I stuck my hand in and liberated my phone from its watery resting place.

Ever optimistic that it could be saved, I allowed it to dry out overnight and tried to turn it on again this morning.  Nothing.  It was as dead as dead could be.  

But when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade - right?  So I turned the initial depression of a lost phone into a cause for celebration and another shopping trip.  Into "Radio Shack" I trekked and the delightful young salesman not only found me a good phone, but gave me $20 off, and THEN re-programmed my new phone to carry over the cash balance on my account.  He wasn't able to resurrect all my old phone numbers, but you can't have everything I guess.

And at least I've solved the age-old riddle of why women insist on having the toilet seat down.  Amen to that.

KT is AOK

The weather is changing here in Chicago and starting to warm up a bit.  But just when you get your sunglasses out, thinking the sun is going to prevail, the clouds close over and a storm seems imminent.  At the same time, however, the temperature doesn't decrease, and that leads to frizzy hair and grouchy Gab.

The balmy weather is also knocking me around a bit and I'm feeling quite tired as the days wear on in the lead up to Easter.  As my Mum has put it, cramming 5 days of work into 4 is surely enough to wear anyone out.  

So with the weather looking gross, and my eyelids drooping heavily, I was almost ready to pass up my concert tickets to KT Tunstall, the Scottish songbird whose "Other Side Of The World" was the anthem of my Scottish experience with Andrea.  

But Lexie met me at the theatre straight from her work, and if she was willing to go to that trouble, the least I could do was make the effort and show up.  And get my money's worth on the tickets too.

And I'm glad I did.  Memories of waaay too many days spent cruising in Betty's little Fiesta and us crooning along with BBC1 radio came crashing back once the opening chords of "Other Side of The World" started, and I really enjoyed KT's performance the whole way through. She even had a silver sparkly guitar which was something I'm sure that Pinky Tuscadero from Happy Days would have secretly coveted.  I just openly coveted it because it was very cool.  The fact I can't play guitar is immaterial.

When we left the theatre last night, the wind was positively vicious outside but the temperature was still 20 degrees celcius.  This sure has been a funny old week so far.  But with the exception of last night's concert, and tonight's party for the Lincoln Park Zoo Foundation, I'm just going through the motions until Katie and I jet off to Canada on Friday.  Canada Oh Canada, here we come, zoom zoom.....

Punching Above His Weight

Having named her new puppy Preston, in honour of a character in the movie
"Can't Hardly Wait", Lexie has been working really hard to make sure that
our four-legged fellow tenant feels right at home, but also learns what he
can and can't do.

In the course of just a few days, and after a rather rocky start, Preston no
longer has 'accidents' on the floor boards or the carpets. Instead, he has
learned the purpose of the piddle pad, and furthermore lets Lexie know when
he needs to go outside to do his other business. What a smart dog, and for
only 4 months of age too!

And last night when I got home, the weather was so beautiful and balmy that
I took it upon myself to liberate the puppy and take him for a walk around
the block. He's a dog after my own heart, because he first tried to crash
through the glass door of the liquor store, and then followed his nose into
the Mexican restaurant for a refreshing margarita. Bless.

But it was the encounter with two boisterous Boxers that really made me
laugh. Preston really does punch above his weight. He clearly thinks he is
much bigger than he actually is. Seeing the big dogs through the fence, he
crouched down in a playful pose and started yapping to get their attention.
It worked. The Boxers were curious about the small, white ball of fluff
maniacally bouncing around and barking all the while. One of the Boxers
even put his paw through the fence and swatted Preston on the head. It was
a canine game of tag, and Preston was up for it. Together we bounded along
the fence, Preston carrying on like a proverbial porkchop, much to the
amusement of the Boxers and their owners. But he was loving it! While I
secretly hoped that the fence between us and the Boxers would hold, I
neverthless permitted the game to continue until Preston had effectively
barked himself hoarse and sat down in the middle of the pavement to collect
himself.

Before I knew it, we'd been out walking for an hour, and hadn't even left my
street. The puppy was very well-behaved on his leash and (I know, I know),
he has me wrapped around his little paw.

Are Your Macleans Showing?

I am blogging from my email account today, folks, so I can't guarantee the
layout that will result. But bear with me, because I do believe that the
following story needs telling.

I got a text message at 8am on Saturday from my friend Caro, who I thought
was still in New York but came back for the weekend while her IKEA kitchen
was being installed. And the first person she thought of that early in the
day, was me. Actually she thought of the coffee man first, and then ME as
her date to meet the coffee man. Fair enough.

Begging forgiveness for being still asleep at the time she texted, I
resolved to meet her at the more respectable time of 10.15 - when I could at
least semi-guarantee that both of my eyeballs would be open. And indeed
they were.

And they had to be, because I met a man at the bus stop who revealed to me
that I was, and I quote, "an exquisite addition to Chicago". The man had
about 5 teeth in his head, none of them his. Why does this always happen to
me?

But I was polite, indeed I politely gave him an alias, and when he declared
Olivia Newton John to be dead, I had to set him straight. "Oh no," says I,
"she is very much alive and only performed in LA a few months ago". He, not
to be outdone, declared her to be metaphorically and not categorically dead,
given that she hasn't really done anything in a while and all.

Despite our musical differences, and our diverse definitions of death (he
would have excelled at the Dead Parrot sketch), we conversed cordially for a
while. But then as he inched forward, I leapt backward, and when he hacked
a giant spitball into the gutter, I knew our relationship had reached an
impasse.

I could forgive the squint, the teeth, the shopping trolley, the trackpants,
and the confusion about our Livvy's professional pursuits to date, but I
cannot abide the hacking of loogies onto city streets. Talk about testing
limits! So I made sure he boarded the bus first, and then I seated myself
as geographically removed from him as I could, while still keeping my legs
and arms inside the vehicle at all times. And that, as they say, was that.

Okay so I never said the story was interesting, I just said it needed to be told.

From Gizmo To Gremlin

The apartment has been overrun by the most adorable new addition to my Chicago family. Lexie has purchased a 4-month old toy poodle. His previous owner named him Pookie, but even in Boystown we're not going to allow the dog to keep that name, so we're on the hunt for a new one.

We're convinced that the little guy looks like Gizmo from Gremlins, so we toying with that idea. We also were trying to work Ninja in there somewhere, cause he loves to leap around and he has little fangs like an assassin. Then Lexie liked the 'old man' names like Henry or Maurice, because they are quite distinguished and probably fool people into thinking the puppy is a gentleman. But we also both love the film "The Princess Bride", so we were thinking maybe the dog is a Westley. But his full name would be "Westley, the Dread Pirate Roberts". Of course.

But in the interim anyway, we're both working on house-breaking him (the previous owner assured Lexie that the dog already knows how to pee in a cat litter tray. Don't ask). And I'm trying to keep all my fingers in tact, as the dog tries to sever each one individually with his needle teeth.

One thing's for sure though, No-Name Dog is going to have a date with the vet very soon, if you know what I mean. He seems to think that my shin and my arm are my two most arousing features, and he does all he can to demonstrate this love at every opportunity. Icky.

Photos of the puppy to follow.

Turning Morgan Freeman into Richard Gere

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Originally uploaded by dsearls.

I've been trying very hard since I moved to Chicago to keep up with my blog and show friends and family from around the world that I am enjoying myself here and keeping busy with all manner of social and corporate events.

But let's face it folks, life is about peaks and troughs, and even the hardiest party girls need a breather every now and again. And Lexie and I are no exception. So Friday night was about pizza and pyjamas. And it was good.

Lex and I decided we wanted to watch "Kiss The Girls" with Morgan Freeman and Ashley Judd. But then we wanted to watch "Primal Fear" with Edward Norton and Richard Gere. Figuring that we were on the cusp of a 'thriller marathon', we pondered whether there were other links between the genre of the two films. That spurned an analysis of whether there were links between ALL the other films in Lexie's collection.

So we invented The Movie Game. The rules are simple. You start with one movie, like "Kiss The Girls", and try and connect it with another movie on the shelf, by finding an actor that the two movies have in common. So sticking to this method, Friday night's version of The Movie Game rolled on as follows:

Kiss The Girls (Morgan Freeman)
Seven (Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt)
Ocean's 11 (Brad Pitt and Matt Damon)
Dogma (Matt Damon and Alan Rickman)
Love Actually (Alan Rickman and Laura Linney)
Primal Fear (Laura Linney, Richard Gere)

See how it works? You decide where you want to start and where you want to end up, and you create a movie chain around that. But the catch is that the chain can ONLY consist of movies you already have in your DVD collection.

It's not as easy as it sounds. But by the time we were done on Friday night, we had a chain of 44 movies, all linked by actors. Only two actors were repeated (Alan Rickman and Kate Hudson), but to our credit, we didn't double-up on a single movie!

But I promise that from now on, I'll only report on my busy life and give you a break from my rest periods. They are obviously very scary.

Please sir, I want some s'mores?!

S'mores cookies
Originally uploaded by Hankerific.

Lexie regarded me quizzically yesterday evening, as if trying to convince herself that she had indeed heard me correctly. "What do you mean, you've never had a s'more!?" she asked, incredulously, scarcely believing that I'd made it to 28 years of age without ever having enjoyed what appears to me (and no one else) to be an American rite of passage treat.

So next thing I knew, we were hot-footing it down to the local 24-hour market to buy the ingredients to make what's known as a "s'more". The true art of the s'more is in its construction, and the process is quite laboured. In the kitchen, that is. If you're out in the wilderness and enjoying s'mores around the campfire (which is the traditional way, apparently), the assembly and consumption is made much easier because you can be as messy as you like.

And the production of s'mores is a messy affair. You take a sweet Graham cracker (pronounded "gram" cracker, because apparently the 'h' is entirely superfluous - consider the way "herbs" is pronounced in this country, if you need further proof). Balance a square of Hershey's milk chocolate on the Graham cracker and toast a marshmallow over the gas light in your kitchen. You can see now why this project is much more safely tackled around a campfire. Once the marshmallow is nice and golden, slap it on the Hershey square, place another Graham cracker on top, and squish the whole lot down into a sickly, gooey sandwich.

Keep your dentist on standby because after just one s'more, my teeth felt like they were rotting out of my head. The sugar rush felt good for about thirty seconds, and then I felt plain ill.

Lexie then shared with me the rules of the campfire game, "Chubby Bunny". The rules are simple - you stuff a marshmallow in your mouth and say the words "Chubby Bunny". The person who can stuff the most marshmallows in their mouth and STILL say "Chubby Bunny" wins. But I expect the winner is ultimately the person who can do all that without barfing marshmallow all over the place! I would not do well in that competition either, I don't think. My sister, on the other hand....

Buon Appetito

So Courtney and Irene invited me out to Court's house and we decided to have an Italian theme. I wanted to contribute some sort of Jamie Oliver theme to the night, so I tried to make a bread-and-butter pudding with some Baileys and bananas added in, but I needn't have bothered. Because what I ended up with was a giant banana omlette!

Yeah okay so that didn't work but thank god I was able to make affogato - you know, the scoop of ice cream, hot shot of espresso, and a shot of Baileys? Well it was delicious. I am just sad that I had to ditch a whole bread & butter Baileys omlette. I'm sure in some part of the world it is quite a delicacy....just not here...

Tuna, cheese & tomato pasta dressed with green olives & Italian mixed herbs
Originally uploaded by moostive.

Mountains or Molehills?

Devils haircut
Originally uploaded by wiseacredesign.

Several weeks ago, I blogged about the Australian film director, Sarah Watt, who visited Chicago to premiere her film "Look Both Ways". After that premiere, my boss invited us all back to his Residence for an informal reception to properly welcome Sarah to Chicago.

Well at that Reception, Consulate staff flanked Sarah in a photograph to commemorate the occasion. We were all given a copy of the photograph, which is just fine. But now I hear that the photo will also appear in the latest edition of the Department's newsletter, that is circulated to ALL posts around the globe.

That's fine too, except for the fact that I am the only person in the photo with clevage! Yes, friends, I've got the bosoms out and proud - for all of DFAT to see. Superb career move, Gabs.

I just stick out my chin, and grin, and say, OH...

Shades with a View
Originally uploaded by azem.

[all together now, 1...2...3...]

The sun'll come out, tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow,
There'll be sun.

So there will be. Even more sun that we had today, can you believe that?!

And how did I spend the first completely sunny day in Chicago since October, you may ask? Well I went out at lunch time, bought McDonalds for the whole office, and we ate it in the Conference Room.

How much do we suck?!

Mmm, Lengs & Cooter and Cork

Tuscan Grapes
Originally uploaded by Henry King.

Back home in Australia I worked for many years for a lady whose passion for wine was matched only by my passion for handbags.

While I was more interested in amassing a vast empire of leather bags, believing 'quantity is quality', my boss taught me that one bottle of wine (costing as much, if not more, than one of my bags) could bring just as much pleasure as a fine Cellini or a vintage Olga Berg.

Back in the day, I was a red drinker, steering clear of whites only because they gave me a headache once. [Note that I vetoed Maggi 2-minute noodles for about 10 years because they made me vomit once when I was about six].

But my boss taught me to appreciate wine a little more each year, and I started to get to know some of the local producers, become familiar with varietals and vineyards, as well as learn a bit about Australian wine regions and for which wines they were better known.

And I squealed like a girl last week at "The Tasting Room" when I purchased a bottle of 1998 Lengs & Cooter Old Vine Shiraz from the Clare Valley. I had fully intended to hang onto it until Kate arrived and we could crack it open to welcome her to Chicago. But as with all my best plans, the magnetic pull of the earth would not let me do that, and I resolved to open it last night and share it with my room mates.

But the demonic corkscrew I used to break into the blessed bottle butchered the cork and threatened to ruin what would otherwise have been a beautiful bottle o'wine.

Summoning my McGyver instincts, I constructed a filtration system using a cocktail shaker, a coffee filter, and a complicated pouring technique - and I remedied the situation.

And pardon me for not having adopted the appropriate viticultural lexicon, but the wine was bloody beautiful. And no chewy bits of cork to be found.

Sorry Katie, I'll get us another one!

The impulse to create and destroy

Pisa
Originally uploaded by Miss Gab.

The Leaning Tower of Pisa has been slanting for centuries, and has been the subject of ongoing maintenance to ensure that it does not collapse onto the hordes of tourists that clamber to visit it every year. Though having been there myself three times, I wouldn't consider that to be an abominable thing altogether!

But Pisa's tilting monument shows architectural genius way beyond my IKEA bed, which collapsed in spectacular fashion on Saturday morning.

And I'm really sorry to report that there is no sexy story to account for this. The reason for the collapse is plain shoddy dowelling work. The little wooden bitty things holding my bed ends together snapped some time after construction, so my daily routine consisted of making my bed, and then pushing the ends together where the dowels had threatened to come apart. When it came to changing my sheets, there was always the risk that the ends would come apart, weakening the sides of the bed and making it possible for the two sets of slats to fall to the floor - usually in opposite directions - and bringing the mattress along with them.

And that's exactly what happened on Saturday morning. First one side of the bed came undone, then one set of slats fell. The mattress slanted. I was still in the bed at the time. Then the other side of the bed collapsed, and the slats along with it. Then with an almight WHOOMP (there it is!), the mattress and I hit the floor.

Given that this is a G-rated blog, I cannot transpose here the words that I uttered at realising my misfortune. But I can assure you that I have composed a rather nasty mental letter to Mr IKEA. I'm not strong enough to assemble my bed myself, but I was clearly strong enough to hammer the snapped dowels in well enough that they cannot be removed by conventional methods (ie the pointy endy bit of the hammer). Biggsy says I should call up IKEA at Schaumberg, where I bought the bed, and complain that "I am 5 foot nothing, and weigh nothing, so send some men to fix my bed now". Perhaps that is a good tactic.

But the capitalist in me sees much more fun in browsing the bed stores and finding something more reliable to sleep on in future. Nothing I have to construct myself [and nothing that's held together with dowels for the love of all that is sacred!].

Stay tuned for more bedroom adventures. No doubt they will be as riveting as this one.

Katie Holmes will never win an Oscar

In the interests of word economy, and my own entertainment, the title of the blog is easily the biggest understatement in the galaxy. Thanks be to some deity that Miss Holmes is finally going to retire to Tom Cruise's mansion, spend his money (and the rest of her life), making TomKat kittens.

But the worldwide acting community should not grieve; rather, it should consider her performance in "Thank You For Not Smoking" as a graceful exit from life in front of the movie camera. The rest of the cinema-going public, on the other hand, should breathe a sigh of relief.

It wasn't that Katie was bad in last night's film. It's just that she plays such an important character so blandly, that it could have been played by a stand-in on the movie set. Mind you, I remember that Harrison Ford was a carpenter on the set of "Star Wars" when he was asked to stand-in for the 'real' Han Solo who'd gone off to take a leak or something.

But look, enough about Katie. Let's consider the really clever and very funny movie I saw last night. "Thank You For Not Smoking" is a tongue-in-cheek satire of the tobacco industry. Aaron Eckhart (minus the handlebar moustache and ponytail he sported for "Erin Brockovich") plays a lobbyist working for the tobacco industry in Washington DC. The movie centres on his efforts to fly the proverbial flag for the tobacco industry in the face of an anti-smoking public. Operating on the understanding that everything is an argument, not a negotiation, he deftly fields all kinds of negativity and flack from school students, Senators, TV reporters, and even his own son.

The movie is so well written, and with a great ensemble cast (even my favourite psychiatrist from "Law and Order" appears), that the humour plays out really well and you're left wondering how long it will take before the "how many lobbyists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" jokes will start. I mean, the film makes lobbyists out to be the lawyers of the 21st century - and I mean no disrespect to my lawyer readers/friends when I say that.

And in playing the newspaper reporter that tries to charm our leading man, Katie Holmes smiles her crooked smile and flashes her sparkly eyes and bats her sleepy eyelids over and over, in an attempt to belie the fact that there is a vixen lurking underneath. Puh-lease. I couldn't shake the opinion that she rather looked like a newspaper intern who should spend her days counting paperclips in the stationery cupboard or making friends with the coffee percolator, rather than writing serious journalism and seducing Aaron Eckart in her spare time. Bah humbug.

Go and see "Thank You For Not Smoking". Tell them Gab sent you. You might get a free popcorn.

What's the buzz, tell me what's happening

Katie and I are heading to Toronto at Easter time, and then she's coming to stay with me in Chicago for a few days before she has to return to Paris. Now I'm really excited about this because a)I've never been to Toronto before; b)I haven't seen Kate since July last year; and c)I get to show Kate my beautiful adopted home city.

But Option C has become tricky because there is simply so much to do here in the week after Easter, and I am not convinced we will be able to get to it all. There are so many restaurants I need to take Kate to. There are so many great theatre shows we need to see (though Monty Python 'Spamalot' tickets have already been purchased woohoo!). And just thinking about the number of cocktail bars we need to frequent makes me thirsty!

So my thinking cap is on, as I scour the Chicago social pages to find the absolute-must-see events (as distinct from the blah 'must see' events) so that Kate and I can run ourselves absolutely ragged and emerge a lot richer for it.

Just a smidge

Moet&Chandon
Originally uploaded by flyone1106.

When I arrived in Chicago in October, my first social engagement was a visit to "The Tasting Room", and I remember it as a cool and friendly wine bar with the best view of the Chicago cityscape I have ever seen.

So I did not hesistate when Courts and Biggsy invited me back there last night. And imagine my surprise when Biggsy scammed us free tickets to the wine tasting happening upstairs!

Grabbing my tasting sheet and wine glass from Bridget at the door, I took one lap of the room before committing to a location, and that gave me a good chance to examine the offerings on each of the five tables.

The theme of last night's tasting was "Bordeaux and Loire", so I was invited to sample a range of different wines from these two French regions. Reg and I had been to Bordeaux on our travels (and were none too impressed with the wine tour we did), but Katie speaks highly of the Loire, so I was looking forward to that.

And like the proper wine rookie I am, I sought advice from the sommeliers and even engaged the owner of "The Tasting Room" in conversation about the wines being exhibited. He talked, I listened, and nodded, sniffed, and sipped.

My tasting sheet is now full of ticks and crosses, as well as helpful little adjectives like "nice"; "smelly"; and "earthy". And when asking for a particular wine to sample, I was even able to pronounce the French name, rather than ask for "a smidge of number 37 thanks, Chief".

I didn't buy any wines, but I did enjoy myself and I even sampled some dessert wines, which I don't normally do. [For the soaks among you, my favourite - for the record - was the 2004 Roger Moreaux Les Bouffants, Sancerre, at a very reasonable $17.99 a bottle from all good retailers].

We must have made a good impression, or at least behaved ourselves because as we were leaving, Bridget invited us back for the Pinot Noir tasting just after Easter. Aww, bless.

I wonder if Biggsy will be able to scam us freebies for that one too?

Watt do you mean, there's nothing like a Dame?

Today I Saw "DAME EDNA, BACK WITH A VENGANCE!"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Originally uploaded by spike55151.

On Friday night I went out with my colleagues and some other friends to see Dame Edna's Chicago show, "Back With a Vengeance". I had never seen the Dame perform a show of her own, but having seen her interviewing and BEING interviewed, I felt fairly certain that the show would be fun. And it was entertaining, but it just wasn't the show-stopping spectacle I guess I was expecting.

While Dame Edna is funny and the frocks were typically fabulous, and the mauve hair and crazy glasses were just as I knew they would be, I just didn't think the routine generally was all that great. The sections of audience participation were truly funny, and this is where I think Dame Edna really shines. Any opportunity to poke fun at a live "victim" and she just has a blast, you can tell. And I'm not sure how many other Aussies were in the audience, but full credit should be given to the Americans for being really good sports. For those few hapless souls that got dragged up onto stage (I was cringing 2/3 of the way back in the theatre, just in case she saw me), their spirit of adventure was really encouraging. And they helped move the routine along, even though they knew immediately that they would be the butt of the jokes.

Artistically-speaking, my Saturday was much more profitable. I went along to the Chicago premiere of a film called "Look Both Ways" by Australian director, Sarah Watt. The film followed a screening of Sarah's three animated shorts. Having effectively watched Sarah's entire film catalogue, I understand what people mean about Directors having a certain distinguishing style. You know how people always say that it's easy to pick an Alfred Hitchcock film (thanks to an appearance of the man in each), or those purists that can identify a Stanley Kubrick production (where you're left wondering how the hell you're meant to reclaim those lost 2 hours of your life). Sarah Watt's style reflects her love of the ocean, the freedom of seagulls, and the importance of family. Those themes prevail through her work and, as an Aussie expat watching her collection, I really picked up on them and identified with them. As a person, Sarah is really humble about how clever a storyteller she is, and I found that a really impressive quality. She's not a stuffy artist, full of her own importance or overly sensitive about her work. Rather she is an open, approachable person who answered our questions honestly and with a genuine interest in what we felt. The fact that her feature film, "Look Both Ways" was filmed in Adelaide, automatically gave her the gold star from me, but she expected that from me I'm sure.

Having immersed myself in art on Friday and Saturday, I took culture to new lows on Saturday night and threw myself into one of the biggest frozen margaritas you're likely to find. At an underground margarita bar no less. Honestly, this city has everything you could think of. And what you dare not think of, they put underground. Bless them.

This goes with that?

My bedroom was freshly painted for me yesterday and now I feel settled enough to begin decorating. At least in theory.

I actually hate home decorating and I have very little sense of what goes together. I know what I like, but I like lots of little things, that doesn't really add up to one consistent style. For instance, I like the modern IKEA and Freedom furniture ranges, but at the same time I really like little Buddha statues, and I like the retro Andy Warhol-inspired prints.

See?! None of that stuff, when considered together, could possibly go together in one room, even I know that. Which is part of the reason I had my room painted in a beige-stone-browny colour. I'm sure the Martha Stewart paint collection I chose it from has a much cooler description than that, but I can't remember what name they gave it. To me it's just beige-stony-brown. In any case, it's neutral and will go with whatever weird accessories I choose to throw at it.

So this weekend I'm going to head to "Linens and Things" - a great 'one stop shop' - and pick up some shelving units to hammer into my walls. That's all this world needs; Gab with a hammer.

And to hell with design princples. I'm going to buy a little Buddha from the World Market primarily because I had a small one at home from Oxfam, and his roly-poly belly and happy face always make me smile.

My room mate Lexie is quite the artist, and when she was at college she did some really impressive and funky artworks. She gave me one a few months ago and it has been resting in my room ever since, just waiting for the walls to be painted. Now that it's been done, I can hammer a hook into the wall and put up the picture for a splash of colour and style. Again with the hammer....

I will stop by the pharmacy and get some Band-Aids just in case.

The night that JC came to Chicago

Jamie
Originally uploaded by Iris V.

On Monday night Lexie, her brother Jeremy, and myself, took the bus to the Park Hotel to see Jamie Cullum's Chicago gig.

I had heard of Britain's "Sinatra in Sneakers", but I was not as much a fan as Lex and Jeremy. So I thought they were both going to have a coniption when he wandered into the Subway restaurant we were eating in before the show. He signed our concert tickets and everything. Bless.

Not being a fan per se didn't matter because Jamie's music, his energy, his style, and his band were absolutely infectious and pretty soon I was bopping along with the sell-out crowd and cheering my lungs out.

There was even a young girl, possibly 15 or 16, that was "dry humping" the stage right up the front, and making some rather lewd gestures with her tongue at Jamie, and then at the percussionist. It's a testament to their professionalism that they were not more distracted by her antics. All that hair-flipping and pelvis-thrusting (aka "Come To Me" lunges) had to put them off - surely...

So now I am quite the fan and actually looking forward to buying his latest album, Catching Tales. I know, I'm such a victim. Rock on!

Monday's child is full of....something!

So I was carrying on last week about not having anything to blog about. And then my weekend happens, and leaves me with so much fodder for a blog post that I hardly know where to begin!

Friday night ended with a big get-together of Chicago's Australian community, almost a reprise of the Australia Day celebration at the Cubby Bear. Minus the band. And minus the Cubby Bear. But not minus the partying spirit of some Midwestern Aussies! This event was held at a Downtown cafe that's owned by an Aussie and while the night was only supposed to go until 8.30pm or so, none of us left until well after 10. And others of us didn't leave until we were man-handled onto the pavement. [I was not one of the latter, you'd be pleased to learn!]

Saturday was an indulgent day, spent at the hairdressers and then enjoying the rare burst of warmth and spring sunshine with a long walk around Lake Michigan. Lexie and I were not alone in our stroll either; in fact, we were constantly jostled about by dog-walkers, roller-bladers, and generally just by other pedestrians. I guess it gave me a good taste of what summer in Chicago will be like. And I can't wait.

I missed the pre-St Patrick's Day celebrations on Saturday - and I was a bit sad about that, because the City turns the Chicago River green in honour of the event, and I missed it. But I have to say in retrospect that the pampering at the salon was probably what I would have preferred to enjoy, rather than the push & shove of Downtown crowds.

Sunday was supposed to be a slow day too, but I accepted an invitation to join my friend Irene for lunch and that led to more wine and great catchups and chats than I could have anticipated. I hadn't counted on some of the things we got up to, including meeting a very high-profile British lawyer, who rather pompously announced that his hourly rate is $450 and that yes, that WAS his Bentley with personalised plates parked outside. Uh huh. And I hadn't counted on leaving Mr Legal Eagle behind to end up at Duffy's pub near my house and meeting a vast contingent of the New York City Fire Department! Believe what you see in the calendars girls, cause there's literally no airbrushing going on. Wowee! Mind you, other than being propositioned in very clear terms by a rather inebriated but muscular (and ultimately disappointed) fireman, the less said about that pub in general, the better.

So Monday morning rolls around, perception is rather foggy, but otherwise with very positive memories about my weekend. And very glad to finally have some decent blogging material. More to come later this week too, when I can give you my reviews of Jamie Cullum (Britain's "Sinatra in Sneakers") and also our own Dame Edna, who I am seeing on Friday night.

The sound of silence

When I left Australia and started 'trotting the globe', every week brought something novel into my life. Either I was transiting a new country; sampling a new cuisine; or battling a new weather condition (-4 degrees Celcius on the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle airport was a trip in itself).

And I guess I was actively searching for this rapidly-changing adventurous lifestyle. But I'd like to think I was also astute enough at the time to realise that, at some stage, the bubble was going to burst. Perhaps not in spectacular fashion, but certainly that things would soon settle and go 'back to normal'.

While I'm not bogged down in a Chicago-based rut right now, life has pretty much done just that. I have a routine, and I have weekend chores to do. I have responsibilities at work, and friendships to maintain. All in all, it's become quite a good way to live, but it's just not very exciting to blog about.

As an alternative, I suppose I could turn this blog into a fantasy realm, and just make up a whole lot of stuff. But frankly that sort of charade is way too exhausting to maintain.

So I'm just going to beg your forgiveness and a good bit of patience while I'm off doing laundry, and venture to suggest that life as I know it will have to get more exciting very soon.

It's art, sweetie

At this time of year, I hear that my home town is alive with, among other distractions, the biennial Adelaide Fringe Festival. Had I been at home, I would have spent most of my time - and a fair percentage of my salary - on tickets to an array of weird and wonderful shows.

Well, Chicago may not have naked, fire-breathing jugglers on unicycles (picture THAT at your peril), but it sure has a theatre scene that I have embraced wholeheartedly.

Last night, rather fittingly as it turns out, Lexie and I sat in the 4th row of the gorgeous Cadillac Palace theatre in Chicago to see "Tuesdays With Morrie". The play is a two-man show and was an absolute emotional rollercoaster. Gentle humour, heartfelt sentiment, and real tragedy combine as the play deals with a man and his college teacher, reunited after 16 years, as the teacher suffers with Lou Gherig's disease (an incurable and degenerative disease in which the body attacks its own central nervous system.

But against this teary backdrop, Lexie and I loved the performances and really enjoyed the play. Naturally we were also both grateful for my near obsessive commitment to keeping Kleenex in my handbag (public transportation sniffers be hanged!). A few years back, the play was actually made into a TV movie starring Jack Lemmon, and was apparently a big success with the American viewing public. But I think the sell-out audience last night can more accurately be attributed to the playwright's recent popularity on the Oprah show.

But whether its the Adelaide Fringe Festival, or Chicago's Cadillac Palace, theatre is all about escapism. I marvel at the ability of two actors on stage to communicate with a large audience for two hours, without intermission. Can the same be said for naked, fire-breathing jugglers on unicycles? Actually it probably could. But it's all art to me, sweetie.

Ay Carumba!

_MG_7647
Originally uploaded by Jambon-Beurre.

An unequivocal challenge was issued at the Consulate this morning: does Biggsy or my boss make the best paella in the universe? And clearly the only way this will be resolved is with a paella cook-off.

I nominated myself the Drinks Wench, partly because it's the only way I could possibly allow myself to contribute to this meal. I say this because the only other time I helped make paella, it was an utter classic mess. Permit me to explain....

Kate and I were living at the flat and she had decided to make paella. I had never eaten it before, but one glance at the recipe convinced me that this was a meal I was going to enjoy. All my favourite things were in there - meat, shellfish, rice, veggies, even saffron for pity's sake! What could be bad about that?! So one afternoon, having procured all the goodies at the best local shops ever, the North Adelaide Village, we set about preparing the feast.

Assigning herself the role of resident fishmonger, Kate set about cleaning and preparing the seafood. I was responsible for the poultry. Not such a big deal, but bear in mind Kate and I had been clever (aka frugal) and purchased a whole chicken - bones, giblety things and all. So I basically had to bone an entire chicken. Bear in mind people, that this is something that poultry people train for years to get right!

So while Kate effortlessly snipped scallops and pruned prawns, I referred to the "Women's Weekly Cookbook for Rookies" and followed the step-by-step guide to boning a chicken. Crushing its little sternum was just about the last straw. Slowly but surely the poor chicken carcass resembled a chicken pancake. And even though I'd been crushing and cutting for what felt like days, I was getting nowhere fast. Kate's shellfish were neatly presented in individual little bowls and, by contrast, all I was doing was the equivalent of chicken origami.

Somehow it all worked out, because the ingredients came together in one of the most delicious meals I have ever enjoyed (for days and days). And so what that every time we used the pan after that night, little bits of saffron liquid oozed out of some unidentified location?! So while I think the Consulate's paella cook-off will be fun, I somehow don't think it will stack up to the "Kate and Gab" effort.

This time I've volunteered to bring the margaritas, and stand back to watch it all play out....

Lock it in, Eddie

yale
Originally uploaded by batintherain.

On Friday night I allowed myself to be convinced to attend a party with Biggsy that was pitched at singletons across Chicago. It was called a "Lock and Key" party, and if you're thinking it sounds rather cheesy, you're not alone. The fact that Biggsy scored me a free ticket meant that Gab The Capitalist trumped Gab The Chicken, and off I went.

The princple of the party was that the women wear a padlock around their neck, and each man who goes along gets given a set of keys. His attempt to "open the woman's lock" (literally, though probably metaphorically too now that I think about it) was the definitive icebreaker.

But the night was not so bad. It was held at a cute little club by Wrigley Field called "Tryst" and I'd been there before, but not under these circumstances.

My Dad must have had something to do with the night, because not one set of keys opened my lock. Other girls around me, were unlocked by anything up to four different men. But not me. And not that it mattered either, because I was quite the success story in terms of collecting phone numbers and business cards on the night.

I met a guy who owns his own cosmetics export company, several accountants, and an entrepreneur who runs an escort agency. Quite the mix.

But after the main part of the party was over, the single women stayed on to dance together and the single men drifted off into the night. A night of unsuccessful hook-ups had bonded the women and fractured the men. I have had a call back from the escort agency manager, but purely for him to tell me I was attractive; it fortunately wasn't a recruitment call.

But my Friday night adventure was fun, and ended in the same way that my one "Desperate and Dateless" swansong back in Adelaide finished up, as I recall. Kate, Jems, Alix and I were barefoot and dancing like banshees to the fabulous band. And then I hooked up with the drummer. Naturally. Sorry Dad, you must have missed that one.

The Caped Crusader, You Ain't

Batman
Originally uploaded by opk.

Some people are very inconsiderate public transportation patrons, don't you think? I've already commented a few times here about The Sniffers, those irritating people whose sinuses react badly to the cold Chicago air, but who still don't have the forethought to carry Kleenex. Yes, you know who you are.

But on this morning's bus journey, I encountered a different breed. Yes, I met Batman. Not the Caped Crusader, he of underpants on the outside of his trousers (though I'm sure I'd meet someone like him on a 3am Saturday morning bus trip!). No, this 'gentleman' was reading his novel, with his elbows sticking right out like bat wings! And when I sat down next to him, he refused to stick one of his 'wings' back in so I could read too. So my book stayed in my bag, and I enjoyed his elbow sticking into my ribs for the entire journey.

I didn't say anything because I was too aghast that he didn't even notice he was doing it. Who doesn't notice when they're jabbing another person in the guts? I hope his book sucked.

Not an ugly duckling amongst them

swan
Originally uploaded by jaki good.

Chicago truly is a city of cultural contrasts. On the one hand, you've got outdoor ice skating and paintball skirmishes, and then on the other hand you've got fundraiser benefits and ballet. And it was the latter, slightly classier outing that I took over the weekend.

I had never been to the ballet, and when I saw that "Swan Lake" was being performed at the theatre around the corner from my work, I thought I'd grab a ticket and check it out. I didn't know the story either and now having seen the production, I'm still not sure I actually "got it". Was I reading too much into it to think there was something kinky going on between the Prince and the Swan? Probably. And everyone around me was too much of a ballet afficianado for me to ask.

And what set this production apart and made it exceed my expectation was the fact that rather than frilly tutus and Billy Elliot wannabes bulging around in tights, this production was modern dance but set to the traditional Tchaikovsky score; it was really beautiful. The lead male dancer wore leather pants for pity's sake - and no shirt either, which made me disappointed I didn't bring my binoculars. Actually, most of the male cast played swans, so they spent much of the show topless. Why was I such a groundling and resisted springing for more expensive seats in the Orchestra section of the theatre?! Damn me and my cheapskate ways.

But now I can say that I've been to the ballet and actually enjoyed it. The Joffrey Ballet was performing "Romeo and Juliet" a few weeks ago, but that was at a smaller theatre, and took the more traditional route of hair tightly pulled back in buns and lots of tulle netting and pointed toes. Nah, that's not for me.

What a load of Bull

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Originally uploaded by Dave Gorman.

At the risk of dropping a bigger bombshell than a bulimic Lindsay Lohan, I am not a particularly sporty person. Actually, to be fair to myself, I like sports - I just know that I'm no athlete. But I'm a great one-woman cheer squad. So perhaps it's not such a big surprise to me that since arriving in Chicago, I've acquired a taste for baseball - courtesy of a triumphant World Series team - and now I can turn my attention to a new interest, basketball. One trip to the United Center to see my home team play was all it took.

Biggsy pulled his finger out and organised a block of tickets for a bunch of crazy Aussies, way up in the nosebleed section, to go along and cheer the Chicago Bulls. I went along out of curiosity, and so I wouldn't miss out on anything. Plus we were all keen to check out the new recruit on the opposition (the Milwaukee Bucks), cause he's an Aussie too. No freebie tickets though - maybe I should have cheered for Milwaukee??

The United Center is also used for ice hockey games, and even concerts, so it is a pretty impressive venue. The game was true sensory overload. Flashing lights, lots of movement and colour; it was awesome, in the true sense of the word.

And the Luvabulls - the Chicago Bulls cheerleaders - were not your garden variety "Oh Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey Mickey, hey Mickey" types either. No short skirts and sneakers, no ponytails. These girls wore spangly pants and boosomy tops, with their long hair that they flipped around and made me thoroughly dizzy, and exhausted just watching them. The boys didn't mind though. And then some male 'cheerleaders' called The Matadors (flabby blokes with man boobs and cut-off tops EWWWW) came out to bust a move performing some dance numbers. But it was hysterically funny and loaded with energy.

The fact that I could see how the stadium erupted with a Bulls victory only added to the experience. Even I was on my feet by the end of it, a little unsporty blob up there in the rafters. But I was there, and that's what counts.

Go Bulls!

Law and Dis-Order

Yesterday was President's Day in the States, and I enjoyed a lovely public holiday to celebrate...uh...Presidents of all shapes and sizes. At least I think that's what it's all about. I'm sure that's what half of the Americans sleeping in yesterday think it's about too, so cut me some slack.

In honour of the day off, Comcastic (the cable TV ubernetwork to which we subscribe) screened a "Law and Order" marathon. It was old-school L&O, complete with Jerry Orbach - Baby's father in Dirty Dancing - and the delicious Jesse Whatshisname. And the terribly intelligent Jack McCoy tried to right the wrongs in the courtroom, sometimes joined by husky Angie Harmon, and other times by Serena The Blonde Lawyer.

And just as I'd made a proper butt-sized dent in the couch, there was a knock at the door. So much for building security. And as the TV was turned up relatively loud, there was no chance for me to pretend I wasn't at home.

Well thank god I answered the door because who should be there, but two detectives from the Chicago Police Department - shiny silver badges and all!

Turns out a hapless fellow who recently met a grisly end had used my apartment as a previous residence, and the detectives were doggedly following up the outstanding leads. I was hoping for a Detective Gorran-style grilling, but then I realised that I didn't seem guilty enough for that. So I was going to narrow my eyes to slits and start looking around from side to side, but then I figured that might make me look mentally unstable.

So I simply answered their questions as honestly as I could (which was pretty easy, since I knew nothing), and they took their leave. But for the rest of the night, I couldn't help but wonder just what the ex-tenant had done to arouse the suspicion of the local constabulary. In the course of our 'interview', one of the detectives repeatedly referred to the man as "a victim", so my imagination was working overtime as I'm sure you can imagine.

And just as an aside, it was Lexie's birthday yesterday, but I promised her I had not arranged the visit from the detectives. If I was going to organise "a policeman" as a birthday gift for her, he would have appeared on the doorstep in uniform WITH his own tape recorder. And the expectation of cash payment before he took off. I think she was disappointed.

Anyway, when the latter episodes of "Law & Order" offered no help unravelling the world of detective work, I switched to the Food Network and learned all about the evolution of the bagel.

NOW who's the victim here?!

Peek-a-boo President

Lincoln's Admirers
Originally uploaded by PhotoFlyer.

I have returned to FREEZING Chicago after enjoying some fabulous sunshine in Washington DC. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised and really impressed with the beautiful city.

Washington is truly cosmopolitan and a city that presents an international community with no shortage of cultural and social good times.

Once my meetings at the Embassy were over, I enjoyed a Moonlit Monuments Tour by trolley car (though Biggsy gave me grief for not walking). For over two hours, I trolleyed (!) around the city, admiring the city's glorious landmarks - including a seated Abe Lincoln - spotlit and fabulous. The Korean War Memorial was a particular highlight, with ghostly sculptures of soldiers standing guard in the flower beds, frozen in time but looking ready for combat. It was beautiful and haunting at the same time.

I had just about overdosed on War Memorials during that tour, but still I went out on the Metro to the Arlington National Cemetery the following day. I saw the gravesites of the Kennedys and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. It's hard to believe that 300,000 servicemen, women, and their families are buried there. Until you see the rows upon rows of simple white headstones. Then you truly get a chance to appreciate just how many lives have been lost in conflict over the years. And even more alarming, I think, is that 25 funerals take place there every work day. Now don't you think that is an alarming statistic? I was surprised. I may have been the only foreigner on the Cemetery tour that looked around in shock at that figure. No one else batted an eyelid.

But Washington is a city that's all about celebrating national pride and achievements. The Smithsonian Museums are chock-full of inventions, exhibits and displays intended to celebrate American innovation. And most impressively, the monuments and buildings are elegant, respectful, and really welcoming.

I thoroughly enjoyed Washington DC and I can't wait to go back. The fact that I also met some great Aussies at the Embassy means that next time I jet into town, I won't have any problems finding someone to enjoy a cold beer with.

Going to Washington is a Capital Idea!

White House
Originally uploaded by The Anti-ZIM.

Thanks to those true friends (and one crazy Granny) who sought to buoy my Valentine spirits by reminding me about fabalooseness.

So with my happiness restored, I'm heading to this nation's capital this afternoon, and staying until Saturday. I'm saying this to herald a break in blogging proceedings, but a post-visit summary will be forthcoming. Maybe even some photos too.

Ciao for now!

The burning sensation that is VD

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Originally uploaded by Skip Hansen.

I know, I stole that header from a local journalist here in Chicago whose column in last week's paper commented on the sham that is VD, or Valentine's Day. The 24-hour period that is the scourge of singles everywhere. And the one day of the year when I most feel like staying home with the doona over my head.

Now I'm a romantic from way back. I love soppy movies, moonlit walks, love songs and the whole lot. But now having seen the way this country flips out over Valentine's Day, I'm willing to agree with the local columnist that VD really is over-the-top. Candied hearts, gooey chocolates, and more plushy stuffed toys than you can poke with a stick. And really, you should poke them with sticks whenever you can.

[Okay so I'm also grouchy that no one remembered to ring the florist and send me roses. But let's move on, shall we?]

This post is less about my own lack of lovin' and more an opportunity to muse about the genuinely romantic gestures I've observed today:

• A woman held the bus doors open for a man laden with his work bags, and struggling down the bus's centre steps this morning;
• A man in my coffee shop was buying his female friend a coffee, and taking great pains to make sure he got the order exactly right; and finally, and most importantly for me
• Biggsy and Penelope (my colleagues) each gave me a heart-shaped biscuit with pink frosting.

So while I am sans Valentine this year, I am still hopefully that John Paul Young was right and that love is in the air. Or all around. Or whatever. Perhaps it's just me, over here and mellowing ungraciously in my old age.

Once more, with feeling...

Awwww
Originally uploaded by reggiebrown.

The US immigration officer viewed my passport with interest. "So, a bit of a globetrotter are we?", he mused in my direction. I suppose that catching 4 planes in as many days will give you such a reputation.

And so it is that I have returned "home" to Chicago after a whirlwind (extra) long weekend in Glasgow. You might recall I blogged a little while ago about the bizarre fact that it was cheaper for me to fly back to Scotland to collect my last piece of luggage personally, than it was to outsource such collection to an international movers company. Strange, but true. So I boarded a plane last Thursday afternoon, was delayed for what seemed an eternity, reached Heathrow with precious little time to spare to breeze through customs, and make my connecting flight to Glasgow.

Seeing Batreg's smiling face at Glasgow International Airport was just wonderful. I hadn't realised how much I had missed her, and once I got over squealing about how much her hair had grown, I babbled the whole way home about how flat and green Scotland is from the air. Bless her heart, she didn't even comment on how much crap I talked in such a short car ride.

Must be used to it by now - or something.

Returning to Betty & Armand's place was great. Their house looks very different to the flowery and evergreen place I left three months ago. Winter has obliterated all the flowers in the front yard, and the trees are all bare and ghostly-looking. A brown, desolate atmosphere, to be sure, but nevertheless a really beautiful one. But enough of the nature talk.

After I'd enjoyed a restorative shower, Reg and I motored into Paisley to enjoy a cheap lunch and a catchup talk. It was great to realise that in a crowded city like Chicago, at least the locals respect personal space and give you time to groove. In Paisley, I had forgotten that personal space is a luxury to be enjoyed. And even then, the locals want to share that luxury with you, to a degree that sends one positively barmy. I had also forgotten how damn ugly the men are there. Sorry, I know it's not polite but boy, the dental work on these locals has to be seen to be believed!

By 7pm Friday, I had hit the proverbial wall, and had a strong desire to sleep forever. But I didn't need to, because Reg woke me up at around 10.30am the next day, so we could make good on our promise to each other to tour Glasgow city centre in the double-decker tourist bus.

What fun that day was! The weather was cold, but clear, and the tour bus took us on a great circuit of the city. We saw cathedrals and colleges, and George Square right in the centre of the city. It was hard to believe that the site of such splendid architecture used to be a place to hang laundry! And did you know that the Glasgow City Council Chambers are used whenever films want to feature the Vatican? Apparently the marble work and the art inside resembles the splendour of the Vatican (where you're not allowed to film anyway, so don't even ask). A quick Aussie beer at the Walkabout Pub completed the day's events. Ahh bless the Scots - bad teeth, great architecture.

Saturday night was a write-off, thanks to copious Black Russians (the beverage kind) and there may have been top-up vodka and lemons to follow. There was nothing to envy about our condition on Sunday morning, let me tell you. Between me, Reg, and Betty, the concept of a decent 'technicolour yawn' is no longer a foreign one. Oh well, as they say "one in, all in".

Sunday afternoon's flight back to Manchester was uneventful, and the overnight accommodation even more so. But by Monday morning, my hangover had worn off, and I was ready to return to the Windy City.

Reg heads home later this month, and is looking forward to soaking up the sun (given that the northern hemisphere hasn't seen much of that recently). I will not enjoy knowing that she's no longer in this half of the world, but I'm hoping to tempt her back soon enough.

As I went through the motions of bag searches, passport checks, and long check-in queues, I had to admit to myself that it's a bit tough to be back at work. I mean, it's one thing to have a great job and good friends, but I must confess that I do miss the jetsetting lifestyle I enjoyed for the last 8 months or so. Oh well, I'm sure my time will come again and when it does, there'll be no stopping me.

Sorry, I got Sidetracked

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Originally uploaded by DORM'd.

I forgot to update you on a fantastic night out that I enjoyed recently. I've mentioned before that I live in Boystown, a suburb of Chicago so called because of its high population of gay men. Lots of handsome eye candy, none of whom look twice at me. But that's okay, I can deal.

In addition to its high population of attractive residents, another thing this suburb does well is party. And "Sidetracks" is one such gay pub that just knows how to show its patrons a good time.

Lexie took me along to her (gay) boss's birthday party at "Sidetracks" the other night. Monday nights are Musical Sing-a-long nights at the bar, and my god it was so much fun!

It took me two frosty vodka drinks to warm up, but by the end of the second drink, I was joining in with the boys singing Julie Andrews numbers, and doing bad impressions of Liza Minnelli. It was a riot.

I did "Grease" duets with a guy named Patrick, and danced to Moulin Rouge numbers with a dreadlocked black guy. Oh it was so much fun.

And if any Broadway producers are reading this, you need look no further than "Sidetracks" in Chicago to find your next musical theatre talents. These boys may be amateurs, but inside each one of them is a stage diva waiting to bust out. They can sing, and they can dance, and their breadth of musical knowledge just left me star-struck.

And given that Lexie's boss and his friends have adopted me, I get the feeling I'll be going back to tread the boards soon enough.