Tag: Chicago

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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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Mayor Daley is my hero.

You’ve got to really like someone to name your kid after them.  I mean, it’s kind of a big deal to bestow that particular honor.  Mary Tyler Son is named after our soon to be retiring Mayor.  Not Richard, that’s too obvious. 

And not Dick, that’s just mean – – I love my boy.  Mary Tyler Son’s middle name is Daley.  No joke.  I’d tell you his first name, but then folks would really make fun of me. 

When our boy was born Mr. Mary Tyler Mom, New England born and bred as he is, needed a bit of convincing and coaxing before agreeing to my South Side Irish request, but just a bit.  Our rationale is that we wanted Mary Tyler Son to know where he came from and what better way than to slap on Daley as his moniker. 

I mean, seriously folks, what other word comes close to calling forth our Second City more so than Daley?  Mary Tyler Son is gonna know where his roots are.  When he grows up and chooses to leave behind his old mom and dad, Sweet Home Chicago will always be whispering his name.

I’ve been trying to get a photo with Mary Tyler Son and his namesake since last August, before Richard M. announced his retirement plans.  I wrote a nice letter, attached a photo of the happy family to demonstrate we were benign a family as they come, and sent it off to City Hall, as instructed by the rude girl answering the phone at the Mayor’s office.  Nothing.  Huh.

I reached out to my old neighbor, the former liquor commissioner.  Nothing.  Huh.  I reached out to my alderman, whose aide told me, and I quote, “Nobody wants to waste a favor with the Mayor.” 

I reached out to my mom’s best friend’s daughter, now married to another alderman.  That looked promising, but then, nothing.  Huh.  I sent other letters.  Nothing.  Huh.   

When Richard M. announced his retirement, I shed a few tears.  I’m not kidding.  I didn’t understand it myself until I read Mary Schmich’s column about him being a father figure to the whole of the City a day or so later.  Then I got it. 

Soon after I started this odyssey, that announcement came and I panicked, and then I thought, nah, it’s too good a story, he’s gonna eat it up – – seriously, what higher compliment is there than to ensure a legacy through a namesake?  Tsk, tsk, tsk, who knew it would be so hard?  Certainly not I.  But never underestimate the powers of a determined mother.  Never. 

Growing up Irish Catholic in the south suburbs, you couldn’t help but respect our own home grown Kennedys.  The day Richard J. died in office, I was six and playing at a neighbor’s home.  I heard the news on their tee vee and scooted home pronto.  I wanted to be with my family. 

My six year old self felt that I needed to be with family.  I sat, rapt, and watched Fahey Flynn, another Chicago Irish icon I wanted to name a kid after (Mr. Mary Tyler Mom put his foot down on that one) report the news. The end of an era, it was.  But then, just thirteen years later, Richard M. moved into City Hall.   

Mayor Daley II and I have something in common.  We are both members of what I sadly refer to as the “terrible fraternity” – – parents who have buried a child. He lost a young son, two years old, I believe, to spina biffada in the early 80s. 

I had met Mayor Daley before, at a Children’s Memorial Hospital event we were invited to when my dear Donna was going through her cancer treatment.  I saw a smile on his face, but sadness in his eyes.  It really made an impression on me. 

I didn’t know at that time that he had lost a son, but when I read that fact a year or so later, my memories jumped back to the event at Children’s and the sadness in those eyes.  I understand that sadness now.  It is my sadness, too.  It is a bitch (all apologies, Dad, I promised I would not swear). 

So, yeah, Mayor Daley is my hero.  He wakes up every day and gets through that day and sleeps to wake again.  Being relatively new in my grief, that means something to me.  And through his grief, he championed what he lovingly refers to as “the best City in the world.”

Politics aside, folks, he loves his home, I love my home, it is our home.  Last weekend, Mr. Mary Tyler Mom and I brought little Mary Tyler Son to the Neighborhood Appreciation Tour to meet his namesake.  He did, we did, and here’s the shot to prove it:

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