Making babies.

Don’t know if you’ve noticed it in your part of the world, but there are lots of pregnant women running around Chicago these days. At the office. In the neighborhood. And lining the sidewalks everywhere in between. For me, the interesting aspect of this reproductive trend is that for the first time in my life I’ve started processing the situation with a smile and intrigue—rather than picturing a life of hell and poverty. And don’t even get me started on the babies that have already been born.

Suddenly, I’m seeing strollers and peeking to see what’s inside. Boy or girl. Drooling or crying. Or both. When three-year-olds take an interest in petting the dog, the agenda in my brain gets jumbled and Jez and I will pull over for twenty minutes just so the curious little human can grab her ears and poke at her eyes.

I’m not making anything of this. We’re not planning on children anytime soon, if ever. But I must confess, there is something nice about the evolution from “why would anyone ever want to have kids?” to the far more socially acceptable state of “Awww, babies are cute.”

Not recommended for melting.

I came in the front door last night after work, peeled off my t-shirt and walked seductively back to the kitchen where Cristi was in the middle of a project.

“Hello, my love,” I said, noticing that she was frowning.

Assuming my pale, scrawny physique was the source of the disgusted look on her face, I apologized. But as it turns out, it wasn’t me at all.

“I don’t know how I did it, but I bought fake shredded cheese. The package says cheese product. What exactly do you think goes into cheese product?”

I tried to console her. I told her I’d run up to the store and buy the most expensive real shredded cheese they had. But the damage was done. Apparently she’d already mixed all the contents together, fake cheese included, and the dish couldn’t be saved.

“And the worst part,” she added, “it says right on the package, not recommended for melting.”

Worldview.

Yesterday evening a co-worker and I stood in front of our downtown office building looking out over a tangled mess of traffic clogging the intersection of Grand and Wabash.

“It’s gonna be a rough ride home,” I said, leaning my bike against the building and strapping on my helmet.

“It could be worse,” she interjected, taking a drag from her Marlboro Light. “In  many places in India they have no concept of lanes on the road. Plus, there are lots of animals to deal with.”

“Animals?” I replied. “Like dogs?”

“No, like elephants,” she clarified.

Worst summer job ever.

Art? Graffiti? Man, I can’t say for sure, but it caught my eye this morning and made me smile. And kinda want a banana.

Sleeptyping.

I didn’t sleep well last night. No full moons or loud noises to blame—just restless fits of tossing and turning. So I got up early this morning and quit the condo board. It felt good, except that my resignation email was full of typos, so I’m not sure anyone knew what I was talking about.

Then I got to the office and drank four cups of coffee. I still didn’t feel awake, but I went to work anyway. After drafting a couple of riveting calls-to-action, I realized that most everything I was putting on the page was full of typos and would probably confuse a great number of consumers—if they took the time to read the copy, that is.

Discouraged, I sent a couple of text messages. But “of” showed up where “if” was supposed to be and every attempt to type the word “your” came out “you” instead. I sent a message to a co-worker and this is how it read:

“How about of I come by you desk?”

About to give up and step away from the keyboard covered in tears from my zombie eyes, someone came by and proposed a trip to the Starbucks around the corner. Two shots of espresso later, I was better. Basic sentence structure came easily. If was if again. My brain was awake. And then it was time to go home.

The naming of things.

There’s a Scion in my neighborhood with custom wheels and a big stereo. It’s lowered. The windows are tinted. And it has a name. “Happy Meal”. I don’t have a car, nor do I have much desire to own one. But I have a pretty sweet bike and it currently has no name. Have an idea? I’m completely open to suggestions.

Skynyrd.

We haven’t really been going to many shows lately. I could come up with about 27 good reasons why sitting on the deck watching rats scurry across the parking lot is more interesting, but I won’t bore you with the details of the basic inner-workings of my brains. I will make a few observations regarding going out to see live music in Chicago: 1) Getting to the venue without a car always seems complicated and 2) Getting a drink or two once we’ve arrived always seems more expensive than it should be.

That said, I thought this article on the origin of the jackass in the crowd who yells ‘Freebird’ in between songs was really entertaining. If you haven’t already read it, enjoy.

Keep the peace.

The first few days of July are usually a period of extreme trepidation for our old brown dog. A delightful critter to be around practically all the time, fireworks turn Jez into a trembling mess of bones and fur. She won’t eat. She won’t leave the house. Which means she doesn’t poop or pee. I can’t say from experience, but I would imagine not going to the bathroom for a couple of days could make a bad situation seem a whole lot worse. Painful even.

This year, however, everything’s different. As unbelievable as it may seem, I’ve only heard a couple of explosions in the night. And considering the mental state of the world’s best dog, I couldn’t be happier. Strange. Since I was old enough to hold a BIC lighter, I’ve jumped at every opportunity I’ve ever had to blow things up. Now my complete lack of interest in the boisterous celebration of independence feels as lame as it is justified.

So, it appears that Jez and I are in the right place at the right time. And no matter where you are or how you choose to celebrate America, I hope by the time Monday rolls around you have ten fingers, happy pets and shades of red, white and blue lingering in your patriotic, bloodshot eyes.

The back of your car speaks to me.

I got behind a white Ford sedan on my bike this morning. Their license plate frame said, “I’d rather be sailing.” And not far from there, a bumper sticker read, “I love dancing.” I imagined a sailor under a big mast doing a John Travolta move from Saturday Night Fever. I giggled and made my way on down the road.