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Please tell me you recycle. Please.

Did you know I was an equestrienne?  For reals.  I’ve never actually been on a horse, but indeed, am an equestrienne.  I own a high horse.  It’s very high.  I like to get on it.  And when I’m on that high horse I pontificate.  Mary Tyler Mom has provided a whole new venue – – my high horse has a new stable, if you will. 

Today, high on my high horse, Imma talk about recycling in Chicago.  It is a sorry state of affairs, folks, recycling in Chicago.  There is much to pontificate about.  I could kvetch about living in the “greenest city in America” and still needing to deposit my recyclables at a local blue bin drop center.  I can complain endlessly about living in a condo that does not recycle.  I could go on and on and on, but that is boring and you don’t want to read that. 

Instead, I’ll just post a picture of my local drop center.  Sigh.  What a freaking shame.  Please, Chicago, Urbus en Horto, City in a Garden, Mary Tyler Mom needs you to do better.  This is unacceptable.  If I gave Mary Tyler Son some cartons to put in our recycling bin and saw this debacle in our pantry my toddler would be getting a time out.  And he would learn and he would do better.   Chicago?  Not so much.

If I were a glass half full kind of gal, I suppose I could rejoice at the abundance of plastic and cardboard spillng out of these blue bins.  But at the end of a long day, at the end of a long weekend, I’m not really feeling glass half full.  I’m tired, Chicago, I’m busy and over extended.  And know that when I say that if I go through the trouble of memorizing which numbers are recycled and which are not, when I diligently wash each and every soda can, yogurt container, and freaking peanut butter jar, is it too much to ask to have a place to put it?

Help me help us, Chicago.  Be true to your Latin nom.  Empty the freaking blue bins.  Please. 

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Gwyneth Paltrow can kiss my sweet Chicago a$$.

Gwyneth Paltrow is not a friend to the working mother.  And yes, I know, she is a working mother herself, as she reminds us all the time, but still, she is no friend to the working mother.  We have a long history together, Gwynnie and I, that you can read about here: 

http://marytylermom.tumblr.com/post/3116163258/oh-gwyneth-my-gwyneth

Today I’m cranky and feel like barking at someone.  This week I had my fourth miscarriage, so forgive me my need to bark.  Grrrrr.  Gwynneth seems like a good target.  Put your seatbelt on, darlings, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride . . .

Gwynnie has her own working mom’s blog called GOOP.  It’s all things Gwyneth all the time.  That means it’s white and privileged and completely unaware.  IMHO.  She writes about lifestyle – – that elusive thing that JCrew and Banana Republic markets to the masses.  For Gwyneth, who breathes a more rarified air than I, it’s that elusive thing that can be purchased in stores I don’t have enough money to allude to, let alone shop in. 

Recently she wrote about visiting her “bf” in Chicago. (It is my belief that adult women should not refer to their “bf.”  Ever.)  It was a whirlwind trip that afforded her just enough time to recommend four hotels, five “shops,” or what most of us refer to as stores, and twelve restaurants.  Schwa, over on Ashland, is described as, “so punk rock that they don’t even answer the phone.”  And yet, somehow, our Gwynnie managed a reservation.  God bless her.  And also, the joint is so punk rock it serves a nine course tasting menu.  Um.  Yeah.  I don’t think that’s so punk rock.  A punk rock nine course tasting menu would be a case of Old Style missing three cans that were thrown at the band. 

Gwynnie also deems Q at 1160 N. Dearborn, “By far the best bbq in Chicago.”  Shut the front door.  This bitch doesn’t have a clue.  The best barbecue (and yes, Imma take the time to type that word) in Chicago is not to be found in freaking River North.  One teensy tiny critique she did make was that it was “meat heavy.”  Are you freaking kidding me, Gwyneth?  Who in their right mind sits down for barbecue and refers to it as “meat heavy.”  Hell to the no.

And then there are her few brief words about Barney’s Chicago.  God forbid you confuse it with Barney’s New York.  In this piece meant to highlight Chicago, dear Ms. Paltrow demonstrates her achievement in putting down those who on the surface she is celebrating.  Truly, she is gifted in the art of the backhanded compliment.  She writes about Barney’s selection, “A huge plus, because Chicago tends to be more conservative [sic:  pedestrian, bland, parochial, provincial], is that you can actually find runway pieces, as they tend to disappear lightning fast in New York.”  Bitch. 

Moving on, folks.  Theres a bunch more GOOP, or as I like to say, CRAP, about “gastropub fare” and “authentically modern” decor, kitchens as “laboratories” and Italian winter outerwear.  Blah, blah, blah. 

Go home, Gwyneth.  Go home to your rock star husband and your kids with odd names.  Go home to New York or London or LA or the Hamptons.  Go home, dear, we don’t want you here.  Here in Chicago, we’ll eat our barbecue on the south side and furnish our homes at Ikea and be happy.  Bitch.

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Mother. Worker. Juror.

A couple weeks ago I got a jury summons in the mail.  Halleluah!, I thought.  I’d been waiting  years for this.  This being my tired mom fantasy of sitting all day in a room full of strangers where there is no expectation for me to talk or be social or explain or nurture or cultivate or encourage or teach or any of those other things moms do on a regular basis. 

In my juror fantasy, I am tucked away, high in a civic building, where it is just me and my iPad with my current book about the history of Mormonism and my Vanity Fair magazines that never get read in a timely manner. I am anonymous.  No one needs me to wipe their nose or fix their lunch or bathe them or read inane dinosaur factoids.  No one knows I grieve my daughter.  I am simply Juror X on Panel Y.  In the fantasy, my panel does not get called and while I am a bit disappointed about that, I revel in the space and lack of connectiveness.  I stroll through the blooming park on the way back to my car, cruising home along the lakefront, after all potential jurors were dismissed early for lack of cases. 

Yeah, I did say fantasy.  As it turns out, I am a model juror, which means I am valued for my impartiality and ability to discern relevant details from attorneys pitching their side of the story.  My panel got called straight away and sure enough, today I won the jury lottery.  Can’t tell you what jury lottery, as I get to return tomorrow.  It appears my mom fantasy of anonymity and disconnectiveness will have to wait. 

What’s your mom fantasy?  Keep it clean, folks.