When I moved into the apartment, I was fortunate for many reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that all the utilities were taken care of, and all the appliances were in full working order. And still are, last time I checked.
But I have been giving serious thought to connecting the phone line, so that I can make and receive decently-priced international phone calls. My flatmates can call their friends and family on their cell phones and talk forever relatively cheaply. After all, Wisconsin is only over the back fence, relatively-speaking. But my situation is a different story altogether.
So I rang the major telephone service provider here in the US. I shall not name it, for fear of any sort of retribution - legal or otherwise. But I spoke to a vacant woman who I also refuse to name. But let's call her Julie. Okay, so I named her. She won't read this blog anyway so ner.
Chatting away to Julie, I explained that I wanted to know whether an existing phone number was still connected at my residence. Given the prominence of phone jacks throughout the apartment, I had the inkling that a previous tenant was a rather prolific user of phone equipment. And I told Julie this, sparing no details.
Julie was silent for a moment, presumably tap-tapping away at her keyboard to investigate the abyss that is the American phone account archive.
But I was wrong. Julie was approaching some sort of catatonic coma, from which I jolted her with a well timed AHEM.
She explained to me that she couldn't tell me whether there was a phone number connected just by searching on an address. Wait for it, I would need to tell her a phone number to search on.
So I told her that I didn't know the phone number; that I didn't even know if there WAS a phone number, and that was the whole reason for my call in the first place.
She agreed. Yes, right, I know what you mean. But we can only search on phone numbers so it doesn't really matter where you live. Cheers, Jules.
Just as I started to wonder when the Candid Camera crew were going to leap out of the air conditioning duct, I figured it was best to instead demonstrate to Julie just how adept I am at using Alexander Graham Bell's device, and I hung up.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
How deep is the rabbit hole?
It is a fact universally acknowledged that I am completely bereft of a sense of direction. Instead, I rely on a well-established route to and from work, and do my very best to keep the leisurely meandering to a minimum.
But whether it was the fresh air, or the Christmas promise just hanging in the air, I thought I'd take a different route to the cinema last night for the final film in the Marilyn Monroe festival.
I walked and I walked, and I ended up somewhere near Pennsylvania. Or perhpas it was Transylvania. Out that side of town it was hard to tell the difference.
But the weirdest thing is that they say Chicago is a lot like Adelaide in terms of layout. ["They" being those people with a much better sense of direction than me; i.e everybody]. The streets are allegedly built on a grid and, with the exception of a couple of rogue streets that have the audacity to curve around corners, Downtown Chicago is meant to be one of the easiest places to navigate. So how, I ask you, did I get it so wrong?
Maps and compasses are useless to me, so I didn't stop and consult my little flip-out street directory. And I have it on good authority that looking like you're lost makes you a perfect target for muggers and rapists. And I didn't feel like attracting anyone last night, much less those local undesireables. So I followed the crowd and walked back in the direction of Michigan Avenue, because I knew the direction that was, I just wasn't certain how many blocks it would be before I found it. I figured that if I could find my way to Michigan Avenue before my legs froze off, I would forgo the movies and just jump the first bus home.
But just as I started to feel like Alice in Wonderland, I had a revelation. Somewhere between Nowheresville and No-name Street, I crossed State Street - the very boulevard I had been looking for all along. So I turned down State Street (or did I turn up it?) and kept walking confidently and purposefully, in what I hoped was the direction of the cinema. Just as I was about to give up, I saw the twinkling lights of Marshall Fields, that much-loved bastion of consumerism here in Chicago. I am sure I would have wept with relief, had not the cold wind frozen the water in my eye sockets.
So I sought refuge in the warmth of the cinema, and took comfort in a large popcorn and even larger coffee. There is just something nice about sitting down with these refreshments, having the cinema lights dim immediately, and enjoying the "20th Century Fox" music as the film begins. It was almost like the cinema had been waiting just for me to arrive.
And while the movie wasn't as great as I'd hoped it would be, I had a great night out and was pleased to leave the cinema and resume my well-established route home, arriving safe and sound (and sure of my geograpical position) about 30 minutes later.
But whether it was the fresh air, or the Christmas promise just hanging in the air, I thought I'd take a different route to the cinema last night for the final film in the Marilyn Monroe festival.
I walked and I walked, and I ended up somewhere near Pennsylvania. Or perhpas it was Transylvania. Out that side of town it was hard to tell the difference.
But the weirdest thing is that they say Chicago is a lot like Adelaide in terms of layout. ["They" being those people with a much better sense of direction than me; i.e everybody]. The streets are allegedly built on a grid and, with the exception of a couple of rogue streets that have the audacity to curve around corners, Downtown Chicago is meant to be one of the easiest places to navigate. So how, I ask you, did I get it so wrong?
Maps and compasses are useless to me, so I didn't stop and consult my little flip-out street directory. And I have it on good authority that looking like you're lost makes you a perfect target for muggers and rapists. And I didn't feel like attracting anyone last night, much less those local undesireables. So I followed the crowd and walked back in the direction of Michigan Avenue, because I knew the direction that was, I just wasn't certain how many blocks it would be before I found it. I figured that if I could find my way to Michigan Avenue before my legs froze off, I would forgo the movies and just jump the first bus home.
But just as I started to feel like Alice in Wonderland, I had a revelation. Somewhere between Nowheresville and No-name Street, I crossed State Street - the very boulevard I had been looking for all along. So I turned down State Street (or did I turn up it?) and kept walking confidently and purposefully, in what I hoped was the direction of the cinema. Just as I was about to give up, I saw the twinkling lights of Marshall Fields, that much-loved bastion of consumerism here in Chicago. I am sure I would have wept with relief, had not the cold wind frozen the water in my eye sockets.
So I sought refuge in the warmth of the cinema, and took comfort in a large popcorn and even larger coffee. There is just something nice about sitting down with these refreshments, having the cinema lights dim immediately, and enjoying the "20th Century Fox" music as the film begins. It was almost like the cinema had been waiting just for me to arrive.
And while the movie wasn't as great as I'd hoped it would be, I had a great night out and was pleased to leave the cinema and resume my well-established route home, arriving safe and sound (and sure of my geograpical position) about 30 minutes later.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Here's a tip for you
As the Christmas season approaches, and people around me spend a fortune on gifts and parties, I found it amusing to read an article in Chicago's "Red Eye" (the equivalent of "The Messenger" ), about holiday tipping.
Now the custom of tipping is something that I'm slowly getting used to. I understand that in a cab, you take the final fare, round it up, and then add a dollar. A restaurant waiter should receive at least 15% of the total bill in tips. And the newspaper article made it clear that, at Christmas time, customers should be a little more generous than usual with their tips. After all, it said, "it's Christmas".
Fair enough, say I. So I read the article's guide with interest. But when I read in that same article, that you should tip your hairdresser 40% rather than the usual 15-20%, I nearly choked on my venti non-fat latte from Starbucks.
Because I know that the usual practice is to tip your hairdresser and your colourist separately. That revelation itself nearly killed me, particularly when I realised how much coiffing my hairdo costs in this country! And at the time of my last appointment, I thought it would only be right that I make a return appointment for Christmas, so that at least my holiday photos look pretty. But this whole "tip up to 40%" sounds a bit steep to me. What facial expression do the financially bankrupt pull?
So I'm going to have to think about whether a 24 December hair appointment (just a cut, no colour this time) is such a good idea. I can afford a 40% tip on top of my cut fee, that's not the problem. Unless my hair is going to be cut and then set to resemble a Christmas tree to put New York's Rockerfeller Centre pine to shame, then why should I give in to pressure and tip any extra than I normally would?
Sensible suggestions please (it's too cold to shave my head, so that's not an option....Dad)
Now the custom of tipping is something that I'm slowly getting used to. I understand that in a cab, you take the final fare, round it up, and then add a dollar. A restaurant waiter should receive at least 15% of the total bill in tips. And the newspaper article made it clear that, at Christmas time, customers should be a little more generous than usual with their tips. After all, it said, "it's Christmas".
Fair enough, say I. So I read the article's guide with interest. But when I read in that same article, that you should tip your hairdresser 40% rather than the usual 15-20%, I nearly choked on my venti non-fat latte from Starbucks.
Because I know that the usual practice is to tip your hairdresser and your colourist separately. That revelation itself nearly killed me, particularly when I realised how much coiffing my hairdo costs in this country! And at the time of my last appointment, I thought it would only be right that I make a return appointment for Christmas, so that at least my holiday photos look pretty. But this whole "tip up to 40%" sounds a bit steep to me. What facial expression do the financially bankrupt pull?
So I'm going to have to think about whether a 24 December hair appointment (just a cut, no colour this time) is such a good idea. I can afford a 40% tip on top of my cut fee, that's not the problem. Unless my hair is going to be cut and then set to resemble a Christmas tree to put New York's Rockerfeller Centre pine to shame, then why should I give in to pressure and tip any extra than I normally would?
Sensible suggestions please (it's too cold to shave my head, so that's not an option....Dad)
Monday, December 19, 2005
Eat and Be Merry
I had my work Christmas party at the Consul-General's residence yesterday afternoon, and it was really nice. We had a huge buffet with Australian wines to wash down all the delicious food.
It was freezing cold outside, but the fire raged in the fireplace and it just added to the Christmas feel.
Then after the lunch/early dinner, I headed to the ESPN Zone sports bar Downtown to watch the Bears play (football).
One of the girls with us knows a waiter at the bar, and he gave us free use of the VIP room, which normally costs $150 per hour to hire. So we were curled up on leather sofa chairs, in a soundproof room, with table service drinks and a waiter at our beck and call.
Seriously how the other half lives.
It was freezing cold outside, but the fire raged in the fireplace and it just added to the Christmas feel.
Then after the lunch/early dinner, I headed to the ESPN Zone sports bar Downtown to watch the Bears play (football).
One of the girls with us knows a waiter at the bar, and he gave us free use of the VIP room, which normally costs $150 per hour to hire. So we were curled up on leather sofa chairs, in a soundproof room, with table service drinks and a waiter at our beck and call.
Seriously how the other half lives.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
No, but "Baby Fishmouth" is sweeping the nation!
I went out last night for dinner with two friends of mine, Brad and Nele. I hadn't seen them for a while and I won't see them again now until after Christmas (Brad's off to the south and Nele's returning to Germany to see her family), so it was the perfect weekend to get together for a meal.
On the recommendation of work colleagues, we went to "Coobah", a really neat little Mexican place on Southport. This street is absolutely full to the brim of funky bars and restaurants, and I know it will take me the rest of my time in Chicago to visit all of them. But owing to good traffic and a leadfoot taxi driver, I arrived at the restaurant early. Settling down at the bar, I enjoyed a margarita - but a traditional one - no frosted glass or beach umbrella garnish here. This margarita was served in a regular water glass, with rustic salt around the rim, and chunky bits of lime making sour but welcome surprises throughout the bitter drink. Oh it was delicious but, on reflection, perhaps a rather ambitious choice BEFORE a meal.
Never mind. When my friends arrived, we adjourned to a table at the back of the restaurant and enjoyed a delicious meaty-cheesy entree followed by some really tasty chicken for main course. The service was great, the portions were well-sized, and I very much enjoyed the Corona beer with my meal. Plus I was wearing my new emerald-coloured Donna Karan chiffon top (eat your heart out Jems!), so I was feeling altogether the part.
But Nele and Brad were both really tired after a rather boozy Friday night, so I was left looking at my watch at 10.30pm, wondering what to do with myself while the night was so young.
Fast forward to my apartment, where I arrived home to find Lexie and two of her friends (plus a Chicago native they all know) in the loungeroom having a similar debate about what to do and where to go. Helpfully, I advised that it was bloody freezing out there right now, and perhaps the evening should continue somewhere close by.
So it was agreed that we would share a cab to "Guthries", the bar we had been to before with the Wisconsin visitors. You might recall me mentioning it once before - you can play board games there out the back.
A rather heated game of "Pictionary" commenced, and we got to play with the set that had never been opened before. We were very chuffed with ourselves. And my team won, though I doubt it was because of anything I did. I had great difficulty trying to graphically represent "pounce". No one understood my clear illustration of a smiling lion creeping up ever so cunningly on an unsuspecting giraffe. Oh well, at least my other team mates dragged this lame duck over the finish line victoriously!
On the recommendation of work colleagues, we went to "Coobah", a really neat little Mexican place on Southport. This street is absolutely full to the brim of funky bars and restaurants, and I know it will take me the rest of my time in Chicago to visit all of them. But owing to good traffic and a leadfoot taxi driver, I arrived at the restaurant early. Settling down at the bar, I enjoyed a margarita - but a traditional one - no frosted glass or beach umbrella garnish here. This margarita was served in a regular water glass, with rustic salt around the rim, and chunky bits of lime making sour but welcome surprises throughout the bitter drink. Oh it was delicious but, on reflection, perhaps a rather ambitious choice BEFORE a meal.
Never mind. When my friends arrived, we adjourned to a table at the back of the restaurant and enjoyed a delicious meaty-cheesy entree followed by some really tasty chicken for main course. The service was great, the portions were well-sized, and I very much enjoyed the Corona beer with my meal. Plus I was wearing my new emerald-coloured Donna Karan chiffon top (eat your heart out Jems!), so I was feeling altogether the part.
But Nele and Brad were both really tired after a rather boozy Friday night, so I was left looking at my watch at 10.30pm, wondering what to do with myself while the night was so young.
Fast forward to my apartment, where I arrived home to find Lexie and two of her friends (plus a Chicago native they all know) in the loungeroom having a similar debate about what to do and where to go. Helpfully, I advised that it was bloody freezing out there right now, and perhaps the evening should continue somewhere close by.
So it was agreed that we would share a cab to "Guthries", the bar we had been to before with the Wisconsin visitors. You might recall me mentioning it once before - you can play board games there out the back.
A rather heated game of "Pictionary" commenced, and we got to play with the set that had never been opened before. We were very chuffed with ourselves. And my team won, though I doubt it was because of anything I did. I had great difficulty trying to graphically represent "pounce". No one understood my clear illustration of a smiling lion creeping up ever so cunningly on an unsuspecting giraffe. Oh well, at least my other team mates dragged this lame duck over the finish line victoriously!
Friday, December 16, 2005
Being Diplo-aromatic
Working at the Consulate, I've been learning very quickly the intricacies of public diplomacy. Basically, I need to remember that my first duty as a consular officer is to protect fellow Australians living and travelling in the Midwest.
Now before you get shades of vigilante style justice being waged from downtown Chicago, I'm hardly that militant. You would be surprised the impact that an Aussie accent and a big smile can have on an unsuspecting American.
So with this in mind, and given the fact that I forgot my novel this morning, I was on the bus contemplating whether or not the man next to me would appreciate being told his aftershave was DEFINITELY working for him. I would have said it diplomatically, in my best Aussie accent, and flashing my most winning smile. I'm quite sure this man wasn't an Australian that I'm obliged to look after, but what the hey? I was in a good mood and he did smell rather nice. And given where I live, he's probably not entirely into girls either, but what did I have to lose?
I did the daggy thing and role-played in my head. What would I say? What would HE say? If it went badly, and I had to throw myself off the bus, how long would it take me to walk to work?
But of course, he was a cute boy and therefore OF COURSE I didn't end up saying anything to him. And on reflection, I'm rather glad for it. Because no sooner had I resolved to remain quiet on the subject, did he start sniffing. But not just periodically, but on EVERY SINGLE BREATH. What's up with that? Tissues aren't expensive in this country and in any case, if it was his own aftershave making him sniff, it's his own sodding fault.
Amen. Or, should I say, Ahhhh men.
Now before you get shades of vigilante style justice being waged from downtown Chicago, I'm hardly that militant. You would be surprised the impact that an Aussie accent and a big smile can have on an unsuspecting American.
So with this in mind, and given the fact that I forgot my novel this morning, I was on the bus contemplating whether or not the man next to me would appreciate being told his aftershave was DEFINITELY working for him. I would have said it diplomatically, in my best Aussie accent, and flashing my most winning smile. I'm quite sure this man wasn't an Australian that I'm obliged to look after, but what the hey? I was in a good mood and he did smell rather nice. And given where I live, he's probably not entirely into girls either, but what did I have to lose?
I did the daggy thing and role-played in my head. What would I say? What would HE say? If it went badly, and I had to throw myself off the bus, how long would it take me to walk to work?
But of course, he was a cute boy and therefore OF COURSE I didn't end up saying anything to him. And on reflection, I'm rather glad for it. Because no sooner had I resolved to remain quiet on the subject, did he start sniffing. But not just periodically, but on EVERY SINGLE BREATH. What's up with that? Tissues aren't expensive in this country and in any case, if it was his own aftershave making him sniff, it's his own sodding fault.
Amen. Or, should I say, Ahhhh men.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Much Ado About Shakespeare
Last night's performance of "Much Ado About Nothing" was just top-shelf and I loved it. The sets, the costumes, the acting - it was all so great.
But the theatre at Navy Pier? Oh my God, that place is incredible! I wasn't expecting the production to be like Mrs Fuller's Year 12 drama class, complete with cardboard sets and crepe paper costumes. Not at all. But a read-through of the program before the lights went down showed me that there is a hell of a lot of money invested in the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre!
Corporate Sponsorship packages of up to $100,000 are on offer and there are a lot of businesses in that category.
But the money had been spent wisely, because everything - from the sets to the costume to the PR - is all done in-house, and so it is a truly local production.
The audience was an interesting mix of young and old, but everyone laughed and enjoyed themselves.
Lexie even said she'd give me another free ticket for the next show since I had such a good time. I must have been on my extra special best behaviour!
But the theatre at Navy Pier? Oh my God, that place is incredible! I wasn't expecting the production to be like Mrs Fuller's Year 12 drama class, complete with cardboard sets and crepe paper costumes. Not at all. But a read-through of the program before the lights went down showed me that there is a hell of a lot of money invested in the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre!
Corporate Sponsorship packages of up to $100,000 are on offer and there are a lot of businesses in that category.
But the money had been spent wisely, because everything - from the sets to the costume to the PR - is all done in-house, and so it is a truly local production.
The audience was an interesting mix of young and old, but everyone laughed and enjoyed themselves.
Lexie even said she'd give me another free ticket for the next show since I had such a good time. I must have been on my extra special best behaviour!
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Sing It, Don't Spray It!
I have always really enjoyed live theatre, and last night's performance of "Hairspray" simply confirmed it. I have never before paid for tickets to a show I knew nothing about, but given that Lexie had seen the production four times before (in New York, not here), I figured that was a pretty good indication that I would find it enjoyable too. And in any case, the newspapers here have been positively raving about it, so that was also a good sign.
If you haven't the live version or the movie, "Hairspray" is set in 1960s Baltimore and is the story of an overweight but highly energetic girl named Tracy whose one dream is to dance on a TV show with all of her young, thin idols. When she achieves her dream, she learns quickly that the show is segregated and therefore her African American friends have no chance of joining her onstage and onscreen. The story is about her dogged determination to change things, and win the affections of her hearthrob co-star at the same time. The movie "Hairspray" became famous because a large man (Divine) played the part of Tracy's mother. And in all the stage productions, this tradition has been upheld. The male actor that played Tracy's mother in last night's performance was superb and had the audience in stitches during a song with Tracy's father. In fact, both the actors ended up laughing in the song, but the audience just applauded even harder. It was great.
When the show ended, the curtain closed on another performance, and the illusion was over. Going out into the fresh cold air, my fellow theatregoers were raving about the show we'd just witnessed. Some gay guys at my bustop were belting out a rendition of the opening number (and not too shabbily either to be honest), and so spirits were high even though it was nearly 11pm.
Tonight I'm off to Navy Pier to the Chicago Shakespeare Company's performance of "Much Ado About Nothing". This is no amateur production either, and I'm really looking forward to it. Lexie works for the Company in their box office, so I've got great seats and a free ticket, so that's a double-whammy bonus!
If you haven't the live version or the movie, "Hairspray" is set in 1960s Baltimore and is the story of an overweight but highly energetic girl named Tracy whose one dream is to dance on a TV show with all of her young, thin idols. When she achieves her dream, she learns quickly that the show is segregated and therefore her African American friends have no chance of joining her onstage and onscreen. The story is about her dogged determination to change things, and win the affections of her hearthrob co-star at the same time. The movie "Hairspray" became famous because a large man (Divine) played the part of Tracy's mother. And in all the stage productions, this tradition has been upheld. The male actor that played Tracy's mother in last night's performance was superb and had the audience in stitches during a song with Tracy's father. In fact, both the actors ended up laughing in the song, but the audience just applauded even harder. It was great.
When the show ended, the curtain closed on another performance, and the illusion was over. Going out into the fresh cold air, my fellow theatregoers were raving about the show we'd just witnessed. Some gay guys at my bustop were belting out a rendition of the opening number (and not too shabbily either to be honest), and so spirits were high even though it was nearly 11pm.
Tonight I'm off to Navy Pier to the Chicago Shakespeare Company's performance of "Much Ado About Nothing". This is no amateur production either, and I'm really looking forward to it. Lexie works for the Company in their box office, so I've got great seats and a free ticket, so that's a double-whammy bonus!
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Chicago's Social Scene
I have been quite the social butterfly this week, and it's only Tuesday.
I have already commented once before on this site that Chicago at Christmas time is ultra festive. Though there is always something to do here, this seems to be extra true during the Silly Season.
Last night I went and saw another Marilyn movie (very cool); tonight I'm going to a farewell party for a guy from work and then going to see "Hairspray" with Lexie; tomorrow night I'm seeing a Shakespeare play at Navy Pier; Thursday I've got free tickets to the the movies to see a new film about an Irish transvestite; and then Friday I'm going clothes shopping with Melissa.
I am tired just writing about all that!
But I have to tell you, sitting inside warm theatres, restaurants, and cinemas is about all that is worth doing at night times if you ask me. The night time chill is a bit nuts right now and the wind has found a way of smacking me in the face even though I have my furry hood on AND a scarf wrapped around my mouth. Go figure!
If I find I'm up to getting out and about, I need only refer to a weekly periodical that I have subscribed to, called "Time Out Chicago". Delivered right to my mailbox at home, the magazine gives me great ideas to build a week of fun and games, so I never have to stay home and be bored. So I get to rug up, and step out. And not slip up.
So if I keep referring to Time Out (which has not led me astray thus far), at least for the foreseeable future anyway I hope that this blog brings you just that bit closer to my big, weird world of Chicago nightlife.
[This all implies I don't get stuck in a 10cm snowdrift that is scheduled to fall tomorrow. My boss joked today that I should wear a hat with a large flagpole and Aussie flag on the top - just in case they need to find me. Sicko]
Does Ramsay Street ever deal with this?
I don't know what my neighbours look like but I don't really care. All I know is that their efforts to beat us in the great unspoken Decorations War of 2005 are rather lame.
Our apartments are mirror images of one another, and our Christmas Trees occupy identical spaces in the sunrooms that face out onto Grace Street. Mine is, and I say this without any trace of bias, superior in shape, decoration, sparkle intensity, and purity of Christmas spirit.
Our neighbour's tree, by contrast, is dull and its adornments are nowhere near as luminous as ours. I have also been surrepticiously peeking at the other decorations adorning the neighbour's front room, and have been smugly laughing to myself. There are no stockings, no Santas, no Christmas baubles, no festive photo frames, no yuletide candles. Unlike my house.
I wonder if my neighbour knows that he is party to this Christmas battle? Probably not, but it matters little to me. I'm too chock-full of the spirit of the season to care about others right now!
Monday, December 12, 2005
Memoirs of a Weekend Gone with the Wind in a Goblet of Fire
Okay that was a rather lame attempt at combining some movie titles to turn your attention to the world of cinema, which occupied Sunday's waking hours.
Saturday was basically 'chore day' (and slipping-over day, as you would recall from earlier post). My thanks to those who emailed me privately to ensure that my butt wasn't too injured. And here's an update - I'm just fine. No more headache neither.
On Saturday night I stuffed and roasted an Amish chicken for myself and Lexie to enjoy for dinner. I only mention that the chicken was Amish because the packet promoted this fact quite liberally so I imagine it is an important distinction in the world of poultry.
Never having before seen a whole chicken prepared for roasting, Lexie was slightly put-off by my hand disappearing up under the chicken skin to delicately flavour the flesh with butter and herby goodness. Even my protests that it was Jaime Oliver's idea didn't calm her fragile nerves.
So distraught was Lexie that the Amish chicken was henceforth christened Franny, to personalise it before the consumption could begin. I would have thought that being Amish, the chicken would have approved of Ruth or Sarah, but who was I to get so personal with the chicken, when I was already contemplating where to stick the lemon wedges and garlic cloves?!
So Franny was stuffed and trussed and deposited into the oven for just over an hour. And boy was she tasty. The garlic roast potatoes were delicious too, if I can say so much myself.
Sunday morning was fairly unremarkable, insofar as it involved me draping myself artistically across the couch in a hungover condition (pre and post-Franny champagne was required the night before you see).
By late Sunday afternoon, Lexie and I were ready to face Downtown, and so we hopped a bus to the cinema to watch the latest Potter instalment. Pardon my French but "kids movie my ass". I wasn't frightened, I hasten to add, but there were some pretty creepy moments in this Goblet of Fire saga.
JK Rowling has created some evil nasties and they have been brought to life fairly creatively by the special effects gurus. I can imagine some little ones in the theatre with us yesterday had some restless dreams last night.
For a complete change of pace, we then crossed town to see a charity premiere screening of "Memoirs of a Geisha". I loved the novel, but admittedly had forgotten the specifics of it. Still, that made the whole movie-going experience quite enjoyable. At the risk of sounding wanky, the cinematography was beautiful and the costumes in this movie were just superb. Okay that's enough of that. But to be honest, see the movie when you're feeling alert. Coming down from a hangover was an invitation to sleep - not to watch a pre-WW2 Japanese epic, filmed in English with Chinese actors. Phew what an emotional rollercoaster.
And so here I am at my new working week. One flat mate in Florida for work; the other house sitting her mum's friend's place about 15 minutes from our apartment.
Living the solo life with no champagne left and no chicken either - Amish or otherwise. Sigh.
Saturday was basically 'chore day' (and slipping-over day, as you would recall from earlier post). My thanks to those who emailed me privately to ensure that my butt wasn't too injured. And here's an update - I'm just fine. No more headache neither.
On Saturday night I stuffed and roasted an Amish chicken for myself and Lexie to enjoy for dinner. I only mention that the chicken was Amish because the packet promoted this fact quite liberally so I imagine it is an important distinction in the world of poultry.
Never having before seen a whole chicken prepared for roasting, Lexie was slightly put-off by my hand disappearing up under the chicken skin to delicately flavour the flesh with butter and herby goodness. Even my protests that it was Jaime Oliver's idea didn't calm her fragile nerves.
So distraught was Lexie that the Amish chicken was henceforth christened Franny, to personalise it before the consumption could begin. I would have thought that being Amish, the chicken would have approved of Ruth or Sarah, but who was I to get so personal with the chicken, when I was already contemplating where to stick the lemon wedges and garlic cloves?!
So Franny was stuffed and trussed and deposited into the oven for just over an hour. And boy was she tasty. The garlic roast potatoes were delicious too, if I can say so much myself.
Sunday morning was fairly unremarkable, insofar as it involved me draping myself artistically across the couch in a hungover condition (pre and post-Franny champagne was required the night before you see).
By late Sunday afternoon, Lexie and I were ready to face Downtown, and so we hopped a bus to the cinema to watch the latest Potter instalment. Pardon my French but "kids movie my ass". I wasn't frightened, I hasten to add, but there were some pretty creepy moments in this Goblet of Fire saga.
JK Rowling has created some evil nasties and they have been brought to life fairly creatively by the special effects gurus. I can imagine some little ones in the theatre with us yesterday had some restless dreams last night.
For a complete change of pace, we then crossed town to see a charity premiere screening of "Memoirs of a Geisha". I loved the novel, but admittedly had forgotten the specifics of it. Still, that made the whole movie-going experience quite enjoyable. At the risk of sounding wanky, the cinematography was beautiful and the costumes in this movie were just superb. Okay that's enough of that. But to be honest, see the movie when you're feeling alert. Coming down from a hangover was an invitation to sleep - not to watch a pre-WW2 Japanese epic, filmed in English with Chinese actors. Phew what an emotional rollercoaster.
And so here I am at my new working week. One flat mate in Florida for work; the other house sitting her mum's friend's place about 15 minutes from our apartment.
Living the solo life with no champagne left and no chicken either - Amish or otherwise. Sigh.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Going AOT in the USA
I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. This morning, I took my first fall on the icy footpath.
And not to do things by half-measures, I fell straight onto my bum.
In front of people.
On a major road.
AND a girl held out her hand and helped me up.
But I recovered quickly from my kamikaze turn, and waddled, wet jeans and all, to the bus stop. I didn't even curse. Not once.
The weirdest thing out of all of this? I fell so hard on my butt that I got a headache. How is that possible?
But before you express too much concern for me, I am okay. I would like to think I fell gracefully (at least that's the way I'm going to be telling this story for the foreseeable future).
And I have adopted an equally graceful - and I like to think attractive - way of stamp-walking. It's not a shuffle; rather, it's a stomp-stomp kind of manoeuvre that will hopefully make it impossible for me to exhibit a repeat performance of today's intimate encounter with the pavement!
And not to do things by half-measures, I fell straight onto my bum.
In front of people.
On a major road.
AND a girl held out her hand and helped me up.
But I recovered quickly from my kamikaze turn, and waddled, wet jeans and all, to the bus stop. I didn't even curse. Not once.
The weirdest thing out of all of this? I fell so hard on my butt that I got a headache. How is that possible?
But before you express too much concern for me, I am okay. I would like to think I fell gracefully (at least that's the way I'm going to be telling this story for the foreseeable future).
And I have adopted an equally graceful - and I like to think attractive - way of stamp-walking. It's not a shuffle; rather, it's a stomp-stomp kind of manoeuvre that will hopefully make it impossible for me to exhibit a repeat performance of today's intimate encounter with the pavement!
Friday, December 09, 2005
The Day of the Triffids
When I was in Year 10 (not so long ago that I can't remember it, thank you Goal Attack!), I had to read John Whats-his-name's work of arguable literary genius, Day of the Triffids.
Not my favourite book studied that year by any means, but was most memorable for the fact that my teacher had a delightful Scottish accent that made the murderous extra-terrestrial plants sound like frolicking leprechauns. It's the Trrrriffids, girrrls, the Trrrrrriffids! Ah, memories.
Anyway, back to my point. When I emerged from my apartment this morning, I couldn't see the steps down to the footpath. People were prodding mountains of snow with shovels, certain that they'd parked their car around there...somewhere. In snow up to my ankles, I trudged through the muck towards my bus stop. Walking through the softly-packed snow is a lot like wrestling uphill in a sand dune. Kinda fun, but a weird sensation at the same time. And you have the distinct impression that you're never actually getting anywhere.
And I wondered whether I should take another look at my calendar, because there was no one around anywhere. Because except for the murderous plants preying on blind people, Chicago really was like a scene from The Day of the Triffids. It was eerily quiet, there was no wind at all, and hardly any people on my usually-packed bus. Was I supposed to go into work today?
Last night's snow storm isn't likely to be repeated now (at least for the forecastable future), and I'm glad for it. I wondered what it would be like if all that snow was to melt en masse. It is slippery enough out there now. Any major meltdown and it will be a veritable Slip 'n' Slide out there!
And I wondered whether I should take another look at my calendar, because there was no one around anywhere. Because except for the murderous plants preying on blind people, Chicago really was like a scene from The Day of the Triffids. It was eerily quiet, there was no wind at all, and hardly any people on my usually-packed bus. Was I supposed to go into work today?
Last night's snow storm isn't likely to be repeated now (at least for the forecastable future), and I'm glad for it. I wondered what it would be like if all that snow was to melt en masse. It is slippery enough out there now. Any major meltdown and it will be a veritable Slip 'n' Slide out there!
Thursday, December 08, 2005
A date with a doona
The snow has been falling (and falling) here in Chicago since about 3pm today. And already there is about 5 inches of snow outside on my side street.
The snow ploughs won't get there till late tomorrow, so it will stay like that all night and though I find it beautiful, it's not too much fun to trudge through it to get to the bus stop.
Speaking of which, the bus ride home normally takes me 20 minutes. In tonight's weather (and subsequent gridlocked traffic), it took nearly one hour! No one complained though, and at least I had a seat the whole way there.
Chicago is pretty like this, especially from my perspective on the couch with a blanket over me. Bliss!
The snow ploughs won't get there till late tomorrow, so it will stay like that all night and though I find it beautiful, it's not too much fun to trudge through it to get to the bus stop.
Speaking of which, the bus ride home normally takes me 20 minutes. In tonight's weather (and subsequent gridlocked traffic), it took nearly one hour! No one complained though, and at least I had a seat the whole way there.
Chicago is pretty like this, especially from my perspective on the couch with a blanket over me. Bliss!
Hang Em High
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care...
along with the rest of Gab's Chicago photos, that are stored on Flickr for friends to review....
along with the rest of Gab's Chicago photos, that are stored on Flickr for friends to review....
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Going Postal
The United States Post Office is a real microcosm of American society. Or so I am now given to believe, following my first visit to such an institution yesterday.
Standing in line, waiting patiently for my turn (and for a disgruntled ex-employee to burst through the door brandishing a shotgun), I observed my fellow customers.
Most were carrying Christmas presents bound for distant friends and relatives. One guy was scratching his head, presumably wondering whether he had left the gas on back at his apartment. But the lady in front of me took the cake.
Actually, she didn't really take the cake, but she DID take a fistful of pamphlets and posting slips from the brochure stand near the line. And stuffed them straight in her pocket.
Why did she do such a thing? No idea. But I was afraid she was concealing a shotgun on her person, so I didn't tap her on the shoulder to ask.
But I loved the lady from the Post Office who walked down the line, grilling each prospective customer in the manner of grouchy Army Sargeant to rookie cadets:
What are you here for?
Do you have everything you need?
Why are you here today?
State your name and business, maggot.
I resolved that, if pressed by this woman, I would dob on the kleptomaniac in front of me and make her empty her pockets and incur the wrath of the postal service.
But it didn't come to that. The purpose of my business was to purchase international postage stamps. How boring. And fortunately for me, NOT a sentence punishable by shotgun death, so I emerged bullet-free and stamps in hand.
Phew.
Standing in line, waiting patiently for my turn (and for a disgruntled ex-employee to burst through the door brandishing a shotgun), I observed my fellow customers.
Most were carrying Christmas presents bound for distant friends and relatives. One guy was scratching his head, presumably wondering whether he had left the gas on back at his apartment. But the lady in front of me took the cake.
Actually, she didn't really take the cake, but she DID take a fistful of pamphlets and posting slips from the brochure stand near the line. And stuffed them straight in her pocket.
Why did she do such a thing? No idea. But I was afraid she was concealing a shotgun on her person, so I didn't tap her on the shoulder to ask.
But I loved the lady from the Post Office who walked down the line, grilling each prospective customer in the manner of grouchy Army Sargeant to rookie cadets:
What are you here for?
Do you have everything you need?
Why are you here today?
State your name and business, maggot.
I resolved that, if pressed by this woman, I would dob on the kleptomaniac in front of me and make her empty her pockets and incur the wrath of the postal service.
But it didn't come to that. The purpose of my business was to purchase international postage stamps. How boring. And fortunately for me, NOT a sentence punishable by shotgun death, so I emerged bullet-free and stamps in hand.
Phew.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Bring Out Your Candy!
I congratulated myself on surviving my first American Thanksgiving, and not making too big a pig of myself either. And there I was thinking that the next big celebration to come is Christmas.
No one - not my room mates; not the newspapers; not even Hallmark Cards - thought to inform me about the 5 December visit of St Nicholas!
I always thought that St Nicholas and Father Christmas were the same person. But to the Americans, they are clearly not. Oh there are some similarities, though. Both visitors are nocturnal and, to my knowledge, fat old farts with beards.
But where Father Christmas specialises in depositing gifts under trees resplendent with twinky lights and candy canes, the sole mission of St Nicholas is to visit households in the dead of night and leave leftover Halloween candy in the stockings that have been hung by the chimney with care.
Oh okay now that I write that, I understand the next line of that rhyme...in the hope that St Nicholas soon will be there. But am I correct friends, in recalling that the rhyme is called Twas the Night Before Christmas? Do you think that's because Twas the 5th of December sounded crap? Because it does, you can admit it. I won't tell anyone.
Anyway, St Nicholas did leave me some candy in my stocking - so much so that it collapsed from its perch on the mantlepiece and instead was resting on the coffee table.
I do love St Nicholas. I just hope that Father Christmas was watching, and can see the high standard that has been set for him.
Monday, December 05, 2005
STOP PRESS: Beanies cause deafness
So I get on the bus this morning, and am all primed to scan my Chicago Card like a responsible little patron. Imagine my surprise when, on assuming the usual card-scanning position, the card scanner was not there.
It was then that I realised exactly what the bus driver had been yelling at me since I climbed aboard his bus: CHICAGO CARDS ON THE LEFT
And indeed, when I looked around the corner of the bus to my left, I found the Chicago Card scanner.
So what had I been hearing him say instead? SHOPPING CARTS ON THE LEFT
Nope, it didn't make any sense to me at the time either. Stupid woollen beanie.
The blonde that gentlemen preferred
What is the collective noun for snow? I know that there is a 'gaggle of geese', and a 'murder of crows', but how does one correctly refer to the inches of snow that fell from the heavens over the weekend? It wasn't a trickle; it wasn't a dusting. It was a dump.
So there you have it - a DUMP of snow. And all the money my parents spent on my education too...
I was fortunate enough to be able to hide from said dumping by closeting myself away at a Film Center downtown. I joined about 30 other cineophiles to enjoy Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell in "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes".
I tried very hard not to belt out "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" but I couldn't help humming - particularly because the women to my right were doing it. At least I did it in tune, but that's by the by.
I have committed myself to watching a few more Marilyn gems as the special Monroe movie festival rolls out between now and Christmas. All in the name of escapism of course.
Speaking of which, once the movie had concluded, I emerged to the freezing cold State Street and stopped into the Marshall Field's flagship store. The place is beautiful. For Adelaide readers, try and picture what the David Jones store used to be like in the Mall - all marbled, glitz and glamour. Okay, you got it? Marshall Fields is nothing like that. Haha only kidding - it IS like that. The store is an institution in Chicago and, every year, has Christmas window displays that attract young and old to view them. Some of the windows look a little tired if you ask me, but I don't suppose I get a say in this, so I'll butt out.
In any case, Marshall Fields becomes a Macy's store as of February 2006 which has Chicago divided - is it a good idea or not? I'm on the side of NOT - and that's mostly because Macy's conjures up New York for me. Chicago is Marshall Field's town. But as I said, I don't get a say in this so I'll butt out.
So if anybody needs me, I'll be at a Marilyn movie.
So there you have it - a DUMP of snow. And all the money my parents spent on my education too...
I was fortunate enough to be able to hide from said dumping by closeting myself away at a Film Center downtown. I joined about 30 other cineophiles to enjoy Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell in "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes".
I tried very hard not to belt out "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" but I couldn't help humming - particularly because the women to my right were doing it. At least I did it in tune, but that's by the by.
I have committed myself to watching a few more Marilyn gems as the special Monroe movie festival rolls out between now and Christmas. All in the name of escapism of course.
Speaking of which, once the movie had concluded, I emerged to the freezing cold State Street and stopped into the Marshall Field's flagship store. The place is beautiful. For Adelaide readers, try and picture what the David Jones store used to be like in the Mall - all marbled, glitz and glamour. Okay, you got it? Marshall Fields is nothing like that. Haha only kidding - it IS like that. The store is an institution in Chicago and, every year, has Christmas window displays that attract young and old to view them. Some of the windows look a little tired if you ask me, but I don't suppose I get a say in this, so I'll butt out.
In any case, Marshall Fields becomes a Macy's store as of February 2006 which has Chicago divided - is it a good idea or not? I'm on the side of NOT - and that's mostly because Macy's conjures up New York for me. Chicago is Marshall Field's town. But as I said, I don't get a say in this so I'll butt out.
So if anybody needs me, I'll be at a Marilyn movie.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Just you wait, Enry Iggins
I telephoned home last night (my time) and chatted to a work friend I hadn't spoken to since I left Australia. The first thing she said to me was, "oh you're getting an American accent!".
Am I?!
The last thing I wanted to do when I came here was to adopt one of those plummy hybrid foreign accents made infamous by Kylie, Madonna, and Nicole. But if Clare is detecting some unfamiliar tones in my voice, perhaps my efforts have been in vain. I certainly don't sound as American as my new 'countrypeople' (to be all-inclusive), and I'm well aware with each interaction that I speak differently to them.
That said, I do have to admit to doctoring my speech slightly in order to be better understood here. The following is a list of new words I have had to adopt in order to get what I want in this great big land. I confess right now that I cringe when I say some of them - I'll leave you guys to speculate which ones:
sweater
faucet
sidewalk
java jacket (poxy little cardboard thingies that go around take-away coffee)
oatmeal
soda
blizzard
Actually I just threw that last word in because of the weather today - a crisp MINUS 9 DEGREES CELCIUS this morning, and so it's the first word that springs to my mind. I don't want to talk about it though, with ANY accent!
And so I sit here contemplating all the other things I've started to say 'funny'. I am conscious of rolling my 'r's all the more now - because when I order 'water' at a restaurant, I get a blank look. Then I realise they've actually heard the word "worta" and the blank look is entirely explicable. So I have to repeat myself, and articulate the r at the end of my word.
Eliza Doolittle, eat your heart out!
Thursday, December 01, 2005
The nearer your destination, the more you're slip sliding away
I have an awkward head. I look silly in a beanie, or hats of any kind for that matter. I've never taken a poll to determine how widespread this assessment is shared, but I neverthless feel like an idiot when I don any piece of headwear. Perhaps it comes from having to wear straw hats at high school during the summer, and then berets in winter. Maybe I'm scarred, I don't know. But fortunately I've been able to avoid putting anything on my head since my schoolgirl days. At least, that is, until this morning.
The snow was falling quite heavily this morning, and settling well on the powdery whiteness that had covered the ground overnight. From my peek outside, I just knew that this was the sort of morning that meant my head would feel super cold if left exposed to the elements. It's weird actually. It is possible for the weather to be TOO cold to snow, but somehow (to me anyway) it actually feels colder when it DOES snow. Maybe it's a state of mind thing.
So I squeezed my egg head into a red knitted beanie and tried not to look at myself in the mirror as I left the house. I have been told that "Chicago in the winter time is not about fashion". Good advice, I thought, and I plan to quote that to anyone who sniggers at me today.
Setting foot outside my apartment, I nearly took a sliding tumble on the concrete footpath. White powdery snow can be damn slippery. When one is wearing knee high stiletto boots that is (as I'm sure many of you are well aware). So as I was cursing my oddly-shaped head, I was equally cursing myself for not having made it to Marshall Fields to buy snow shoes yet.
But somehow I made it to work without falling down (not counting the near misses though), and no one laughed at my head or my beanie - but I have to admit to chuckling at my own hat hair. If you can't laugh at yourself from time to time, what hope is left for you?
Tonight I have made a vow to myself to visit a snow shoe emporium on Michigan Avenue before I head to the premiere of the new Jim Carrey movie. I am not going to suffer the indignity of risking a fall on my butt in the middle of the street - wearing a beanie is bad enough.
The snow was falling quite heavily this morning, and settling well on the powdery whiteness that had covered the ground overnight. From my peek outside, I just knew that this was the sort of morning that meant my head would feel super cold if left exposed to the elements. It's weird actually. It is possible for the weather to be TOO cold to snow, but somehow (to me anyway) it actually feels colder when it DOES snow. Maybe it's a state of mind thing.
So I squeezed my egg head into a red knitted beanie and tried not to look at myself in the mirror as I left the house. I have been told that "Chicago in the winter time is not about fashion". Good advice, I thought, and I plan to quote that to anyone who sniggers at me today.
Setting foot outside my apartment, I nearly took a sliding tumble on the concrete footpath. White powdery snow can be damn slippery. When one is wearing knee high stiletto boots that is (as I'm sure many of you are well aware). So as I was cursing my oddly-shaped head, I was equally cursing myself for not having made it to Marshall Fields to buy snow shoes yet.
But somehow I made it to work without falling down (not counting the near misses though), and no one laughed at my head or my beanie - but I have to admit to chuckling at my own hat hair. If you can't laugh at yourself from time to time, what hope is left for you?
Tonight I have made a vow to myself to visit a snow shoe emporium on Michigan Avenue before I head to the premiere of the new Jim Carrey movie. I am not going to suffer the indignity of risking a fall on my butt in the middle of the street - wearing a beanie is bad enough.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Put another dime in the jukebox, baby
I forgot all about sharing the details of last night's adventures with you - my bad (another Americanism)!
On Monday afternoon I emailed Caroline and asked whether she'd like to join me for dinner at a restaurant up the road from me that I'd been dying to try for ages. It's a basic Italian trattoria called "Angelina's", but it always looks so warm and cosy in there, that I couldn't help but wonder what the food was like.
Caroline accepted, and we met there last night. After a glass of Chianti; an onion tart; and half a delicious pasta, I declared the venue "fantastico" and retired with Caro to the bar next door.
Now I am just old enough to remember when the Royal Oak Hotel back home was what I like to call "a bum-crack pub". You know the type I mean - the sort of place you'd expect to find the cast of Cheers, sitting around in flanny shirts with their bum cracks peeking out over their ill-fitting jeans.
Well "Joe's on Broadway" is just such a place. And I loved it. There were about 6 people in the bar, all passing around the one set of dentures between them.
The barman alternated his time between solving the crossword and serving beers to his parched patrons. [Memo to me, he had a rather extensive list of imported beers, which was a lovely surprise].
But it was the jukebox that gave the joint a gold star in my book. I treated the crowd to some real gems - a bit of Van Morrison, some Monkees, the dulcet tones of Sam Cook, and then I threw in some good old John Cougar Mellancamp - just to keep the spirits high. Oh how we enjoyed it.
Okay, oh how I enjoyed it. Whatever. I'll be back, and they'll be sorry.
On Monday afternoon I emailed Caroline and asked whether she'd like to join me for dinner at a restaurant up the road from me that I'd been dying to try for ages. It's a basic Italian trattoria called "Angelina's", but it always looks so warm and cosy in there, that I couldn't help but wonder what the food was like.
Caroline accepted, and we met there last night. After a glass of Chianti; an onion tart; and half a delicious pasta, I declared the venue "fantastico" and retired with Caro to the bar next door.
Now I am just old enough to remember when the Royal Oak Hotel back home was what I like to call "a bum-crack pub". You know the type I mean - the sort of place you'd expect to find the cast of Cheers, sitting around in flanny shirts with their bum cracks peeking out over their ill-fitting jeans.
Well "Joe's on Broadway" is just such a place. And I loved it. There were about 6 people in the bar, all passing around the one set of dentures between them.
The barman alternated his time between solving the crossword and serving beers to his parched patrons. [Memo to me, he had a rather extensive list of imported beers, which was a lovely surprise].
But it was the jukebox that gave the joint a gold star in my book. I treated the crowd to some real gems - a bit of Van Morrison, some Monkees, the dulcet tones of Sam Cook, and then I threw in some good old John Cougar Mellancamp - just to keep the spirits high. Oh how we enjoyed it.
Okay, oh how I enjoyed it. Whatever. I'll be back, and they'll be sorry.
Walking in a Winter Wonderland
Kudos to Peter and Jess for this great photo, and a shameless plug for their Swiss blog besides!
Outside my Chicago apartment, it is minus 4 degrees Celcius. And to breathe the air makes my lungs constrict, which doesn't feel all that pleasant. So I said 'phooey' to any kind of social life for this evening, and have opted instead to don track pants, ugg boots, and a sweater (one of my only Americanisms to date) and enjoy a hot coffee and an online surf.
Sounds like a good evening to me, particularly given that tomorrow morning - THIS is the kind of scenery I'll wake up to. My street will be coated in soft white powdery snow, and slippery bits of concrete just waiting for me to step on them. And there is no respite from the snow expected until late Friday night, so it's scarves and thermal undies all the way, my friends.
Soak up the sun Down Under - and please don't tell me anything about it. But if anyone wants to lobby Peter Alexander for some freebie flannie PJs for me, I'd be most grateful.
Outside my Chicago apartment, it is minus 4 degrees Celcius. And to breathe the air makes my lungs constrict, which doesn't feel all that pleasant. So I said 'phooey' to any kind of social life for this evening, and have opted instead to don track pants, ugg boots, and a sweater (one of my only Americanisms to date) and enjoy a hot coffee and an online surf.
Sounds like a good evening to me, particularly given that tomorrow morning - THIS is the kind of scenery I'll wake up to. My street will be coated in soft white powdery snow, and slippery bits of concrete just waiting for me to step on them. And there is no respite from the snow expected until late Friday night, so it's scarves and thermal undies all the way, my friends.
Soak up the sun Down Under - and please don't tell me anything about it. But if anyone wants to lobby Peter Alexander for some freebie flannie PJs for me, I'd be most grateful.
The wheels on the bus go round and round
The latest 'amusing musings' from dear Batreg made me smile. It seems that the Scottish public transportation authorities are remaining true to form in their efforts to make her feel well and truly part of the landscape - almost literally. I would encourage you to take a look at AB's site, if you haven't already done so (or bookmarked it for frequent attention).
But Reg's comments made me think about my own public transportation adventures. Last night I was the very embodiment of the Good Samaritan, as I gave a lady $1 for bus fare. Hey, it was cold and I subscribe to the Golden Rule when it comes to things like this. I'd like to think that someone would lend ME bus fare if it was bloody cold outside and I was financially bereft.
My bus rides each day are actually very quick. From where I live, it is about a 20 minute Downtown in peak hour traffic. I live one block away from the bus stop (very good for winter time especially), and then I walk via Starbucks to get to my office - everybody wins!
And Chicago's Transport Authority (creatively acronymed the CTA) has a great website with a trip planner that assists me to schlep around this great City aboard its very clean buses, and Elevated trains. [Just as an aside, I watched ER the other night and still get excited seeing the EL trains, knowing that they buzz around this town all the time, only a few blocks from my home].
I bought a neat little public transport card that automatically gets renewed each month so I don't have to worry about having the correct change for bus tickets, and the card I use is valid on all public transport modes. All I have to do is wave it over a little scanner when I get on the bus - no mess, no fuss. Now I know that this system is not unique to Chicago. Paris has its Cartes Oranges, and London has a top-up card thingy, but I'm pretty happy with the Chicago Transit Card, and it makes my life so much easier. I should mention that I am not getting paid for this endorsement either, though the idea of that is appealing.
And to bring this post back to where it started, the only criticism I have of the Chicago public transportation system is that its drivers are VERY eager to demonstrate their competent use of their brakes and accelerators. Just like the Scottish drivers, these Chicagoans enthusiastically put the pedal to the metal, and then just as righteously hit the skids.
So if ever I'm forced to stand up on the bus, I join my fellow sardines in a rather intimate dance of excuse mes and sorry about thats the whole 20 minute drive home. But at least I have yet to be hit by a bus, or have one drive right past me. I'll leave that up to Batreg!
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Twinkle Twinkle Dancing Stars
I went to the cinema last night with Lexie, to an advanced screening of the movie version of the Mel Brooks musical, "The Producers".
Putting it out there first up, I am not an Uma Thurman fan. Sure, she kicked butt in "Kill Bill" but I just don't think she's an attractive woman. And in this movie, she plays a Swedish stage actress who comically towers head-and-shoulders above the delightful Matthew Broderick. And she can sing, I suppose, so I'm not knocking that. But she's awfully tall and awfully thin, and it just kills me. But it is Nathan Lane and Will Farrell who steal the show, as far as I'm concerned. The film was really good, and so funny. I'm sure that if I saw it onstage I would have found the whole experience hysterical.
What I enjoyed most about the film was the guy sitting next to me. Every time Will Farrell came on the screen, the guy started to laugh...and laugh. I don't think he actually heard any of Will's lines - he was cracking up at the mere sight of him. Now THAT's entertainment!
Emerging from the cinema just after 9pm, I beheld another visual treat. Michigan Avenue is aglow with Christmas lights. My parents's outdoor entertaining area back home is resplendent with some 600+ fairy lights, which I thought was a lot. And so did my Dad, since he hammered them all in! But Michigan Avenue just goes above and beyond the Yuletide call of duty. Every size, style, and coloured light you can think of twinkles and sparkles the length of the Magnificent Mile. It is simply spectacular. Is it wrong that my first though was, why doesn't anyone try and steal these things?.
Anyway, I doubt photos will do them justice, but I'm going back Downtown this Saturday night, so I'll slip my camera in my bag and do my best to take good shots.
Lexie came back from Wisconsin last night with a 6ft Christmas tree to go in our sunroom which, at this time of year, is getting no sun at all. But the room is starting to look festive, and will even get its fresh lick of paint this week, which will be splendid.
It's certainly beginning to look a lot like Christmas, and I find myself getting into the Christmas spirit early. There just doesn't seem to be any Bah-Humbuggery around this town, and I really love that.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Giving Thanks
Thanks to those eagle-eyed and expectant readers of this high-brow blog, who have wasted no time at sticking the boot in, to tell me off for not writing with my usual regularity. They dared to suggest that I have found recreational pursuits to keep me from blogging. Would I dare to have a life? Moi? Come on people, you know better than that!! And you know me well enough by now to be sure that any and all extra-curricular activities are blogged about eventually! If I leave you for a day or two in order to get out and about, you must take comfort in the fact that I'll share the down and dirty details with you eventually...
And here we are.
This morning saw my return to work, from a four-day hiatus to enjoy the quintessential American holiday, Thanksgiving. I'm not sure I can remember everything I did over the weekend (owing to the onset of a cold that is making my head fuzzy) but here goes.
THURSDAY
After finishing work Wednesday night with pizza and red wine, I farewelled my room mates as they returned to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving weekend. That left me all alone in my entire building - I kid you not. My apartment building has only 3 apartments in it. The girls on the ground floor went home for the weekend; the first floor apartment is vacant anyway; and the top floor apartment is mine. So being alone all weekend had an element of fun to it, but also a bit of fear. I heard every creak of a floorboard and every door slam made me nervous. Still, the security is good in the building and any intruder/mountain goat willing to climb three flights of stairs to attack me is welcome to it.
Thursday itself was fairly uneventful. It was really cold (about minus 7 degrees Celcius) so I made a date with my couch and watched DVDs. Then at around 4.30pm I walked the 7-8 blocks to Caroline's place, all rugged up and warm as toast. Stopping only for champagne at the supermarket (as you do), I made it to Caroline's with rosy cheeks and a big smile for all the other Thanksgiving guests. I took photos, so don't worry. [And thanks for the surprise phone call, J xo]
The meal was huge - lots of turkey, corn casserole, mashed potatoes with goat cheese mixed in, green vegetables, and all finished up with pumpkin pie (still yuck), tiramisu, and steaming Italian coffee. At about midnight, Rakesh and Nicolette dropped me home and I fell into a contented sleep.
FRIDAY
When I awoke on Friday, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It had warmed up, but was now about zero degrees, and cold enough to snow. Which is did, but only late in the afternoon.
By that time I had gone shopping for provisions for my house warming party on Saturday night, and then agreed to meet friends downtown for the Christmas tree lighting ceremony and the German Market (Christkindl). Jumping on the bus, trying to work out what I was doing in the freezing cold weather, I braved the city crowds to find locate my friends, who greeted me at the entrance to the market with a steaming cup of glufwein in hand for me (to the uninitiated, glufwein is not spelled correctly here, but is actually warm red wine mixed with spices like cinnamon and such). After two souvenir steins of that wine, we were all fairly merry and ready to join the oompah band in a rousing knee-slapping dance.
Fortunately for all concerned, there was no oompah band.
And then the snow started to fall. And fall. And fall. So we bailed early, without having seen the tree lighting ceremony, and I took myself off home.
SATURDAY
The day of the house warming party arrived. Again, I hit the shops for extra provisions, not entirely sure just how many people would rock up. Fast forward to the night time and a grand total of 7 people passed through my house. And that included me.
So how pathetic was that? Only one person from work showed up, and I think she was more embarrassed than I was that more Aussies didn't show. As it turned out though, the other Aussies were all out partying so I suppose they were living up to reputation. It's just that they weren't partying at my house, which would have been nice I would have thought.
But we were all tired after the rush of Thanksgiving, so everyone had gone by 2am and I cleaned up the house and went to bed.
SUNDAY
I flatly refused to exert myself on Sunday, and instead I wandered down the street to my boss's apartment, to pick up a 20kg box of clothes my lovely family sent over for me. Then I spent the rest of the day watching "Dirty Dancing" and "High Fidelity" on TV, and running up and down stairs to the laundromat to clean my clothes and towels. What a day, eh?
Still the relaxing end to the weekend made me actually feel like I'd slowed down and eased out of the Thanksgiving break. Over 2 million passengers passed through Chicago's O'Hare airport this weekend. So if I was going to be Thankful for anything (as you're supposed to be at this time of year), I guess I am thankful that I wasn't one of them.
And here we are.
This morning saw my return to work, from a four-day hiatus to enjoy the quintessential American holiday, Thanksgiving. I'm not sure I can remember everything I did over the weekend (owing to the onset of a cold that is making my head fuzzy) but here goes.
THURSDAY
After finishing work Wednesday night with pizza and red wine, I farewelled my room mates as they returned to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving weekend. That left me all alone in my entire building - I kid you not. My apartment building has only 3 apartments in it. The girls on the ground floor went home for the weekend; the first floor apartment is vacant anyway; and the top floor apartment is mine. So being alone all weekend had an element of fun to it, but also a bit of fear. I heard every creak of a floorboard and every door slam made me nervous. Still, the security is good in the building and any intruder/mountain goat willing to climb three flights of stairs to attack me is welcome to it.
Thursday itself was fairly uneventful. It was really cold (about minus 7 degrees Celcius) so I made a date with my couch and watched DVDs. Then at around 4.30pm I walked the 7-8 blocks to Caroline's place, all rugged up and warm as toast. Stopping only for champagne at the supermarket (as you do), I made it to Caroline's with rosy cheeks and a big smile for all the other Thanksgiving guests. I took photos, so don't worry. [And thanks for the surprise phone call, J xo]
The meal was huge - lots of turkey, corn casserole, mashed potatoes with goat cheese mixed in, green vegetables, and all finished up with pumpkin pie (still yuck), tiramisu, and steaming Italian coffee. At about midnight, Rakesh and Nicolette dropped me home and I fell into a contented sleep.
FRIDAY
When I awoke on Friday, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It had warmed up, but was now about zero degrees, and cold enough to snow. Which is did, but only late in the afternoon.
By that time I had gone shopping for provisions for my house warming party on Saturday night, and then agreed to meet friends downtown for the Christmas tree lighting ceremony and the German Market (Christkindl). Jumping on the bus, trying to work out what I was doing in the freezing cold weather, I braved the city crowds to find locate my friends, who greeted me at the entrance to the market with a steaming cup of glufwein in hand for me (to the uninitiated, glufwein is not spelled correctly here, but is actually warm red wine mixed with spices like cinnamon and such). After two souvenir steins of that wine, we were all fairly merry and ready to join the oompah band in a rousing knee-slapping dance.
Fortunately for all concerned, there was no oompah band.
And then the snow started to fall. And fall. And fall. So we bailed early, without having seen the tree lighting ceremony, and I took myself off home.
SATURDAY
The day of the house warming party arrived. Again, I hit the shops for extra provisions, not entirely sure just how many people would rock up. Fast forward to the night time and a grand total of 7 people passed through my house. And that included me.
So how pathetic was that? Only one person from work showed up, and I think she was more embarrassed than I was that more Aussies didn't show. As it turned out though, the other Aussies were all out partying so I suppose they were living up to reputation. It's just that they weren't partying at my house, which would have been nice I would have thought.
But we were all tired after the rush of Thanksgiving, so everyone had gone by 2am and I cleaned up the house and went to bed.
SUNDAY
I flatly refused to exert myself on Sunday, and instead I wandered down the street to my boss's apartment, to pick up a 20kg box of clothes my lovely family sent over for me. Then I spent the rest of the day watching "Dirty Dancing" and "High Fidelity" on TV, and running up and down stairs to the laundromat to clean my clothes and towels. What a day, eh?
Still the relaxing end to the weekend made me actually feel like I'd slowed down and eased out of the Thanksgiving break. Over 2 million passengers passed through Chicago's O'Hare airport this weekend. So if I was going to be Thankful for anything (as you're supposed to be at this time of year), I guess I am thankful that I wasn't one of them.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
That name again is Mr Plough
I awoke this morning to realise that Grace Street was buried somewhere under a few inches of freshly-fallen snow.
The nocturnal flurries had blanketed the road and all the cars with crunchy ice and snow, and the effect was just beautiful.
I walked to the bus stop looking like a little eskimo and, no kidding, the snow was falling like little shreds of toilet paper floating through the air.
Once I got downtown though, things looked decidedly bleaker. The dry snow had given way to a wet drizzle and the puddles and greyness dulled my spirits somewhat. Even a warming Starbucks couldn't lift me out of the fug.
But the promise of drinks after work today, and a free ticket to "The Producers" on Monday night is buoying me slightly. And by 'slightly', I mean 'a lot'.
Happy Thanksgiving!!
The nocturnal flurries had blanketed the road and all the cars with crunchy ice and snow, and the effect was just beautiful.
I walked to the bus stop looking like a little eskimo and, no kidding, the snow was falling like little shreds of toilet paper floating through the air.
Once I got downtown though, things looked decidedly bleaker. The dry snow had given way to a wet drizzle and the puddles and greyness dulled my spirits somewhat. Even a warming Starbucks couldn't lift me out of the fug.
But the promise of drinks after work today, and a free ticket to "The Producers" on Monday night is buoying me slightly. And by 'slightly', I mean 'a lot'.
Happy Thanksgiving!!
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Meat, Muscle, and Missy
This will be a bit of a bumper post today, folks. I have been a bit remiss with the posting of late, and the reasons for that will soon be abundantly clear. In a nutshell, I have had one of those weekends that had me pulled in so many directions. And I loved it! So here goes:
Friday Night
Lexie's friend Carskey was over from Wisconsin and we went out for sushi a few blocks from my house. I can't use chopsticks, so I ate most of the meal with my fingers. Including the eel. Even cooked, it's a slimy little sucker. The plum wine, although a tradition, was pretty gross too. But being the polite girl I am, I imbibed a few glasses.
Then it was on to the Hye Bar where during the week they have live band karaoke. On Friday nights they just have drunk men and women falling off bar stools.
On one of the few trips to the ladies room, I discovered that the Hye Bar is actually Scottish - there is a thistle on the bar's logo. Aww my peeps! So I have made a pledge to go back there - both for live band karaoke AND for the cute barman.
Rather than head home, we caught the El train (above-ground, just like in ER) to Cesar's, the Mexican restaurant that Caroline and I had visited a few weeks previously. Downstairs, and unbeknownst to me, there is a groovy bar that sells margaritas as big as my head. And that's pretty big...but good. One lime margarita later, and I was ready for bed.
Saturday
I woke up fairly late on Saturday morning, and was hardly surprised. Lex and Carskey had caught the train to Navy Pier to see "Harry Potter" at the IMAX. I spent the day performing the weekly chore of cleaning my bedroom and bathroom, and doing the laundry. The less said about this the better, however my hangover had substantially improved by the end of the afternoon.
On Saturday night I went to Caroline's and then we shared a cab out to a fantastic restaurant called Fogo Di Chao to celebrate our friend Nicolette's 25th birthday.
Fogo di Chao is a Brazilian place, along a similar line to Gaucho's in Adelaide. But here, the restaurant gives each diner a little disk. It's red on one side, and green on the other. Waiters then drift around the restaurant carrying about 11 varieties of skewered meats. If your green disk is showing, they'll stop by your table and offer you some meat. You can accept it or decline it and, once you're ready to stop for a while, you just turn your disk over to red. The salad bar is also exceptional, and helps to break up the artery-clogging potential of a full-meat menu.
After dinner, Caroline and I disappeared with Nicolette and her husband Rakesh to the Ghost Bar, a very trendy place a block or so away from my office. Rakesh knows the barman there, and our drinks were free. I knew I liked that place.
Then Caro and I went home in a cab, but she dropped me off at a pub called Guthries that offers patrons a back room to play board games. It sounds daggy, but it's actually quite fun. When I got there to meet Lexie and Caskie, they were there with 2 more of Lexie's friends from Wisconsin. They were in the middle of a rather frantic game of 'Trivial Pursuit'. I joined in where I could, and actually got some questions right, which made me feel pretty good.
Sunday
The next day I was up crazy early, something like 8.45am. I think I overheated as I slept, and the first thing I did when I got up was turned down the furnace. Having the heating duct in my bedroom has SOME good points, but can also be a bit of a nightmare as I discovered that day.
So I got myself down to the supermarket and bought some fresh vegetables to make a big saucepan of soup to take to work this week. Mum & I used to make it back home and it's called "Miracle Soup", owing to the fact it has no fat in it. But it does have a lot of vegetables, tomato pulp, and tobasco sauce. The batch I made was delicious, if I can say so myself. But Lexie had a bowl too and she declared it 'super good'. Bless her.
I got a chance to flex my muscles a bit on Sunday night - literally. When Caroline moved to Chicago, the guy that owned the flat she bought left behind a leather sofa bed. Far from being generous, he left it there because the thing is so damned heavy he couldn't easily move it if he wanted to. Caroline bought herself a new couch and didn't need the leather one any more, so she offered it to Lexie and I if we could make use of it. And we decided we could.
But of course that meant we had to shift it, and that was not easy. Lexie arranged for her cousin, Alex to bring his truck and help us out. I'm so glad he did, because even with the three of us lifting the couch up three flights of stairs, it was not easy going! It took us over an hour to get the couch up the narrow staircases and into our apartment. Alex now has our undying gratitude but it would not surprise me if we never see him again - just in case he expects us to give him more chores to do! Who can blame him for that?
Then, just as you'd think I'd collapse from weekend exhaustion, Melissa from work had called me and told me that Missy Higgins was playing Chicago in a club about 5 minutes drive from my house on Sunday night. Did I want to go? YOU BET. So I went along to her gig and she is a fantastic performer. Her voice is crystal clear and so strong. And she got on stage, took her shoes and socks off, and got comfortable. She was great. And I got to meet her after the show AND had my photo taken with her. Melissa has the picture on her camera, and I promise to upload it when Melissa remembers to bring it in for me.
So after this weekend wrap-up, you can see why my brain has not been on blogging. But given that I have the rest of this week off because of the Thanksgiving Holiday (with snow forecast non-stop), I hope that the next time I post, it will be just as eventual a report, with pictures to match.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
I think it's "The Chaz"...a dog day afternoon
As I watched the snow fall outside my office window yesterday afternoon, my mind wandered to the contents of my fridge at home. What was in there that could constitute dinner? Did I have to make a trip to the supermarket on my way home or, worse still, would I have to get home to drop my work bags off and THEN head out to the supermarket? Given the weather conditions, Option A was obviously the lesser of two evils.
I was on the bus and snowflakes were still fluttering down. Given my lack of experience with all things snowy, I had no way of knowing whether the end of the snowfall was in sight. All I knew for sure was that an English muffin with peanut butter, plus a bowl of cereal with hot milk, was sounding like the best dinner ever. And so it was that I got home, changed into warm clothes, wrapped myself in my sleeping bag, and ate breakfast for dinner.
When Sarah went out to the gym at 8.30pm I was left to look after her Rottweiler, Chaz. He is staying with us until Sarah goes home to Wisconsin this weekend to drop him off. He’s a lovely dog with an inquisitive nature and very calm temperament. She rescued him from the Humane Society and I can scarcely believe that someone would have allowed him to be there in the first place. He is a smart dog and very quiet but also protective – of all of us, not just of Sarah.
But boy can that dog fart! Sarah returned from the gym, came into the lounge room where Chaz and I had been lying pretty much motionless since she had left about an hour earlier. Sarah walked in, sniffed the air, and announced that Chaz’s bowels had obviously been venting some pretty noxious substances during her absence. No kidding! I nodded politely, given that the foul air had retarded my vocal chords. She laughed and conceded that his flatulence was a condition that she should perhaps have disclosed to me at some stage. Again, no kidding!
My dog-sitting days over, I retreated to my bedroom and fell into an exhausted sleep under my heavenly IKEA quilt.
I awoke this morning to realise the snow had melted away. The air outside was a very crisp -6 degrees celcius, too cold even for snow to fall. But I wrapped myself up in my new long jacket that has me resembling an extra from Doctor Zhivago – fur collar and all. And I don’t think that I have been warmer in my life! The jacket was a fantastic investment even though the sheer glamour of the fur collar made me wonder if it was a little too “va-va-voom”, even for me. But I will doubt its suitability no longer. And when paired with my knee-high boots and leather gloves, I like to think that I am contributing to the chic of this beautiful City.
I was on the bus and snowflakes were still fluttering down. Given my lack of experience with all things snowy, I had no way of knowing whether the end of the snowfall was in sight. All I knew for sure was that an English muffin with peanut butter, plus a bowl of cereal with hot milk, was sounding like the best dinner ever. And so it was that I got home, changed into warm clothes, wrapped myself in my sleeping bag, and ate breakfast for dinner.
When Sarah went out to the gym at 8.30pm I was left to look after her Rottweiler, Chaz. He is staying with us until Sarah goes home to Wisconsin this weekend to drop him off. He’s a lovely dog with an inquisitive nature and very calm temperament. She rescued him from the Humane Society and I can scarcely believe that someone would have allowed him to be there in the first place. He is a smart dog and very quiet but also protective – of all of us, not just of Sarah.
But boy can that dog fart! Sarah returned from the gym, came into the lounge room where Chaz and I had been lying pretty much motionless since she had left about an hour earlier. Sarah walked in, sniffed the air, and announced that Chaz’s bowels had obviously been venting some pretty noxious substances during her absence. No kidding! I nodded politely, given that the foul air had retarded my vocal chords. She laughed and conceded that his flatulence was a condition that she should perhaps have disclosed to me at some stage. Again, no kidding!
My dog-sitting days over, I retreated to my bedroom and fell into an exhausted sleep under my heavenly IKEA quilt.
I awoke this morning to realise the snow had melted away. The air outside was a very crisp -6 degrees celcius, too cold even for snow to fall. But I wrapped myself up in my new long jacket that has me resembling an extra from Doctor Zhivago – fur collar and all. And I don’t think that I have been warmer in my life! The jacket was a fantastic investment even though the sheer glamour of the fur collar made me wonder if it was a little too “va-va-voom”, even for me. But I will doubt its suitability no longer. And when paired with my knee-high boots and leather gloves, I like to think that I am contributing to the chic of this beautiful City.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
And it begins
Next time you go to the supermarket, wander to the Frozen Foods aisle. Make a space in the freezer by clearing aside the frozen pizzas, vegetables, and party pies. Then climb in and try and get as close to the frozen air jets as you can. Better yet, deposit yourself in one of the freezers with a lid or doors. Then you will immediately have empathy for my walk to work this morning.
I wore my stockings, long boots, North Face jacket, scarf, and woollen gloves. I had a delicious coffee in my system, but the cold wind blasted my face and dried out my eyeballs. And of course it was only -2 degrees Celcius. They tell me it gets MUCH worse than this. And I'm forced to believe them, because Chicagoans were walking past me this morning with regular jackets and without gloves or beanies.
There was no snow on my walk to work this morning, despite the forecast, but perhaps it was falling in the suburbs. The weather is bad in the Midwest, with tornadoes and hail reported in Indiana. We don't need to worry about the tornadoes coming up to Chicago though, because the city scape is too dense to give the tornadoes sufficient space to spread out and cause enough destruction. But between the buildings here, that is another story. The wind is cold and fierce and seems to target me especially. My ears were cold, my hair felt frozen, and my cheeks hurt. And it was only -2 degrees Celcius this morning.
As I type this of course, the first of winter's snowfalls has begun. It's not very enthusiastic right now, but it is definitely there, and it is hitting the ground. I know I will acclimatise eventually, but right now I am just staring at it and shivering.
I wonder if I can rig up a pair of hot water bottles as ear muffs? I am sure if I can assemble an IKEA bedside table, I'm capable of just about anything. And coming up with that nutty suggestion just proves it.
Oh dear.
I wore my stockings, long boots, North Face jacket, scarf, and woollen gloves. I had a delicious coffee in my system, but the cold wind blasted my face and dried out my eyeballs. And of course it was only -2 degrees Celcius. They tell me it gets MUCH worse than this. And I'm forced to believe them, because Chicagoans were walking past me this morning with regular jackets and without gloves or beanies.
There was no snow on my walk to work this morning, despite the forecast, but perhaps it was falling in the suburbs. The weather is bad in the Midwest, with tornadoes and hail reported in Indiana. We don't need to worry about the tornadoes coming up to Chicago though, because the city scape is too dense to give the tornadoes sufficient space to spread out and cause enough destruction. But between the buildings here, that is another story. The wind is cold and fierce and seems to target me especially. My ears were cold, my hair felt frozen, and my cheeks hurt. And it was only -2 degrees Celcius this morning.
As I type this of course, the first of winter's snowfalls has begun. It's not very enthusiastic right now, but it is definitely there, and it is hitting the ground. I know I will acclimatise eventually, but right now I am just staring at it and shivering.
I wonder if I can rig up a pair of hot water bottles as ear muffs? I am sure if I can assemble an IKEA bedside table, I'm capable of just about anything. And coming up with that nutty suggestion just proves it.
Oh dear.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Frozen snot
An unsavoury blog post title, if ever there was one - agreed.
But it's the only way I can get you to fully appreciate the chill that has set over Chicago in the last two days. I am rugged up in an extra long scarf, my Parisian duelling gloves, and my snuggly North Face jacket, and trying to mastermind a way to bring my bed quilt to work.
But it's the only way I can get you to fully appreciate the chill that has set over Chicago in the last two days. I am rugged up in an extra long scarf, my Parisian duelling gloves, and my snuggly North Face jacket, and trying to mastermind a way to bring my bed quilt to work.
I woke up this morning like a kid on Christmas Day. Peeking through my blinds, I wanted to see whether a thin film of powdery snow had settled on any stationary object overnight. But it had not. Snow isn't forecast until tomorrow, and judging by the ferocity of the winds, the snow won't have a chance to settle. Rather, it will whip me in the face with stinging viciousness. And I think the novelty will wear off pretty damn quickly.
On the upside though, my apartment is very warm, and our maintenance guy (a Morgan Freeman lookalike - no kidding) came and cleaned the air vents on Sunday. So now fresh bursts of hot air come breezing into my bedroom and bathroom to keep me semi-toasty. With the thermostat in my bedroom, I feel like the true mistress of my domain. Frozen boogers and all.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Primped and Preened for Action
Friday evening I went to a super cool club called "Grammercy" with Caro, Rakesh, Lexie, and Caroline's Aussie friend Candice. At the club, I imbibed my first Cosmopolitan since arriving in the US. Actually, come to think of it, I believe it was the first Cosmo I'd enjoyed since I left Australia. Could that really be possible?
The voice of my colleague, Melissa, rang in my ears - "I don't drink primary colours", she often tells me. Well I wasn't about to tell her that a Cosmo is normally pink, and that is not a primary colour. But thinking back to a night out with Kate back home where we ordered blue drinks just because we felt like it. And then we switched to red drinks, just to keep the barman on his toes. Clearly I am a primary colour drinker from way back, so I wasn't going to be smug with Melissa.
I was certainly okay with Friday night's Cosmo. Until Saturday morning, that is.
I managed to drag my carcass to the coffee shop on Saturday morning, and then by some invisible life force, make my way across to the road to the hair salon. My first real salon haircut and colour since I left Australia. Two startling confessions in one blog post - you are truly lucky readers today.
But the appointment went without a hitch. My colourist is the only straight male hairdresser I've ever known (and he shared details of his love life with me that immediately suggested we had, without my realising, bonded on some significant level). After having listened to Frank's amorous insights, I was shuffled down the salon to benefit from the expertise of Jaylene. Sad name really, but she was okay. No love life stories, which was a relief. There was some hard pushing for me to buy a squillion products I didn't really need, but I was forceful enough to tell her to get lost. And tactful enough to do it without it sounding quite that dismissive.
A quick trip with Brad to Target followed, where I went in with a desire to buy an electric blanket, and emerged sans blanket, but with a roomful of other stuff. Including margarita glasses. Why?!
Saturday night I enjoyed a lovely dinner with Caroline, her twin sister Libby, and our friend Nicky. We went to a Turkish restaurant and dined at one of those little tables surrounded by cushions. We had to remove our shoes and everything, so I just thanked the Heavens that I had worn my new black socks with no holes.
Saturday night turned into early Sunday morning, as these things go. Caro and I reacquainted ourselves with Jack Daniels and it was a blessed reunion of old friends. He turned on me at some stage that night and I don't think we'll be seeing each other again for a while. The only thing I was really capable of doing yesterday was my laundry and watching DVDs.
As the wind blew fiercely outside, I quietly hoped over and over that the snow they have forecast for Tuesday does not happen. I am not ready yet.
The voice of my colleague, Melissa, rang in my ears - "I don't drink primary colours", she often tells me. Well I wasn't about to tell her that a Cosmo is normally pink, and that is not a primary colour. But thinking back to a night out with Kate back home where we ordered blue drinks just because we felt like it. And then we switched to red drinks, just to keep the barman on his toes. Clearly I am a primary colour drinker from way back, so I wasn't going to be smug with Melissa.
I was certainly okay with Friday night's Cosmo. Until Saturday morning, that is.
I managed to drag my carcass to the coffee shop on Saturday morning, and then by some invisible life force, make my way across to the road to the hair salon. My first real salon haircut and colour since I left Australia. Two startling confessions in one blog post - you are truly lucky readers today.
But the appointment went without a hitch. My colourist is the only straight male hairdresser I've ever known (and he shared details of his love life with me that immediately suggested we had, without my realising, bonded on some significant level). After having listened to Frank's amorous insights, I was shuffled down the salon to benefit from the expertise of Jaylene. Sad name really, but she was okay. No love life stories, which was a relief. There was some hard pushing for me to buy a squillion products I didn't really need, but I was forceful enough to tell her to get lost. And tactful enough to do it without it sounding quite that dismissive.
A quick trip with Brad to Target followed, where I went in with a desire to buy an electric blanket, and emerged sans blanket, but with a roomful of other stuff. Including margarita glasses. Why?!
Saturday night I enjoyed a lovely dinner with Caroline, her twin sister Libby, and our friend Nicky. We went to a Turkish restaurant and dined at one of those little tables surrounded by cushions. We had to remove our shoes and everything, so I just thanked the Heavens that I had worn my new black socks with no holes.
Saturday night turned into early Sunday morning, as these things go. Caro and I reacquainted ourselves with Jack Daniels and it was a blessed reunion of old friends. He turned on me at some stage that night and I don't think we'll be seeing each other again for a while. The only thing I was really capable of doing yesterday was my laundry and watching DVDs.
As the wind blew fiercely outside, I quietly hoped over and over that the snow they have forecast for Tuesday does not happen. I am not ready yet.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Giving Thanksgiving the Heave-Ho-Ho-Ho
I don't know why stores are always in such a hurry to run through all the annual holidays.
Back at home, I remember that Easter Eggs are sold in the first few weeks of a New Year. But I didn't realise until yesterday just how fast-paced our lives have become.
Just as I've mentally prepared for Thanksgiving, my coffee shops are decorated with Christmas regalia and playing Yuletide CDs. The staff are wearing Christmas hats, and are wishing customers 'Happy Holidays' and not just a 'Good Weekend'.
So what happened to Thanksgiving - did I miss it?! Slow down, folks...let the slow Aussie catch her breath.
Back at home, I remember that Easter Eggs are sold in the first few weeks of a New Year. But I didn't realise until yesterday just how fast-paced our lives have become.
Just as I've mentally prepared for Thanksgiving, my coffee shops are decorated with Christmas regalia and playing Yuletide CDs. The staff are wearing Christmas hats, and are wishing customers 'Happy Holidays' and not just a 'Good Weekend'.
So what happened to Thanksgiving - did I miss it?! Slow down, folks...let the slow Aussie catch her breath.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Whoosh!!
Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's The Week That Was...
I have had to look at the calendar a few times today, barely able to accept that it is Thursday already. Where did my week go? I'm not sure if the 'time flies when you're having fun' cliche really applies when you're at work so I was having a think about what else I've done this week that might have sucked me into a space/time vortex black hole continuum thingy.
So I moved into a new apartment and painfully assembled one piece of furniture by myself.
I slept for 10 hours in one night.
I fixed a showerhead by myself.
I installed three shower curtains.
I did grocery shopping.
I saw a great movie at the cinema.
And in between all this, I worked.
Perhaps that IS a fairly full week, after all?
But this week I was also given an assignment: to find somewhere cool to have dinner this weekend. Crikey if there is anything that is going to apply pressure on a girl, it's finding a cool dining establishment to please 8 people of varying tastes and budgets. I've only been here a month! But I accessed a very helpful periodical called "Time Out Chicago" (they have them for the UK too I learned) and it has been fabulous. I have selected a place nearby my apartment called "The Outpost". It used to be owned by Aussies, but they sold it very recently and moved somewhere warmer. The restaurant boasts exposed brick walls, a tin ceiling, aviation memorabilia along the walls and (the best bit) an eclectic menu. The dishes that are featured in the "Time Out" magazine include wild boar (exciting) and puffy ravioli (normal). So surely that restaurant will offer something for all the fussy eaters. There has not yet been a consensus vote on my suggestion yet, but I hope there will be because, ever since I read about "The Outpost", I want to go there.
The rest of the weekend will be taken up with a haircut (necessary), and laundry (even more necessary). Neither of these things fill me with much excitement, but I'm looking forward to flirting with the staff at Caribou Coffee opposite the hairdressing salon after my appointment. Rare for the area I'm living in, the boys on staff there are actually straight and they can also make a very decent coffee. A stellar combination in any country really.
Well that's about it for this rant. Will write again after the weekend, with a comprehensive review of "The Outpost" (sorry, just trying to psych myself into going there). I think I may even try the wild boar, just for fun.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Buy your Kleenex shares now
The flu season is upon us, and I know this because....
My flatmate Sarah is home today nursing a very average cold. She looks and feels terrible, and I have been nice enough to offer to pick up lozenges and/or pills of every size and colour that she might require.
I am probably feeling so Catholic because I fell asleep at 8.30pm last night and slept right through to 6.30am this morning. Not a bad kip really. And this morning I feel quite normal, and had a wonderful shower [in my plastic bag] under my sparkly new showerhead. The carpentry wasn't so successful, but I am a master plumber. I draw the line at bum-crack jeans though. I will leave THEM to the professionals.
But today on the bus, I had the unfortunate occasion to sit opposite A Sniffer. I've encountered them before and I'm sure you have too. Those people who neglect to bring a hanky or tissue with them, but proceed to sniff loudly and deeply to ensure that no gelatinous snot emerges from their nose and, instead, lingers in a gooey mess in their sinuses. Gross.
And then the same guy got off at my bus stop and followed me into Starbucks. And then sniffed the whole way to the cashier. Fortunately he had a take-away. Perhaps he was en route to Walgreens to buy a jumbo box of tissues? One can dream.
I'm off tonight to see "Chicken Little" at the movies with my other flatmate, Lexie. Both of us discovered the other night that we are BIG fans of animated feature films, and BIGGER fans of Zac Braff (he of "Scrubs" fame). As Anne Shirley from Green Gables would say, we must be kindred spirits.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
It's in the bag
On the weekend I did some amateur carpentry, and last night I turned my hand to plumbing.
I took a trip to my blessed Walgreen's supermarket and fitted myself out with not one, but TWO shower curtains.
Water no longer goes all over my bathroom, but now it feels like I'm showering in a plastic bag.
I feel just like Janet Leigh in the manner of dodgy hotel room ablutions right before Norman Bates comes flying in to end it all.
IKEA deserves top marks for its doonas though. Mine is extra snuggly. I am contemplating buying an electric blanket just for good measure in the colder months.
In winter time, from the comfort of my bed, in the horizontal position, I will be able to open one eyeball and see the snow falling outside. But I will be warm and toasty in my little IKEA cocoon and be quite smug, thank you very much.
Slowly but surely I can tell that the room is taking shape. Photos will follow of course. Promise.
I took a trip to my blessed Walgreen's supermarket and fitted myself out with not one, but TWO shower curtains.
Water no longer goes all over my bathroom, but now it feels like I'm showering in a plastic bag.
I feel just like Janet Leigh in the manner of dodgy hotel room ablutions right before Norman Bates comes flying in to end it all.
IKEA deserves top marks for its doonas though. Mine is extra snuggly. I am contemplating buying an electric blanket just for good measure in the colder months.
In winter time, from the comfort of my bed, in the horizontal position, I will be able to open one eyeball and see the snow falling outside. But I will be warm and toasty in my little IKEA cocoon and be quite smug, thank you very much.
Slowly but surely I can tell that the room is taking shape. Photos will follow of course. Promise.
Monday, November 07, 2005
It was time to move on
Saturday's trip to IKEA was uneventful but was still a sensory overload. Melissa and I got there at 9am (before the 'breeders', as she calls the weary mothers and their brat children). We were packing the car at 11.30am, so that was a pretty good effort.
I got everything I wanted on Saturday - a 5-drawer chest; a double bed and an innerspring mattress; and a 3-drawer dressing table. Melissa and I hauled everything up the 4 flights of stairs to my shoebox room. And she cared enough to help me put up my bed, which is why I will name my first born daughter after her.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Going out for tapas and drinks wasn't a great idea afterwards, but at least it took my mind of setting up furniture and unpacking.
Sunday I actually moved in, with significant help from Caroline, Nicolette, and Rakesh.
I then spent the following hours going quietly mental over a set of instructions for my 3-drawer IKEA dressing table. I only smashed my finger once with the hammer, but have the black fingernail to remind me of my career in carpentry.
But by the end of last night, I'd set up my bathroom with mushroom-coloured towels, matching shower curtain, and clear bubbly non-slip bathmat (might as well get a foot massage while I'm in the shower!).
Speaking of which, water in my shower sprays everywhere and flooded my bathroom this morning. Clearly I was not in the best mood this morning as I realised not only was it Monday, but I was severely decaffeinated and was actually mopping water up in my bathroom. My PJ pants got wet, the bath mat is absolutely sodden, and I was flat.
So there are a few teething problems. But I am going to have another go this weekend at constructing the 5-drawer dresser. And keeping my fingers out of the way this time.
I got everything I wanted on Saturday - a 5-drawer chest; a double bed and an innerspring mattress; and a 3-drawer dressing table. Melissa and I hauled everything up the 4 flights of stairs to my shoebox room. And she cared enough to help me put up my bed, which is why I will name my first born daughter after her.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Going out for tapas and drinks wasn't a great idea afterwards, but at least it took my mind of setting up furniture and unpacking.
Sunday I actually moved in, with significant help from Caroline, Nicolette, and Rakesh.
I then spent the following hours going quietly mental over a set of instructions for my 3-drawer IKEA dressing table. I only smashed my finger once with the hammer, but have the black fingernail to remind me of my career in carpentry.
But by the end of last night, I'd set up my bathroom with mushroom-coloured towels, matching shower curtain, and clear bubbly non-slip bathmat (might as well get a foot massage while I'm in the shower!).
Speaking of which, water in my shower sprays everywhere and flooded my bathroom this morning. Clearly I was not in the best mood this morning as I realised not only was it Monday, but I was severely decaffeinated and was actually mopping water up in my bathroom. My PJ pants got wet, the bath mat is absolutely sodden, and I was flat.
So there are a few teething problems. But I am going to have another go this weekend at constructing the 5-drawer dresser. And keeping my fingers out of the way this time.
Friday, November 04, 2005
There's more to us than Peter Allen
I work entirely with Australians and it's quite the oasis in the middle of Chicago. Just as an aside, did you know that Chicago has the largest Mexican population outside of Mexico? Of course you didn't - that's what I'm here for.
And working with Australians, you'd think that there would be no real discernible cultural differences, right? Well that's what I thought anyway, and I've been proven wrong several times. It becomes most obvious when you consider something quintissentially Australian like our music industry.
And working with Australians, you'd think that there would be no real discernible cultural differences, right? Well that's what I thought anyway, and I've been proven wrong several times. It becomes most obvious when you consider something quintissentially Australian like our music industry.
We were talking the other day about how good it would be to play a range of Australian artists as our telephone 'hold' music. Of course we were talking about screeching ACDC and such, so the conversation was only half serious. Nevertheless we threw around various names and artists and it was good fun to make a list.
But when I threw in Jet, Powderfinger, and 'Princess of the ARIAs 2005' Missy Higgins, I was met with blank stares all round. No one knew who I was talking about! And all these artists have toured the US before. Several times. So then it was MY turn to be stunned. Needless to say, a quick trip to Amazon.com means that the relevant CDs are on their way to me for the Consulate's listening pleasure. And some bloody Aussie musical instruction. [Don't worry Dad, the Consulate has heard of the Little River Band.]
One of the duties of our Consulate is to contact visiting Aussie public figures when they come to town, to welcome them and offer our services if they need anything. There is somewhat of a long line-up to offer our services to Keith Urban (well DUH!), but so far I've not had any reaction in regard to the other artists.
So I feel that it is my national duty to educate my fellow Australians, who have clearly been away from Oz for too long and have much to learn. I think John Howard would support me on that.
How do they do it? An intergalactic mystery
I like to shop. I don't mind admitting that and, I'm sure to many people anyway, this is hardly a revelation.
But tomorrow I'm heading out early to the IKEA store at Shaumburg here in Illinois - and I am freaking out.
Word has it that the store extends over about 4 floors. My head aches at the idea of it. How do people shop there and not combust?
I have my special list of absolute 'must-haves'. For instance, I know I want a bed and mattress; bedside table; and a chest of drawers. If I don't get those things by tomorrow afternoon, my new room is going to look rather spartan indeed.
I've been on the website, I've perused the store's online range. But I also know that there are MILLIONS of extra items that the website doesn't feature. And faced with multi-storey temptation, I have no idea how I'm going to get through it.
I am assured that there is a cafe somewhere onsite, so I can always stop and mentally re-group. But I just have to be disciplined. No straying from my task, and no leapfrogging over my budget.
Fortunately my work chum is coming with me, and she knows that I'm mentally fraying at the edges at the thought of tomorrow's shopping trip. A seasoned but sensible shopper herself, Melissa has promised to keep me sane (or sedated) for the whole day. And the extra bonus is that she has even offered to help set up whatever furniture I buy.
So I suppose it all sounds rather promising, doesn't it? Time will tell. If my next post comes from a correctional facility or a mental institution, you know that things have not gone to plan.
But tomorrow I'm heading out early to the IKEA store at Shaumburg here in Illinois - and I am freaking out.
Word has it that the store extends over about 4 floors. My head aches at the idea of it. How do people shop there and not combust?
I have my special list of absolute 'must-haves'. For instance, I know I want a bed and mattress; bedside table; and a chest of drawers. If I don't get those things by tomorrow afternoon, my new room is going to look rather spartan indeed.
I've been on the website, I've perused the store's online range. But I also know that there are MILLIONS of extra items that the website doesn't feature. And faced with multi-storey temptation, I have no idea how I'm going to get through it.
I am assured that there is a cafe somewhere onsite, so I can always stop and mentally re-group. But I just have to be disciplined. No straying from my task, and no leapfrogging over my budget.
Fortunately my work chum is coming with me, and she knows that I'm mentally fraying at the edges at the thought of tomorrow's shopping trip. A seasoned but sensible shopper herself, Melissa has promised to keep me sane (or sedated) for the whole day. And the extra bonus is that she has even offered to help set up whatever furniture I buy.
So I suppose it all sounds rather promising, doesn't it? Time will tell. If my next post comes from a correctional facility or a mental institution, you know that things have not gone to plan.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Howdy pilgrim
I clock up my one-month anniversary in Chicago this week, and I can scarcely believe it.
I have spent my first month making friends; moving house; getting a bank account; and trying to make myself understood the whole way.
Sure, the guy in Starbucks loves my accent and gives me a leery smile each morning, so I know I'm surviving on the last issue at least.
But one thing I am still trying to wrap my brain around is the American holiday calendar. Working for an Australian Government organisation, I am in the unique position to get a combination of American and Australian public holidays each year.
One of the American holidays I'm blessed with is Thanksgiving. People have told me that it takes place at the end of November, but my brain just won't retain it. I'm still in Aussie mode and eagerly awaiting Christmas. Skip right over this turkey-eating business and give me Christmas crackers!
I'm not even sure what I'm doing for Thanksgiving this year, but I know that it will involve yams and pumpkin pie - two dishes I'm not so keen on. I will keep a tub of Ben & Jerry's icecream in the freezer, just in case (Chunky Monkey is my favourite right now, since you asked).
But as Bill Bryson reminds me, Thanksgiving is America's favourite holiday because it doesn't involve too much decorating, or any cards or gifts. You just turn up somewhere, eat until you can't move, and then go home. Or not.
Now WHY isn't that holiday sticking in my head, when it all sounds so agreeable?!
I have spent my first month making friends; moving house; getting a bank account; and trying to make myself understood the whole way.
Sure, the guy in Starbucks loves my accent and gives me a leery smile each morning, so I know I'm surviving on the last issue at least.
But one thing I am still trying to wrap my brain around is the American holiday calendar. Working for an Australian Government organisation, I am in the unique position to get a combination of American and Australian public holidays each year.
One of the American holidays I'm blessed with is Thanksgiving. People have told me that it takes place at the end of November, but my brain just won't retain it. I'm still in Aussie mode and eagerly awaiting Christmas. Skip right over this turkey-eating business and give me Christmas crackers!
I'm not even sure what I'm doing for Thanksgiving this year, but I know that it will involve yams and pumpkin pie - two dishes I'm not so keen on. I will keep a tub of Ben & Jerry's icecream in the freezer, just in case (Chunky Monkey is my favourite right now, since you asked).
But as Bill Bryson reminds me, Thanksgiving is America's favourite holiday because it doesn't involve too much decorating, or any cards or gifts. You just turn up somewhere, eat until you can't move, and then go home. Or not.
Now WHY isn't that holiday sticking in my head, when it all sounds so agreeable?!
PDAs
In this age of technology, you might be fooled into thinking that this latest blog post will examine Personal Data Assistants. But that's a load of rot.
Today I'd like to muse on the Public Display of Affection. Because this very European custom has 'crossed the pond' and boarded my bus.
This morning I had a tough time keeping my breakfast down as I watched a man look for his keys down his girlfriend's throat - using his tongue. Well, I just assume he was searching for his keys...I'm not sure.
Oblivious to other passengers around them, the smoochers groped and fondled their way into Downtown Chicago. And sitting right opposite them, I didn't know where to look. I didn't want to stare, yet it was a sight so engrossing, I couldn't look away. I'm sure my fellow spectators were wondering would he find his keys? would he lose his tongue? would they come up for air? would she morph into a preying mantis and bite off his head? could I really BE that lucky?
I'm not unfamiliar with this kissy-face practice, don't get me wrong. In 2001, I visited Paris for a weekend by myself. I had heard tell of Parisian Pashing Proclivities, but did not actually notice them to a great extent until I was atop the Eiffel Tower. Sheesh, it was like a 'kiss-a-thon' up there! From that point onwards, Paris was full of smooching locals and tourists at every turn. Nice work, if you can get it.
But until this morning, I hadn't noticed much tonsil hockey in the public arena of Chicago. And at the risk of sounding too conservative, I thought that was just fine by me. But now that I've copped an eyeful, so to speak, perhaps I could ask that such activities be reserved for a more commuter-friendly timeslot? Time and place, people, time and place.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
They say the neon lights are bright
Tonight I got off the bus a little earlier than usual, to make a pit-stop into Wallgreens, my favourite pharmacy/makeup/everything store.
Emerging from there some minutes later, laden with every kind of cleaning product you can think of, I walked along the principal street in this area - Broadway.
In every way, this street is as sparkly as its New York namesake (admittedly without the overpowering neon fixtures). Chicago's Broadway is chock full of shops, restaurants, and bars and there are always lots of people around taking strolls.
This is a dog lover's neighbourhood too, and I had to laugh at the doggy boutique on Broadway and the rather one-sided conversation I overheard tonight.
A woman was walking her silky-haired pooch on a sparkly leash. The dog stopped dead in its tracks when it reached the doggy boutique, and immediately put its nose to the floor to sniff around for any information about the four-legged customers that had frequented the premises recently. The dog's owner, clearly not in need of any puppy purchases this evening, tried to press on with their walk. But the dog would not be shifted.
After trying some gentle cooing to urge the dog on, the woman started tugging discreetly at the leash. To no avail. Then she bent down to the dog and, I kid you not, started trying to reason with it. The 'conversation' went something like this:
No darling, we don't need anything in there tonight. We can come back on
the weekend and choose something. You've got a lot of toys already.
It's getting late and we need to get home. Aren't you hungry
yet? Let's go get you some dinner.
I don't know whether the dog understood her (probably), but at the mere suggestion of a meal, the twosome were off. Classic piece of negotiation - on the part of both parties.
The neon lights may not be plentiful on Chicago's Broadway, but they are bright. And so are the dogs, it would seem.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)