Ready, Set, Go!

It’s the perfect confluence of events: sunny days with a hint of spring warmth, a serious case of Kentucky Derby Festival envy, and the prospect of summer. There are so many things I want to get out and do while the weather’s nice – I’m going to need a plan. Fortunately, this is my specialty.

On the brink of the best time of year to be in Chicago, I refer to my mental list of the things I always say I’ll do, but somehow never get around to. But like a good resolution, I know I need to make a real written list that will commit me to these goals. So here we go.

Walk the lakefront
This is the simplest thing to do, and I’m embarrassed that I don’t. Sure, we live a mile from the water, but a brisk walk or bus ride will take me there. I can join the power walkers, runners, bikers, and roller bladers, feeling the breeze and marveling at the blue expanse. From there it’s easy to stroll in Lincoln Park, visit the botanic garden, go to the farmers’ market.

Eat out
OK, I eat three meals a day, but mostly we cook at home. I think we need to revive our “eat out on Wednesday” plan and strive to go out of the neighborhood, enjoy the al fresco options, get ice cream and frozen custard. There’s a column in the paper about great breakfast restaurants that always has me drooling, so the addendum to the Wednesday plan should also be eat breakfast out once a month.

Act like a tourist
Last summer I had a fabulous week hosting an out of town guest. Criss-crossing the Loop on a weekday, taking the architectural boat tour (my fave!), trying a few new lunch places, visiting museums, taking selfies at the Bean. I can fit these things into a Saturday, or take a few days off work.

Find something I’ve never seen before
Today’s paper included a booklet called Secret Chicago, Your Guide to the Hidden City. Leafing through it, I see loads of things I never knew about. Interesting buildings to visit, a quiet garden next to the Art Institute, offbeat museums, groceries, a clump of fused metal from the Chicago Fire, and a list of speakeasy bars.

Back-up plan (or what to do when the weekend is rainy or miserably hot)
Air-conditioned theater or movies; the Museum of Science and Industry, the Planetarium, the Field Museum (I confess, I haven’t been to any of then since we moved here).

Important postscript to the plan: don’t be a tyrant about the plan, do what sounds fun, and bring a friend. I can’t wait!

Mini Me

The kids in our neighborhood are hipsters in the making. Their t-shirts feature snarky sayings or pop-culture icons; they wear Tom’s shoes and Herschel backpacks. In fact, they look a lot like their parents — not just their hair and eye color, but the whole sartorial package. The kids are mini-versions of the parents.

I guess that can be useful in a crowded place. If they get separated, it’s easy to remember that a misplaced daughter is wearing the same striped t-shirt dress and boots that you are. I’ve seen families use this strategy at Disney World. Each one wears a red t-shirt with their last name on it, or a cute phrase, like “Jones Family Spring Break,” making it easier to count heads and keep anyone from straying. They look like a unit, except for the teens who seem mortified that they’re wearing what amounts to a prison uniform.

I remember having fun dressing my kids when they were little. Adorable outfits from the Gap that mirrored the grown-up clothes (khakis and t-shirts) but had a twist for kids like an elephant or giraffe on the shirt. Colorful tops and bottoms, fun socks and tiny shoes. The clothes were comfy, had elastic waistbands, and generally lasted for a few months before they were outgrown.

Beyond everyday kids clothes, there’s the remarkable subset of clothes for special events. Tiny dresses for a flower girl, a fluffy concoction for Easter, little three-piece suits for ring bearers, or natty shorts sets. These outfits look so cute on the mannequin, but I wonder how long they’ll have it on before there’s a smear of a melted chocolate down the front or a grass stain on the seat. Let’s face it, kids are hard on their clothes. Even durable denim gets busted out knees, and shirts display evidence of the most recent meal. Why do we think this will be any different with special occasion clothes?

We have a picture of my brother, at about three years old, wearing a gray Eton suit with short pants and red knee socks. He’s got a grin on his face and for that one second looks immaculate. I’m sure that five minutes later the jacket was off, the shirt untucked and one of his shoes was missing. But it’s the memory reinforced by the picture that endures. We only remember that shining moment when everything looked perfect and we want to recreate that with our kids. So that’s why someone is going to buy a pale seersucker pair of shorts with matching bow-tie and cap plus suspenders, wrestle their son into it and take as many pictures as possible before he rolls in a mud puddle.

Triangulate

Living in Chicago with its grid system for roads, you’d assume that everything is regular, but you would be wrong. Sure, address numbering emanates from a central point increasing in all four cardinal directions so that you always know how far away you are from the heart of the Loop. But it’s the diagonal streets that seem to throw a wrench into things.

It looks normal enough on a map. A diagonal street cuts across the grid and in some cases is the fastest way to get from point A to point B. But when you encounter a diagonal street in your car or on foot, it’s not as clear. Imagine a four-way stop. Four right angles, and all of the cars are visible. Now, imagine a diagonal road cutting through that four-way stop making six entry points and less clarity about whose turn it is. Lights may be overhead, or on a lamp post; each street has a cross-walk and walk signals that pedestrians may or may not observe; and the street sign you see bears the names of the two streets you are not on, but you can’t tell which is the street perpendicular to you, or diagonal to you.

Chicagoans differentiate between a “hard” left (90 degrees) and a “soft” left (45 degrees). When Google Maps tries to make sense of the same intersection, they may call the “soft” left a “slight” left. None of this seems to help while dodging pedestrians when the car behind you is laying on the horn, so half the time, I end up on the wrong street.

Diagonal streets produce triangular plots of land and buildings are made to fit the space. Pointy apartment buildings look like the prow of a ship, a narrow retail entrance belies the building expanding behind, and many structures are reminiscent of New York’s Flat Iron building. The triangle bits may also be space for parks, cafe sidewalk seating, sculpture, flowers, a bench, commemorative plaques, or an ATM.

I admit, the triangles make it more interesting to explore the city. Reconnoitering may require a compass or a protractor, but there’s fun in discovery by wandering around. And once the diagonals are mastered, you feel pride in the navigational knowledge that might stump a visitor.

Death and…

It’s that time of year again. Time to drag out all of the financial documents and file our taxes. Like a good spring cleaning, I look forward to the task, but find that once I start it, it takes longer than expected. I don’t have all of the necessary parts, I set it aside, I lose interest, I come back and start again.

Our taxes shouldn’t be that complicated. We don’t have a second home, or foreign bank accounts. No farm income, or nannies in our employ. No income from tips, no property sales, no lottery winnings or gambling losses. We file online and I find it to be pretty painless. I like how the program steps me through each section of the return, remembers what we did last year, and keep a running total of our refund, or what we owe. It’s a little like standing before a slot machine. Instead of putting in your quarters, pulling the handle and hoping to get three cherry clusters, I type in the amount of property tax we’ve paid, press enter, and pump my fist in the air while watching the “amount owed” number spin down to a somewhat smaller number we still owe, but not a refund. Rats.

I try to tell myself that this is better than getting a huge refund. After all, why should I treat withholding as a saving account? Don’t the experts say that we should calibrate our withholding over the year so that we break even at tax time? And yet I’m disappointed. It would feel like a gift, a reason for a meal at a fancy restaurant, or a downpayment toward a special vacation. Instead, I hear the “sad trombone” as if I lost the game.

It’s not clear to me how the recent tax reform will impact us. Nothing dramatic has happened so far, but it seems likely that our deduction for property tax next year will be even more limited. Illinois still has the second highest property taxes in the country, after New Jersey, so it’s inevitable that we’ll be making a tax payment come April.

At least there’s a silver lining. We’re one week closer to spring, and as soon as it gets above freezing, we might even enjoy it.

 

Fool Me Once

The best way to get rid of belly fat! The one food you should never eat! Find out what’s really running up your electric bills! Click here! Download this! Open the attachment! I’m barraged by these urgent messages everyday. I know they are not as they seem, but they have provided one valuable service: immunization against April Fool’s jokes.

If you’re ever visiting a foreign country and lose your wallet and passport, don’t text me your plea for help. I may pause for a moment and wonder how you got all that time off work to explore the Balkans, but I’m not going to wire you any money. If you’ve written a draft of the great American novel, don’t send me an attachment to download. I will delete it and your Pulitzer-worthy work will be gone. After so many attempts to fool me digitally, I’m done with it. It’s not clever or unique and can be a dangerous load of malware. At best, it’s a big waste of time.

What I want are real practical jokes that require thought and planning. Encase my car in Saran Wrap, set a bucket of water over a partially open door, tape a “kick me” sign (or a poisson if you’re French) on my back, get me to unknowingly rub black grease onto my face, reverse all the contents of my dresser, replace all the money in my wallet with Yen.

Nearly 80 years ago, Orson Wells fooled many Americans with the War of the Worlds radio broadcast. I wish some of the recent headlines could be so easily explained. Late night show hosts hardly have to alter the news to get a laugh because much of it seems unbelievable and absurd. As the news recaps wash over me, I’m making that “Really?!” face all of the time. I think I’d welcome a Martian invasion.

But today might be different. Maybe I can regard all of the news as an elaborate April Fool’s joke. I’m scanning the paper for a “gotcha” message, or a package of Swedish Fish. Ah, there it is: it’s spring in Chicago! Yes, the sidewalk cafes are being assembled and stores are selling sleeveless dresses and sandals. The forecast is 70 and sunny! April Fool!