Only One Suit Will Do in this Heat

I know it's pathetic that I'm only two weeks into this blogging thing and already I've been reduced to writing about the weather, but c'mon!

This is like the summers of my childhood ... spent primarily in Wamego, Kansas with Grandma B and a variety pack of cousins, or in Carmel, Ind., with my Aunt Jan & Uncle Bill, again with any mash-up of siblings and cousins.

Those were some hot summers when our only concern was what flavor of ice cream Grandma would scoop up after our day spent at the municipal pool. (At Aunt Jan's, it was always a root beer float after dinner. Never disappointing.)

Back then, the hotter the weather, the better. It meant entire days spent playing with cousins and 'summer friends' at the pool, slip-n-slides in the yard, Kool-aid and ice cream. Occasionally my older brother would try to actually fry an egg on Grandma's blacktop driveway.

Never once did I think about the electric or water bills. Or worry about the calories in those root beer floats or think about the damage the sun was doing to my skin.

But really, it's not even August and according to Tom Skilling, we've already had 15 days of temps in excess of 90 degrees.

And don't get me started on the humidity! Even at 6 a.m. it feels like I'm running behind a CTA bus.

Granted, there are hotter, stickier places on earth. Places without electricity or clean water. I get that. I'm fortunate to sit here in my air conditioned house writing about how hot it is outside and reminiscing about how hot it was back when it was ok that I wear halter tops and short-shorts.

But on days like these when we can't get to the pool on account of a napping Bonus Baby, the only thing to do is what TJ did yesterday. Put on the old birthday suit and play in the sprinkler.

Keep cool, friends, and see you in the back yard!

Falling in Love, Again

I know I'm a bit prejudiced having been born here, but I love Chicago. I mean, I love, love, love her.

I'm a lucky girl because I was able to take an overnight 'staycation' with my husband and two oldest boys into the city Wednesday.

We did more in 24 hours in the city than I've probably done in the past 24 years.

Never mind that I'm sure the city center's luster would dull a bit if I were hauling a laptop on my shoulder and catching the 7:42 every morning, as was the case until Luke's first birthday. But this summer I've been able to get to some of the city's greatest neighborhoods on the North and South sides, enabling me to fall in love with her all over again.

We caught the 1 p.m. train out of our pastoral suburb and were in the ol' Thompson Center (called something else now ... I cringe that my children know only the Willis, and not the Sears, Tower) in 30 minutes, most of them spent by my children trying to catch folks showering in the apartment buildings speeding past us.

Within the hour, we were checking into our free hotels.com 5-star hotel (which was perfectly star worthy to Luke, TJ & me but didn't meet the expectations of my travel-weary husband)... then off to inhale some Chicago-style pizza.

On to tourist-friendly Navy Pier. A skyline boat tour. Rides, rides and more rides. Ice cream. Ferris Wheel. (I'd never done that! Had never wanted to do that!) Countless trips to the bathroom for the boys. Do they go this often at home and I just don't realize it?

Then the pinnacle of our day: the fireworks. We'd planted ourselves on a park bench with a perfect view of where they'd take center stage ... We had at least an hour to kill, and it took Kevin almost that long to get back with Happy Meals for the boys. (We didn't understand how they could still be hungry until we realized they didn't overeat at lunch like we did.)

I don't know if it is the city's taxpayers or a tourist tax that pays for them, but these fireworks were the most amazing fireworks I'd ever seen. Granted, I do not like fireworks. But that may have changed.

A tired walk back to the hotel, a few hours sleep, then off to breakfast, Millennium Park and Ohio Street beach before catching the train home, returning us to our Andy and able babysitter by 1 p.m.

Like I said, 24 hours. A lifetime of memories. Getting to see my hometown through the eyes of my boys.

Kiss, kiss, sweet home, Chicago.


















*Please note the Yankees cap is part of Luke's Little League uniform ...

Frozen Golf Balls and Superfeet

It started with a whisper a few months ago, my body telling me to back off on the running. I ignored the chatter.

I had just completed my running comeback, if you will. Having run multiple marathons, half marathons and shorter races in my 20s and 30s, I had backed off to recover from a spring 2008 surgery to remove some rogue milk ducts; soon after that, I learned I was 40 and pregnant with our bonus baby. The running slowed to a jog.

So I was thrilled to successfully train for and run the Palos Bank Southwest Half Marathon down in Palos Heights, Ill., in May. I followed that up a few weeks later with another half marathon up in Wisconsin, which I ran just because it was there.

But then what had been a whisper turned into a "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?" call being played every day, from the moment I took my first step in the morning until I fell into my bed at night, tucked in by my new best friend, ibuprofen.

Yep, my ol' nemesis plantar fasciitis had returned, and now my body was forcing me to listen to it. Rest would be the foundation of an ideal treatment plan, but given that I'm signed up to run the Rock-n-Roll Half Marathon in Chicago on August 1st with my sister-in-law, Jen, I was going to have to get creative.

The crazy $50 contraption I put on my leg every night to stretch out my foot while I sleep isn't much help, but the golf balls I now keep in my freezer are amazing! The massage therapist at my gym recommended it, and I love her for it! If you've got tired feet at the end of a long day, I recommend the frozen golf ball massage.

Even better is that I found my old Supefeet. If you're not wearing these insoles in your shoes, you are not walking on sunshine; you are not gellin'. http://www.superfeet.com/

I used to wear them in my running shoes, but I misplaced them about six months ago and was frankly too cheap to go out an buy another pair right away. I'm certain months of running with cheap insoles was like a big invite to PF to return.

But some basement cleaning yesterday yielded an unexpected treat: an old pair of running shoes with the Superfeet inside. This morning's run was tolerable and convinced me I will get through the 13.1 miles next month. It won't be pretty, but I'll finish.

Come August 2nd, my running will take a rest until my foot has healed completely. I'm putting this in writing, because I'm a bit of an addict when it comes to pounding the pavement, and I will need some *brave* family and friends to keep me on the wagon and off the running path.

The picture is of Kevin, Luke & me from the 2007 Gays Mills Apple Fest Race ... running is a family affair!

Summertime, and the Eats are Good!

Last night's dinner was the culinary definition of summer, as far as I'm concerned. Out on our screened-in porch, we dined on:

• Early sweet corn-on-the-cob from the Park Ridge Farmers Market; http://www.parkridge.us/farmers_market/default.aspx
• Grilled asparagus, again thanks to some not-too-distant farmers;
• Grown-in-water tomatoes, also purchased at the Farmers Market, paired with my own basil, plus some fresh mozz, olive oil and balsamic vinegar for my favorite salad;
• Steak from the local butcher;
• And an old-fashioned ice cream Drumstick.

All good, even after just reading this: http://health.yahoo.net/experts/eatthis/best-and-worst-ice-cream-truck-treats

My Drumstick fell on David Zinczenko's list of the five worst summertime ice cream treats. He recommended the "lil drum" version of the frozen ice cream cone.

Thanks, but no thanks on this one. I like ya, Dave, I try to do what you suggest, but when it comes to my summertime treats, I won't cut corners.

Bon appetit, friends!

When Things Go Bump in the Night

I woke up with a start at 4:45 Saturday morning, sure I'd heard the antique leather strip of jingle bells I keep on the back patio door give a little ring.

(It's my low-tech TJ alarm system ... he has a habit of just coming and going as he pleases, and at 3 years old, I'd like to know when he's headed out for a smoke or is smuggling juice boxes under the playset.)

I was sure I heard voices downstairs. Were we being robbed? Don't they know the only things we value are upstairs, sleeping in bunk beds and a crib?

I knew I wouldn't get back to sleep, so I grabbed the landline handset with 911 dialed and my trigger finger on the "talk" button, and headed downstairs, the 100-year-old stairs squeaking as I tiptoed. (Left a few un-repaired during the renovation ... another low-tech alarm system.)

Although the kitchen looked like it had been ransacked, I remember it looking similar when I went to bed the previous night. All was well. The only crime committed was that of an overactive imagination.

In Defense of Jumpiness

Decades ago I lay in bed, frozen in fear that an intruder was brazenly breaking into my childhood home in the middle of the night. I was probably 9 or 10 ... My parent's bonus baby, Paul, was already around, so I had to be at least that old. (Andy is our 'bonus' baby ... I highly recommend one.)

My faded yellow-flower-wallpapered room was above our Georgian's back door. I heard someone fiddling with the door knob. And I heard someone knocking on the door, first the back, then the front.

Ok, I should have known a burglar wasn't going to knock, but I was just a kid, and why weren't my parents answering the door? Had they been bludgeoned to death already?

I could hear the unanswered phone ringing in my parents' room. I figured they were already dead.

The ringing, the knocking, the doorbell, it seemed to go on forever.

Why wasn't my older brother, John, up wondering what was going on? Why wasn't Paul crying?

Was everyone dead already? Had I been spared?

That's when real fear gripped my mind and body. A ladder that had been left on the north side of the house began to move toward ... my ... window. Whomever it was on that ladder was coming after me; I was the one the Boogie Man wanted.

Oh, so young and already so self-centered.

There was a commotion outside, some loud voices then someone being raised from the dead in my parents' room. The front door opened, more loud -- angry? -- voices. Then, quiet. I wasn't dead. My parents weren't dead. My brothers were in dead sleeps but very much alive.

Story goes that my Dad* had been called to the store when its alarm was set off earlier that night. (He was a manager at a nearby Sears and used to say that when the alarm rang, he needed to get there before the cops did. There were some, ummm, trust issues.)

And he'd forgotten his house key.

Our neighbors, the Wulfs, had noticed someone lurking around the house and had been calling, trying to get my parents' attention.

I'm foggy on the details of how it all went down, but I know they somehow, after realizing it was only my Dad trying to break into his own house, were able to help him (they probably had keys).

But ever since, I jump up to investigate whenever I hear a bump in the night.

*Picture is of Dad, long before he scared me nearly to death that night.

Sorry, Son, You are No Demigod

My oldest son and I are a lot alike, for better and worse.

One trait we share is that we get absolutely lost in books. So lost that we lose track of time, of where we are and who we are, and of that line between what's real and what is make-believe.

I recently finished Wally Lamb's The Hour I First Believed, a work of fiction that chronicles the lives of two teachers, married to one another, who taught at Columbine at the time of the massacre. There were days I felt I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. (Note: Do not read this book if you really do have PTSD.)

Earlier this summer, Luke and I were totally immersed in the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series by Rick Riordan. For those of you not in the Lightning Thief demographic, the books are about a prepubescent, dyslexic New York City boy, Percy Jackson, who learns his mother, ahem, loved Poseidon, and Percy is the half-mortal, half-god son of the Sea God.

See, Percy's real name is Perseus. Remember from junior high that he was the hero who beheaded Medusa? Medusa was cursed with that snaky headdress by Athena after Perseus' pops, Poseidon, ahem, disgraced Athena with Medusa, ... how did I ever think this was boring back then?

It is a most enjoyable, imaginative series that has me interested in re-reading the Greek myths. I got into the books for Luke's sake, just as I got into the Twilight series to better relate to my teenage niece. (For those keeping score: Team Jacob.)

But I'm not about to suspect my friends of being vampires or werewolves. Luke, on the other hand, seems to think he's got some special skills in the water all of a sudden.

Percy, even before he knew of his special lineage, could swim like a fish and hold his breath under water for something like seven minutes.

Granted, Luke's a decent swimmer, but suddenly he's constantly testing how long he can hold his breath under water, to the point I feel I need to warn the pool life guards: "Do not be alarmed, this is only a test, and he will come up for air in about 15 seconds. In the event he doesn't, dive your skinny butt in there and save his."

To him, I say, "Luke, you are not the son of Poseidon. You are the son of two very mortal parents."

In fact, Kevin and I just had the discussion, again, last night as I defended the private swimming lessons Luke & TJ are now taking, about how he really ought to get himself some swimming lessons. With three children, I just think it's not about sport or recreation but about survival.

Because we are very mortal indeed.

Shotgun Dragon

Life and home maintenance, not to mention $work$, are calling today.

Today's installment simply is this picture of newly named Mr. Green Firebreath ($5 at the Kiwanis' recent yard sale), who called shotgun yesterday on our daytrip out of town to spend some quality pool time with cousins, my SIL and older brother.

Mr. Firebreath made the McDonald's drive-thru gaggle giggle as well as brought a smile, albeit a confused one, to the face of a Park Ridge police officer whom I was a little worried might pull me over for violating RPA-40*.

Splish-splash, friends.

*being Ridiculous Past the Age of 40

Homes Sweet Homes

My younger brother reminded me the other day that it has been seven years since our father unexpectedly died. Seven years. That's a lifetime for my three boys, but a drop in the bucket for us old(erish) folks.

I was struck by how foggy my memory was on the details already. Especially as I couldn't remember where I lived when my dad died. Was I driving back and forth from Madison, Wisc., when 'it' was going down? I remember driving a ways, because my mother gave me the I-Pass from my Dad's Mercury Marquis so that I could more easily run back and forth. (And I remember one of my Phelan friends ... was it Mary, Cath, one of their seven brothers, or even their mom? ... they're all quite witty ... who joked at the funeral luncheon "well, there's your inheritance.")

No, no, I was in Madison when my Mom died three years ago. That I still remember too well.

So I had to stop to think. (I hate when that happens.) That's when I realized seven years ago Kevin and I were living in our first home, a townhouse in Chicago. Since then, we've moved to our 'starter home' in Park Ridge, then to Madison, Wisc. (temporarily in temporary housing), back to Park Ridge, again to temporary housing in Chicago as we rehabbed that Park Ridge house, and finally back to our renovated/modernized 100-year-old house. Whew. That's four permanent residences and two temporary residences in seven years.

As much as I gripe (mostly to Kevin) about our frequent-flier address changes, I've got to say, I wouldn't do it differently if I were to do it again. At our townhouse, we had the most incredible neighbors, even if they couldn't help us order a beer in our neighborhood's Polish bar despite their years of Polish School.

Again at our -- at the time 'pork and beans' house* -- home in Park Ridge, we had neighbors so incredible one family is now our middle son's "God family."

Madison. Well, what can I say, because a few of you are reading this? Just kidding. Even if you weren't, I'd say it. I adore you. Not to mention that it was a new-found friend there who is the reason we have our middle son, thanks to introducing us to a great adoption agency!

Back in PR, we've been blessed again with neighbors who simply amaze us by their generosity, friendship and, well, patience with our ongoing construction and the noise three boys can make on a playset at 7 in the morning.

Take seven years. Subtract two parents. Add six addresses. Add two children.

The sum: A chaos I couldn't live without.

Cheers to you all!

*pork-and-beans house was Karen Linden's (RIP, my namesake, Luella's matron of honor and the realtor who helped us land the first Park Ridge house) term for stretching to the next $ to get the house you really want.

Going the Distance ... for Ice Cream

How far is too far to drive for an ice cream cone? Today the boys and I drove 60 miles round trip to indulge.

Understand that we live in a fairly populated area. It's not like we're in the boonies. In fact, within a 10-minute walk I have an Oberweis Dairy and an open-only-in-season Dairy Queen (they're the best kind of DQ, don't you agree?). We can walk to several restaurants that serve ice cream, not to mention at least three grocery stores at which I could buy any kind of ice cream or ice cream treat. All are a short jaunt with me pushing my two youngest in my BOB and the oldest on his bike.

But today we embarked on a field trip. I didn't tell the boys what we were doing or where we were going. I made them lunches that we ate in the car and hit the road late morning.

We didn't just drive 45 minutes south from Park Ridge; we time traveled. As easy as driving down the Kennedy and Dan Ryan expressways, we traveled 30 miles back to yesterday. Back to pretty much any day between 1970 and 1986. Back to summer. Back to carefree, not to mention careless. To family bike rides. To block parties. To neighbors knowing neighbors. To 'be back before dark' being the only rule that needed to be spoken. To playing with Barbies but not knowing, much less caring, about the politics of Barbie. To hanging with Cathy, Mary, Genevieve, Molly, Jane, Lenore, Colleen, Sheila. To crushes on boys. Skinned knees. Dreams. Chipped teeth. First kisses.

Yes, I took my boys home, even though what I called home for 18 years is occupied only by ghosts and memories for me. Honestly, I've never really wanted to return, even when my parents were alive. I really like my life where it is now; I really love my family as it is now. But something has shifted of late, and I'm ok with visiting the ghosts and sharing the memories.

Which is why I put on our "Fun To Do This Summer" list a trip to the Original Rainbow Cone. http://www.rainbowcone.com/ And the trip was worth every carbon footprint we made driving my big ol' SUV down there. A quick drive down Hamilton Avenue to view the old funeral home-turned-library and the house that holds memories for many more people than the five who resided there -- off and on -- for nearly 40 years was enough to complete my journey down Memory Lane. For now.

I might crave another Rainbow Cone before the season's over.

It's My Birthday, I'll Blog if I Want To

Welcome to my little corner of the world I like to call Chaos. If you're looking for deep, intellectual banter about Chaos Theory, or intellectual banter of any kind, I'm afraid you're in the wrong blogosphere. We're going to keep it light here and, I hope, fun.

Today is my birthday, the 42nd anniversary of what my mother used to call my "natal day." She was like that ... always a little different ... purchased Sara Lee frozen pies instead of making birthday cakes, calling it an anniversary of one's natal day instead of a birthday, you know, just quirky. I'm sure there may be some amusing (to my brothers and me, anyway) prose (I'll use that term loosely) about Luella in future postings. But for now, I just want to explain myself, maybe even defend myself as to why I'm writing this at all.

My gift to myself (not that I don't LOVE the Wii Fit my boys gave me) was to start a blog. Professionally, I'm a writer, but my work is more technical in nature. Truth is, it falls far short of meeting my need to create. And it is human nature to want to create, isn't it? Something. Anything. Paintings. Photographs. Skyscrapers. Offspring. The perfect margarita.

So here I am, on my porch at 9 p.m., having finally (made dinner/cleaned up dinner/devoured birthday cake and, with my catch of a husband, put our three young boys to bed) found a blog name that wasn't already commandeered by some more serious writer, defending myself. I hope what you find here in future posts amuses you or at least makes your day a little lighter, a little brighter. That's all. I'm not looking to change the world. I'm just trying to find a little calm in the chaos that has become my life. A good life, for sure, but a bit more chaotic than I'd written for myself.

Cheers.