I Saw the Sign

My evening power walk route provides me with cardio training and mental relaxation. It also offers up entertainment of a different kind: amusing store signs. I finally remembered to take my camera this soupy, humid weekend and here is a brief collection.

Mile 1: Crimes Against Puns/Design/French

Exalonce/Exsalonce Salon & Spa

Gross! Backtracking on my earlier statement, this sign is more cringe-worthy than amusing. I assumed for months that this place was named "Exalonce" and simply hated it for a dumb misspelling. Then Google taught me that it is actually "Exsalonce"... big difference!  Fail #1 is that the cross of the "X" isn't graphically conveying an "S" to passersby, leading to Fail #2 of a bad pun. And tucked at the end is Fail #3, a snobby French cédille on the "C".

Mile 2: Self-Explanatory

Owner might have wanted to think through this name.

Gets me every time, especially given its yuppie neighborhood location. Membership also valid at its Chicago sister studios: Self Important Yoga and Self Obsessed Yoga.

On Pets and Other Patriotic Things.

America...fuck yeah!

Happy July 5th everyone! Ugh. OK, can we just agree that this is routinely the most anticlimactic day of the year to be an American? On July 4th you're gorging on flag cake and grilled meats, exploding things, putting the finishing touches on your tan, and misting up at John Phillips Sousa marches (just me?). Maybe you're doing all those things at once while watching a parade. On July 5th you're stuck face to wattle with the other glum Metra commuters. And there is no cake anywhere. Wha wha.

My fellow blogger put me to shame this year with his uberpatriotic D.C. celebration spot. Double fireworks all the way...so intense! I'll admit to jealousy, but I did have a pretty good consolation prize. I got to spend a long weekend with my favorite house pet*: Okie.

Okie is my landlady's rotund and hirsute golden retriever. Golden retrievers are the most American pet you can have. True statement. Okie's a total lover, but now that warm weather is finally here to stay, he's taken up residence in the flowerbed outside my windows. Given that my apartment is ground level this now means I am greeted by a furry, panting face whenever I exit the bedroom. 

Having a house pet is great. I essentially get to play the fun aunt who swoops in to give rubs and feed treats, but then leaves before any actual work (poop scooping) happens. And Okie is an ideal "nephew" because he is fairly lazy and undemanding. In any event, he's loads better than the other members of the natural kingdom lurking around my nest. House centipedes...totally not patriotic, probably Commies.

So, the Independence Day fun is over for this year, but that doesn't mean we can't all plan next year's extravaganza. I'm thinking... parade of puppies on the National Mall, with sunbathing Marines handing out burgers while we all sing, "God Bless America".

* This is not to be confused with my favorite pet, period. He knows who he is.

Border Closing Ahead

Closing time, you don't have to go home but you can't stay here.

News hit this week that Borders bookstores filed for bankruptcy, meaning the eventual closing of many branches of the chain. Included in this exodus is the store next to my house and the store next to my office. No bucks, double whammies!

Now, I know that to everything there is a season. Maybe the physical bookstore is the 8-track of the 21st century. Fun while it lasted, destined to become obsolete. But the closing of Borders ends an era.

Long ago and far away, going to Borders was a Kramy/Peters family ritual. If you've read this blog at all or actually know us in person, you are aware that my fellow blogger and I are NERDZ. None of the following should come as a surprise.

In our youth, the parental units would take me and my brother to Borders, often post-boring adult errand, as a bribe to keep us in line. We thought this was pretty awesome (re: nerdz). All of those books...there just for us to rifle through! Glorious. My parents had to feel like it was free babysitting. Each member of the family would happily splinter off to the section that interested them the most. Were you into sharks this week? Science section. Had you just seen The Lion King? CD section. Were you Dad? Newspaper and pastry at the in-house cafe.

Let's be clear, as a kid at Borders, I wasn't ever browsing for Joyce or skimming Dostoevsky. Nerdery had some limits. Tastes varied according to age but usually I was looking for something that, at this distance, feels faintly embarrassing.

"I thought the old lady dumped it into the ocean
in the end? - Well baby, I went down and got it for you.
- Aww, you shouldn't have!"

Elementary school was spent in the Babysitters Club or Anne of Green Gables aisle. As a preteen, I was jonesing for the latest novel in the Sunfire Young Adult Romance series. A series focused on 16-year-old girls (!!!) in historical situations, being wooed by competing handsome suitors. One was usually rich but stodgy and the other was poor but respected the heroine's feisty [anachronistic] nature. Whom to choose?! OMG, lol, ttyl! My favorite of the series was the story of Nicole on the Titanic. I'm pretty sure the author has a viable lawsuit again James Cameron.

Whew, I digress. Borders. As I grew up, reading interests evolved (thank God), but the store was always there to support that. In adulthood, Borders's extensive magazine section provided design inspiration for work. Or offered a free place to sit and read a book that I wasn't committed enough to buy. Ermm...forget that last bit. Sorry, Borders!

Maybe I'll eventually get into the Nook/Kindle phase (birthday's in June, people!), but until then I'll probably shift to Barnes & Noble. Holding an e-reader just doesn't seem to stack up against holding a real book with that paper smell.

Conveniently I just got a notice from Borders.com that my local branch is liquidating their stock NOW. And so, for old time's sake, away I go.

Of Mice and Men: A Brief History of Landlords

Apartment hunt. Moving day. Two tests of city life that truly measure an urbanite's will to live. Like a masochist, I am currently in the middle of this process for the fourth time in six years.

As frustrating as searching for a new home and relocating your possessions can be, sometimes things only get more interesting after the boxes are unpacked. Chances are if you're young, you're renting and someone else owns the roof over your head. Someone who is probably a stranger and probably odd.

Soon I'll be entering a brave new world with a fourth landlord/lady. Before the baton is handed off, I'm taking a post to look back on the men in my life.

A case of expectations not meeting reality.

1. John #1: (Un)Sexy Beast. Post-college I moved into the attic apartment of a worn Victorian in Boston. The wiring was original to Edison's era and the roommates took turns running hair dryers, fans, or A/C units. Kidding! We could never run A/C. Back then, I thought it had vintage charm. Now, I know it was just old and crappy. Who owned this pile? John #1. My first dealings with him were by phone. He had a super dreamy voice. British, debonair...very Clive Owen. Then I met him.

A faulty radiator drew John #1 to our nest one evening. I opened the door to find...not Clive Owen. What appeared to be a homeless troll stood before me. The kind of person that, if seen across a street, would make a mom grab her child's hand. I remember my roommate half-hiding behind the kitchen door in confusion. Was this a home invasion? And then he asked, "Which room is it broken in, then?" That voice! But that body!? Blimey.

Over the course of two years, John #1 turned out to be absent maintenance-wise, but harmless. I rarely saw him after that first shocking night and my senses were fine with that.

Snow Day Nostalgia

Let's go, Swift!

It's an officially sanctioned snow day at the Peters household! I honestly don't remember the last time I got a nature-related hall pass from life, but probably not in this century. So, woooooohoo! And I've got to say that this one is way legit. I was blown to the ground twice on my walk home last night, despite the ballast of emergency bottles of Riesling. Mother Nature was getting very handsy and it was thrilling.

However, feeling the windows of my cocoon rattle and watching the snow howl by horizontally at 100mph, I'm doubting that this day off is going to be as rad as those of my youth...

Old Movie, New Review: Willow

I'm nothing like The
Lord of the Rings! Nothing!

After an unseasonably balmy New Year's Eve, Chicago has succumbed to an arctic hangover. With the "feels like" temperature flirting with low double digits, leaving the warm cocoon of home is unappealing. But, one has to be creative in battling weekend cabin fever. Selected method this weekend: 1980s fantasy film Willow and the finest bottle of Moscato $7 could buy.

I had lukewarm feelings going into this viewing. It was heavily endorsed by the friend who loaned me the DVD, but the cover art suggested strong notes of cheese with undertones of The Lord of the Rings. Nevertheless, I popped the cork and hit play...

A Year in Review: My Own Unnecessary List.

The blogosphere is simply bloated with "Top 10 Things!" or "Arbitrary Best of That" articles this time of year. This could be because humans are naturally attracted to lists (just me?). A more likely scenario is that post-Thanksgiving, bloggers start a slow, cookie-enhanced descent to laziness. Lists are way easier than writing something hard, like, with themes and metaphors.

The blogger description is highly questionable, but I am feeling lazy and have consumed an ungodly amount of bakery. Plus I promised myself I'd squeeze one last post into 2010. Let's hit it!

The Chicago Easy Button

If you press the red button, you will get your
heat, but a person will die
somewhere in the world.

Today is November 3rd, which means one crucial thing has changed in Chicago since October. New political leadership, you guessed? True, but like that makes a difference! Nope. Far more importantly, it is Day Three of the El platform space heaters being turned back on!

I speak for myself, but I project that every Chicagoan must have a love/hate relationship with the Easy Button. I love that I can stand under the toasty lamps with my pigeon colony friends and have a buffer from the frigid wind. Especially valuable given that my office El stop is perhaps THE COLDEST PLACE IN THE WORLD. That's saying a lot considering I spent four years in Siberacuse.

But I hate that I have to use it at all. Its reemergence each fall means that deepest winter is around the corner and pretty soon I will be pushing that button like a cocaine-addicted mouse in a lab experiment.

The first rule of Easy Button (and the only one) is that if you are standing nearest the button, your sole role in life while on that platform is to reset the heater the split second the timer kicks off. Preferably a second before it turns off. Count in your head if you have to. Yesterday, I stumbled into the button keeper job and let a whole two seconds pass after the lamps turned off before several people's heads whipped around at me, as if to say, "W.T.F.? Do your JOB, woman!" My reflexes will improve. By February I will be an Easy Button Ninja.