Arrrgh!

As fate would have it, I happen to be a Chicago Bears season ticket holder.

Albeit one who isn’t going to the festivities in Miami this weekend.

Everyone says that the weather isn’t very good in the sunshine state right now but I’m betting dollars to donuts that it’s better than waking up in 2 degree conditions.

Nonetheless I found myself in a peculiar situation two weeks ago on the eve of the NFC championship game.

I had tickets to a game I didn’t want to attend.

For the most part, I’m a robust type of woman I’m not a fainting flower or nervous Nellie. But like most people I do have an Achilles heel:

My horrific sinuses.

I went to Bears’ games last season, would nap after the game and wake up with my eyes swollen shut.

I looked like someone punched me in the face without the bruising.

I already knew for this year what lay ahead and didn’t want to do that dance again.

I proactively sold or gave away my cold weather tickets. And before you ask, yes that meant the Packer game.

So imagine my surprise that on the eve of the NFC championship game that I still had a pair of seats burning a hole in my hands for one of the hottest games in town.

Now I happen to be a season ticket holder with a healthy dose of suspicion. I won’t just sell my tickets to anyone. If for some reason those tickets were re-sold, then scalped and the person doing so was caught; the shit would roll down hill directly to my doorstep.

As the season ticket holder of record, any wrong doing---any at all---is my responsibility. I’m the one the McCaskey’s will have the come to Jesus meeting with.

That also means that if you sit in my seats and act like a brain dead asshole and get the heave ho from security, my phone will be ringing on Monday morning as well.

So as the game approached I was in a bit of a quandary. What to do with this valuable commodity?

While running around like a mad woman one day, I heard that people were trying to barter goods and services in exchange for tickets to the game.

I took a look on Craigslist to see what I could find.

Mortgage brokering services and Botox didn’t appeal to me. I didn’t need a friend to buy me beer---I have enough enablers, thank you---and I don’t know how to play golf.

But I rarely get to go out on the lake in the summertime.

Unfortunately in my diverse circle of friends and acquaintances there are very few boat owners.

A nice man named Bruce wanted to go see the game and expressed that wish in his barter ad. I like to go out on the Lake Michigan and had tickets. It seemed as if we were destined to meet.

I rang him up and asked if he had tickets to the game yet. He said, “no” and we started a conversation.

Fast forward about 24 hours later and Bruce was the proud recipient of my seats and I was the proud recipient of a two hour charter for me and roughly 35-40 of my friends.

We even took pictures to commemorate the momentous occasion.

When you see the Red Witch out in late August that just might be me--Ahoy you land lubbing squabs! Prepare to be boarded!

Some things are just better than money.

I’ll be the one in the eye patch and the peg leg.

My Dinner With Carlton

I knew I had to look and act like an adult.

After all I don’t go to aldermanic fundraisers everyday.

In the scheme of things, an aldermanic fundraiser is not on par with the Spielberg, Geffen & Katzenberg dust up they’re having out west for Senator Obama.

Nonetheless you do have to actually put your money where your mouth is and support the candidates that you actually respect.

Few politicians pass that litmus test. Fortunately for me my alderman does.

No I don’t have a case of idol worship but I do think she’s aces.

So off I tripped to her campaign kick off at the Seven Ten Lanes in Hyde Park.

There were few people that I knew but hell I’ll go anywhere but a white separatist’s meeting. Not knowing people in a crowd doesn’t really faze me.

My alderman was working the crowd and giving everyone the glad hand.

I actually started putting faces with names, generally behaving and chewing with my mouth shut.

You know---grown up stuff.

When I finally got a chance to steal a moment with my alderman to thank her for a job well done, that’s when I saw him.

I guess the fresh flowers dying should have been a sign.

There he was in the flesh, the title character of I Hate My Developer---Carlton Knight.

I continued my conversation with my alderman---slyly throwing in a “Why didn’t you tell me that he was here?”---during a pause in the conversation.

“Now Woody calm down.”

“Why does that man have the nerve to show his face here?’

I went to the bar to go get another drink.

A big drink.

I later found out that he is a regular on the black aldermanic fundraising circuit. Naturally everyone has to play nicey and not make waves in public. From some thinly veiled conversations with those in the know, he’s about as welcome as a case of the clap.

Then of course they could be feeding me a big load of bullshit as everyone knows my feelings for the man.

Hell it’s in the title of this blog.

I went for another drink.

Hopefully he’s still persona non grata in my ward and won’t be “developing property” anytime soon. Now for the rest of Chicago---Lord help them.

No words were exchanged between us. No glares. Glasses remained intact and knives were not thrown.

I was a perfect lady who was cussing under her breath.

Set, Match...

It took almost two years but it is finally over.

The third party judgment against the association has been vacated by the city. We are now officially not holding the bag for Carlton Knight’s responsibilities.

Well at least for this one.

Like Babe Ruth Mr. Money Bags came through and delivered on his called shot---the issue was indeed cleared up before Christmas. Specifically December 21st.

Because Mr. Money Bags is all that and a bag of chips, a handwritten thank you note was promptly put in the post.

‘Cause I’m a classy broad like that.

Guilty Pleasure

I know I'm almost 40.

I know I shouldn't be shamelessly manipulated by the pop music machine.

But this song is still awesome.

I just can't help but to bop around to the funky beat.

I just loves me some Darkchild.

Egads!

Why did I run into my developer at my alderman’s kick off campaign shindig last Thursday?

Holy crap!

More later.

Rife

If I were a guy right now, I’d have a perpetual hard on.

This aldermanic corruption shit is just sensory overload for us local political junkies.

Federal charges based on a piece of property in another ward, questionable & defensive behavior by the sitting alderman, a fiery rebuttal press conference, a turncoat operative with felonies in his past, disgruntled constituents and now questionable loans at one of our city’s oldest and most respected banks?

This place is rife with corruption. Can’t you just smell it in the air?

But you must admit, Alderman Troutman has a friggin set of brass ones. To quote Jay-Z, "Ladies is pimps too."

Hell I just might pop a boner after all.

Signed, Sealed...

The city sent me a duplicate paper form to gather additional information about the taxicab incident from a week and a half ago.

Naturally I attached my blog post in all of it's unfettered glory.

I did note an appology for some of the salty language. Not everyone curses in print.

Hopefully I'll hear something back soon from Consumer Services.

A Statement Of Fact

If the information I received from the City of Chicago is correct, the 1512-1514 East Marquette Condominium Development is located in the 20th Ward.

...Just in case you had any questions about stuff like that.

This Just In

Huge breaking news!

20th ward alderman Arenda Troutman was arrested earlier today on alleged bribery charges.

Cats and kittens, this has huge implications for Woodlawn and the emerging redevelopment of the south side as a whole.

While Alderman Troutman is not my alderman---I'm in the 5th ward---but she is the alderman for a huge chunk of the Woodlawn community. If you've read my earlier posts you know that everything that happens in Chicago's 50 wards is largely controlled by the alderman.

Any official business on her plate is obviously on hold.

...And scant weeks before the election. Wow whee!

When the feds are involved that ain't a good sign.

Shock & Awe

I can't believe the city is prosecuting a developer. Read more about it here.

I also can't believe I didn't know about this when it happened. I must be losing my touch.

Hitchcockian

So perhaps the pretty birds are not as harmless as I first thought.

Crabby Cabbie

Living on the south side of Chicago is a daily test of your patience and will.

My fellow Chicagoans often give those of us who live south of Madison Street the back of their hand when it comes to common courtesy and respect.

Not being a native Chicagoan, I was often bewildered at the whole south side north side animosity/rivalry thing.

Let’s suffice it to say that after living on the south side for five years I totally get it---the mystery is gone.

One of the daily injustices that south siders face is the taxicab situation.

On the one hand you have to be organized and time conscious to get to where you’re going via public transportation. Knowing that you either have to catch a bus or a train for work or for play makes you budget your time efficiently.

On the other hand, it sucks when you have to attend a formal event and wait over an hours for a cab---if you’re lucky.

We have a little law here in Chicago that states that the cab companies must have dedicated “neighborhood cabs” that service every neighborhood in the city.

That’s a nice way of saying, “Service the south side, you bootleg motherfuckers.”

But what the law (or ordinance) says and what actually happens are two different things.

I fully know that if I call one of the big cab companies that I won’t ever see a cab. They can put the call out all they want but if no one responds, what can the dispatcher do?

Or so I’ve been told.

So in order to save my sanity, I don’t rely upon the large cab companies to come and get me but if I’m on the north side---I do rely upon them to ferry me home.

95% of the time I have no problem. But that 5% can be a problem.

So began my (early) Saturday morning.

I hailed and got into a cab at approximately 12:30 AM on Saturday morning (12/30) only to be told by the driver that he was “off duty” after I gave him my destination address.

I was in no mood to put up with some cab driver’s bullshit
.
He told me that since he was “off duty” that I should get out and find another cab.

Ding, ding---game on.

I was pissed.

Pissed with a capital “P.”

I stated that I hailed him, he picked me up and wasn’t off duty until I revealed my destination address. I further added that I wasn’t going to take another cab.

“You need to take another cab.”

“Are you refusing to take me to my destination?”

It went on like this for a few minutes.

The cabbie (Mr. Mohanadinoner, if I copied his name down correctly) then stated that he was going to call the police if I didn’t get out of the cab.

I told him I’d beat him to the punch and already had 911 dialed on my cell phone.

The cops arrived a few minutes later.

Unfortunately they were of little assistance.

The officers essentially refused to enforce the City of Chicago rules that state the following:

When you hail a cab, drivers cannot refuse service unless the "Not for Hire" sign is displayed
Cabs licensed within the City of Chicago may take you anywhere in the city or to the suburbs

After a boatload of hard looks and my explanation of the situation, one of the officers strongly suggested that I copy down the cab driver’s information and take another cab.

From the looks he was giving me, I knew this was a fight I wasn’t going to win. I took the necessary information and got out of the cab.

Thanks a lot Officer Friendly.

Unfortunately I didn’t get the officer’s badge number so I could file a complaint against his handling of the situation. But let me share something with you ladies and gentlemen, if you start some shit with the Chicago Police Department, you better be ready for a very unfriendly and extremely personal fight.

I don’t suggest it unless it’s a circumstance in the most extreme.

And even then you better have multiple copies of corroborating evidence and credible eyewitnesses backing your story.

It wouldn’t hurt to be the spouse or immediate family member of an officer just as an extra level of protection.

This is Chicago, if you start a fight be better damn well be able to finish it.

Even if I had his badge number, I’m not gonna start a pissing match over some bootleg cab driver.

I did on the other hand fill out the city’s online complaint form lodging an official complaint against the driver and my treatment.

I will not be treated “less than” because you perceive my worth or the worth of my neighborhood to not be up to your standards.

Fuck you.

I don’t care he thought the neighborhood was unsafe or that my fare would take him too far away from other potential fares in a mainstream entertainment district.

Hell, I don’t care if he doesn’t like black people.

That wasn’t his call.

When his service light was on and I got into his cab, all of that hoo-ha flew out the window.

Let’s see if I can acquaint the cabbie with the power of one.

I’ll keep the blog updated as developments occur.

Dumb Ass

I must be a masochist because I volunteered to serve on my condo board again.

God help me.

Drinks With Mr. Sassy

A few Fridays ago, I ran into a nice man with a Texas Longhorns baseball cap on and a twang to match.

We were introduced by one of the staff of the bar and made the usual chit chat one makes on a Friday night.

One thing was evident---at least to me---from the start.

My newly introduced friend was “family.” And I mean family in the gay way, not the black way.

Frankly either one was fine with me. ‘Cause I’m cool like that.

As I stated in part two of the preamble, if you want to meet a gay man just hang out with me.

So we chatted until he had to leave for destinations unknown. My new bar friend seemed genuine and nice.

I had a vague sense of the familiar when we were chatting but nothing really connected.

Plus I think I was about on my fourth glass of wine.

I meet so many people when I go out that I’ve had people come up to me on the street, on the bus, in a store and carry on conversations about things in my life that you would only know if we had actually spoken.

All the while I’m staring at them like “Who are you?”

It happens all the time.

It’s part and parcel of being me.

So I really didn’t think anything about the warm soap and water feeling I was getting from Mr. Sassy in his Texas Longhorns baseball cap.

The places where I tend to socialize are ground zero for celebrity watching in the city of Chicago.

Movie stars, political figures, big money rollers and the bright young things on the scene all rub shoulders with us common everyday working folk.

I don’t care who you are and what you have, more than likely at some point you’re going to want to take a drink.

And when you take that drink you’re going to want to be social and around people.

In my humble opinion that’s the great equalizer among human beings; rich or poor, smart or dumb we all tend to like our booze.

I’ve seen George Clooney, Jennifer Aniston, Aretha Franklin, Don King, U2, David Swimmer, The Honorable Richard J. Daley and a host of other names that you would only recognize if you lived in Chicago.

Their presence barely made me raise my eyebrow.

Well that not entirely true as Mr. Clooney made my stomach flutter and I almost broke out into tears when I saw Ms. Franklin.

But even through those close calls I managed to emerge with my dignity intact and not create a scene.

It is important to “act like you’ve been there before.”

Even if it’s not true, you should act like seeing a famous person is the most common and everyday thing in the world.

Ironically, out of all of the people I’ve seen, I’ve never once spotted Oprah in the 12 years that I’ve lived here.

The next night I’m at the same watering hole and Mr. Sassy appears in the doorway resplendent in a cream velvet tuxedo jacket with red hibiscuses.

My God it was one of the gayest things I had ever seen and I just loved him for it.

Chicago is a pretty conservative town dressing wise. Men just don’t wear cream velvet tuxedo jackets with red hibiscuses on them.

I made a beeline for him and directed him back to the other end of the bar where a friend and I had our drinks.

Introductions were made, drink orders were placed, attire was fawned over and the chatting commenced.

That warm soap and water feeling kept coming back; like I knew my new friend much better than I realized.

That’s when it hit me.

That’s when I figured out who he was.

I went into total 16 year old---hands over mouth—finger pointing—hysterical I know who you are mode.

Once again I was on my fourth glass of wine for the night.

I can see George Clooney and hold it together but loose my shit over a Texas born, gay wedding and event planner.

Go figure?

It’s interesting the priority that we as human beings place on others.

One woman’s gay event planner is obviously just as every bit of important as the sexiest man alive himself.

So as I’m in the corner making a scene and acting like an ass. Mr. Sassy states that he has to excuse himself to go to the bathroom.

That was the last time I saw him.

The great thing about knowing your entertaining and lifestyle mavens is that no one else in the room except is die hard dorks knows who they are.

Which would probably explain why people looked at me like I was a goober, they didn’t know that they were in the presence of event planning genius.

So there you have it---I scared away Mr. Sassy and managed to look like an ass in one of the nicest hotel bars in the city.

My cool points are down to zero.

If you’re wondering why I don’t name Mr. Sassy the answer is simple---I rarely if ever use anyone’s real name in the blog.

Just because he’s a public figure doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserver the same respect.

I’ve dropped enough clues that if you’re familiar with the players in the industry you should be able to figure it out.

Then of course an event planner that comes from a family of seven Texas football coaches shouldn’t be too hard to find.

At least I didn’t piss myself when I met him---thank God.

Fruit Fly Preamble, Part II

Seriously---what is it with me and the gays?

Now this doesn’t hold true for all gay men or lesbians but I do seem to have my fair share of friends that just happen to be gay.

I remember my first gay boyfriend.

I was a newly minted 18 year old dropped off at college. Not too long thereafter I began to attract the attentions of a certain handsome junior.

Who among us wouldn’t be swooning at the prospect?

This stylish, good looking, older man---with a car I might add---took an actual interest in me.

Zit faced, hill jacked, slightly goofy, Care Free curl wearing me.

Good Lord, I thought he was the one.

Little did I know he would be the first of many gay men who for some reason seem to flock to me like the swallows coming back to Capistrano.

As I stated earlier, this doesn’t go for all gay men.

There are just as many misogynists that happen to be gay. Straight men don’t have the monopoly on marginalizing, humiliating or hating women.

And to be fair, I’m just not everybody’s cup of tea.

Most people would call me a fag hag but I’ve always hated that term.

I don’t like using the “F” word and I am a lot of things, but a hag isn’t one of them.

Instead, one of my good friends who also happens to be gay has coined another term---a less harsh moniker—he calls women who attract gay men a fruit flies.

Kinda catchy, huh?

Coincidentally, I’ve learned not only a lot about myself but a few do’s and don’ts with regards to gay men in general.

I’ll get into those points in another post so I can remain focused.

So combine my love of the lifestyle arts with my tendency to find gay men and it was only a matter of time before I ran into Mr. Sassy.

Fruit Fly Preamble

I’m a closet home design freak and a wannabe lifestyle maven.

Now I didn’t start out this way. I was never the girly girl with the matching pouf valence that coordinated with the bed skirt.

Baby, it took me years to realize my inner girl.

While I used to live for Style with Elsa Klensch on CNN; I was that girl who just didn’t quite have enough sense, style or money to look effortless and chic.

Frankly that girl isn’t completely gone but she’s grown into a woman who has some idea of what looks good on her. If pressed I can perhaps host a small dust up for a few people.

Mother Martha and a host of friends worked very hard to get me to this point.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my own mother a source of domestic diva inspiration.

She could can some tasty bread and butter pickles.

She also sewed most of our clothes in our younger years.

Money was tight---blowing it on garments that we would grow out of in a season just wasn’t practical. Why buy clothing when you could run a cutesy poo dress up on the sewing machine?

So it was from this background that my interest in the domestic arts arose in my mid-twenties.

Gracious, elegant living doesn’t have to cost a ton of money.

Or so Mother Martha convinced me.

Starting roughly around 1995 I bought my first edition of Martha Stewart Living. In 1996 I started subscribing.

I may have let a few subscriptions lapse and I may be missing a few issues here and there but rest assured of one thing:

I have every last regular edition Martha Stewart Living magazine I’ve ever purchased. I don’t throw them away and I don’t give them away.

Hell, I don’t even let them out of my house. And no, you can’t borrow them to get recipe ideas. If you can’t get it online at her website, you’re screwed.

The exception to that rule is the Martha Stewart Living Weddings editions.

I feel at 38 I may not get married so I gave them to my former neighbor when she started to plan her wedding.

Sometimes you just gotta let it go---you know what I’m saying?

Anyhoo, Mother Martha got me interested in other lifestyle magazines and now deem it absolutely essential for my existence to have House Beautiful show up every month.

The bug continued to spread and I started watching those cooking, home décor and gardening shows with renewed vigor.

Fine Living Network, The Style Network and HGTV should be the basis for everyone’s T.V. watching schedule.

I even own chaffing dishes.

Colin Cowie, Debbie Travis, Christopher Lowell, Mother Martha---all big names in the lifestyle, event planning and home décor games.

I’m a normal rational person (mostly).

I know these people aren’t my friends and have branded themselves and their products so they and their business partners can get rich.

It does seem that when you see someone all the time on the telly and they’re giving you such great tips on how to make you world a little brighter; you can’t help but to feel as if they're your long time pal.

I mean if I saw Preston Bailey in front of me in the Jewel, I’d almost piss myself.

Is it any wonder that since lifestyle gurus are the rock stars of my world that I would inevitably make an ass of myself when I actually met one in person?

Come To Jesus Meeting

Two Sundays ago, I saw the straw that broke the camel’s back.

My new neighbor had the keys to our front door duplicated and given out to her frequent visitors.

I about lost my shit.

I understand that a single woman who lives by herself needs to make sure that a trusted friend has a set of keys to her home. But when the let’s go kick it crew is rolling in and out of the front door of our home, that’s a problem.

So I fired off this little ditty to the owner of the unit:

XXXX,

While out on my front porch this morning I noticed that two or possibly three people have the key to the XXXX-XXXX building front door. Obviously I don't know who's authorized to live in the unit but the number of people who have access to our front door is, on its face, troubling.

Can you or your agent confirm with either XXXX or XXXX who is officially on the lease and take steps to stop your tenant from distributing keys to our front door. This is an egregious safety issue that concerns everyone who lives in or visits our home.

Unfortunately I did not have the e-mail address to your property manager on my home PC as I would of sent this e-mail directly to him, but I felt this issue was so important that I wanted to address it with you directly.

Sincerely,

Woody

While I never received a written reply to my concerns, word had it that the owner’s property manager would attend our next association meeting.

In the middle of our meeting, he did actually show up.

Unfortunately for him, he got an earful that night.

I renewed my concerns about everyone and their mother having a key to the front door. I also let Mr. Property Manager know that the frequency of his tenant’s pot smoking was a well known open secret.

Not only is the hallway filled with smoke but since I live directly above my smoking neighbor, my home smelled like a bong as well.

The other residents of our building that were in attendance all shook their heads in agreement.

Mr. Property Manager had already addressed the front door key issue but did not know that there was a pot smoking issue as well.

Luckily I was there to notify him of that fact.

One of my downstairs neighbors on the other hand, really let her feelings be known about the tenant situation.

While none of our building’s residents appreciated any of these shenanigans, my first floor neighbor is on the front lines of all of this disturbing foolishness.

She hears the increased traffic coming in and out of the door, the people walking over her head, the playing of the loud music at all hours of the night and in some cases the loud voices that accompanied by the increase in foot traffic.

Needless to say she is not a happy camper.

She “expressed” her concerns in a way where there was no doubt to her meaning.

In short we let Mr. Property Manager know that we’re NOT “the spot” or “the let’s go kick it place.”

The fact that we even had to express the lack of communal courtesy from this tenant made the phrase “proper tenant screening” surface in the conversation several times.

We got our point across.

In the few weeks since we had this come to Jesus meeting with the property manager, my new neighbor’s behavior has dramatically improved.

The constant stream of people has been reduced significantly and the 24/7 pot smoking has dropped off quite a bit as well.

Only time will tell if things are getting back to normal.

Introducing My New Bathroom

Touristas

I swear both of these conversations happened when I was at my usual watering hole last night:

“You're African American and a woman---do you know Oprah?”

Later on in the evening a nice lady from Kentucky said

“Do you know Oprah?” “Is she still with her boyfriend? What’s his name?”

Twice in one night---that’s a record for me. I haven’t been mistaken for or been asked about Oprah in a few years.

So as a public service to people to those few people in the world who may not know it, not all black people know one another.

Moreover, people tend to surround themselves with others who share something in common with them. Aside from our color, Oprah and I really have nothing in common.

Let’s run down the checklist:

Oprah owns her own business, I don’t.

Oprah has allegedly purchased fabulous new digs on east Lake Shore Drive; my fabulous digs are in Woodlawn.

Oprah has vast real estate holdings; I own the house I grew up in South Bend.

Oprah has been in movies, I haven’t.

Oprah is estimated to be a billionaire, unfortunately I’m not.

Oprah has a jet, I don’t.

Oprah has been to the Oscars, I haven’t

Moreover she’s been to the Vanity Fair Oscar party and Mr. Carter has yet to send an invitation my way.

So as you can see the black woman thing will only take you so far.

While I’m sure if I ever met Oprah again we’d have something to talk about, it’s not like we run in the same circles.

So to make myself perfectly clear---I don’t know Oprah or Michael Jordan for that matter. And no, I don't know how to get tickets to her show.

Now stop asking.

Updates

The Indos finally won one for the---Gipper---or at least his Indian equivalent. The final score was 28-23.

The website for our soon to be new neighbors, Living Green Lofts, has been enhanced. It now has floor plans and pricing (God I love the concept of rising property value---taxes---not so much) as well as smattering of "green products" that will be standard in the units.

The hoody ho seems to be abuzz with construction. A second new condo project is getting ready to break ground in the 6500 block of Dorchester. The frame and shell of a new condo building has almost been completed on 65th Place---down the street from the Living Green Lofts.

I'm a sucker, no a glutton for punishment. I nominated myself and will be serving on my condo board yet again. 2007 ought to be interesting.

I'm already planning my balcony gardens for next spring.

Piney the Christmas tree is up and almost decorated. Luckily the gay boyfriends took me to get Mr. Piney on Monday when it was 60 degrees and I was sweating. Today our low will be 18 degrees. Not the best day to get a tree. Once he's all festooned and bedecked, I'll post a picture.

The bathroom is done. Thank you Jesus.

Diligent readers have already seen the back splash transformation and heard about the original floor. The painting has been completed; the light fixture and accessories have been installed. I'll post yet another picture before the end of the year.

My goal is to make my home look so luxe you'll wonder how I can afford to live there.