Aldi, return home, my sisters

Apparently, I think too much about Aldi.

I bring it up all the time (along with Southwest Airlines and investing your financials in useful technology for the future instead of yelling at people for not being recycling purists).

This week, I posted a note about "What's your favorite Aldi purchase?" on FB, and my lovely sister Beth hopped on and commented pretty quickly "You need to get a job".  And here I was looking for an extended social media conversation, with some pros and cons and real exchange of ideas around the topic of Aldi!

She's right---I've been home in Chicago for a week and I didn't work at all in the month of February when I was on my LA visit.  Instead, I made it my work to connect with someone everyday and to write.  But no cash job.

I'm lucky I get to spend my time gallivanting around (as many people remind me and they are right) but I also find that a bit insulting, sort of like when people say "I'm so busy" or "You can't understand love until you have a child."  What if you don't have a child? Can you not understand love?  Well fuck, I'm screwed!

Anyway, I was lucky enough to work hard in my day job/career for 20 years and save money and switch to a freelance life and be able to drive out to LA for a month.

But during that time leading up to it, and my time there, and since I've returned, I've become even more bargain basic than I normally am.  Like, I ordered some $8 oil from Amazon, and then I returned it because it didn't perform well for my skin.  Not to sound like Obama bitching about the price of arugula, but that is major bargain activity for me.

So, Aldi, my very favorite grocery store in the world, keeps coming up in conversation.  And I keep expanding my consideration set when I shop there (salads? cheeses?  the holy grail of meat?)

That, and cooking everything I can at home, and asking friends if we can meet out for a walk instead of a drink or a meal.

But, the thing I love about my sisters (and my family) is they LOVE to keep it real and call me on my bs.  It's frustrating at times but I do appreciate that quality, especially when I go on a flight of fancy, like spending a month in LA to "test it out".

Keeping it real Beth, keeping it real.

FUTURE BECKY

there's a senior housing apartment building kitty corner from our building.  I often see the same lady, day after day, tall, dark curly hair, hunched over as she shuffles to and from on the opposite side of the block.

When I first saw her, I called her "Future Becky"---and felt, this is where my life is going to be if I don't find love, happiness, marriage, a fulfilling career, success and such.

She always seems to haunt me---clad in bright colors, wearing sensible but really cute shoes, mismatched hat from her coat and mittens--and always, always walking.

In many ways, she reflected the way I really live when I'm not cuting myself up to work in advertising, or go to a meeting or out with friends.

I feel like a fraud when it comes to fashion and putting on makeup and such. I don't blow dry my hair and I only wear makeup if I'm "going out".  I typically dress in workout pants, and put on my sports bra and shirt, and expect that I'll work out, sometime that day.  I often don't, but the promise is real.

(It's such a pain for us big-breasted ladies to put on a workout bra, take it off, put on a different bra---the whole bra thing is just a huge pain in the ass to me)

I'd often see Future Becky when I was out on a walk or run, trying to shake out the ghosts of relationships past, anxiety about the future, or during one bad stretch, open-mouth sobbing as I jogged---and there she showed up.

I used to think "Future Becky is FUCKING haunting me".

But, then something changed.  I got happier, or got some perspective or something shifted and I decided I know longer hated or feared this long, stretched-out bent over bean pole of a future me.

(No, dear readers, I didn't decide she deserved her own identity, I'm not that evolved)

But instead, I kind of started to really admire Future Becky.  She's out, no matter what the weather, running her errands on foot.

She's got an amazing sense of style---I don't mean that in a "Oh look at Edie Beale, let's make her a fashion icon"---what I mean is that girlfriend just wears shit that is laying around, and could give 2 fucks.  But her stuff laying around is super-fun, super bright, and she just throws it all on.

She's not smiley at all---she isn't walking down Winnemac to greet the world---Future Becky doesn't bother caring if anyone likes her---she's got shit to do!

And, most of all, she's alone.  Maybe the real lady is lonely, or maybe she loves her life---but in my mind, Future Becky, observes all the newest shops and hotspots in the neighborhood, takes it all in from her limited view, and goes home and writes about it.

I know have grown to LOVE Future Becky. I've often tried to speak to her, say hello, let Pickle wander a bit in her area as an icebreaker, but she will have NONE of it!

Maybe I'm a ghost, and Future Becky can't see Past Becky?  That would be kind of fun.

I love her, and I don't know the real her, but tonight, on a Thursday eve on a rainy March night, future Becky got dropped off by a pal (not an UBER! not a LYFT) at 745 pm and shuffled on home.  Good for you Future Becky!  I hope you saw a movie you loved, or had dinner with a pal, or had a date with Future Man-to-Appear and now get to go home and read a really good book while you pet your dog.

The Future's so bright...I gotta wear an 80's peach, down jacket out in the chilly eve.

The last Leg! It's the last leg!

Day 5

Did anyone see that Sting musical “The last ship”?  It did a tryout here in Chicago, and then went to NY.  So so boring--Sting rehashed the decline of the boat building industry in England--something that mattered to Sting, but I just didn’t care.  And I LOVE Sting!  The costumes and dancing were amazing, but enough with sad white dudes.  We GET it.  Anyway, there’s a song motif that keeps repeating “The last ship…the last ship”.  So boring. The lead’s name was GIDEON (not Gordon! It’s different, see?) and Sting shoved in a few songs from his Soulcages cd (“When we dance” was the most surprising---it seemed very out of place).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbMY9lf58FA

Anywho, this last leg of the journey seemed the LONGEST and MOST boring.  Across the desert, through Palm Springs (I do love the windmills, and PS is a favorite spot of mine) and finally, into the sprawl of LA county. 

I was thrilled to past through West Covina (Shoutout to Crazy Ex-Girlfriend!) and I saw an Aldi truck, so that was promising, too!

I landed at my sweet little cottage/cabin in Highland Park, a hipster neighborhood in LA! 

https://www.timeout.com/los-angeles/highland-park

I quickly dumped off pickle and the far too many bags I packed for a month away, and hightailed to a local mechanic to get my car underside shoved back up, and that mechanic, too, could not make the light malfunction in daytime.  It’s like a MYSTERY!  He helped me troubleshoot, and we figured out if you flick the light on and off, it eventually “sticks” and he also pooh-poohed the light bulb I had picked up in Texas (“You want the German one.  This one is no good”) I would have been insulted/skeptical, but since he shoved my car underbody up for free (FREE!  But I tipped the mechanic in cash), I decided to file away his notes.

I rushed home, walked Pic, and headed to week 2 of class at the Writing Pad.  I was in LA to test out the waters of the town as a potential home down the road, and take this “Sitcom Pilot Class”.  I knew I wanted to write about a few things:  Family, Technology and work, real middle-class people (I feel like it’s all really upper-middle-class families on TV nowadays---Modern Family, Big Bang Theory, etc.  It’s part of why I love Crazy Ex-Girlfriend so much---people have real jobs and real struggles. And I used to love Cheers, Roseanne, etc).  Anyway, week 2 of class was great---we did something with our beat sheets maybe?  A beat sheet is essentially an outline of your sitcom idea—you write down your scene descriptions, sticking to the action of the scene, not really worrying about the jokes.  In a typical sitcom, there is a really clear structure and it’s key to learn this.  Just like when I teach sketch, a lot of students will want to “break the structure” which makes sense---they are tired of the same old, same old. But even the most innovative/funny sitcoms still follow this traditional structure.  So, it’s important to learn---and what will “break through” is more your own POV, the setting and characters and situations you put them in, versus fucking with the form/structure.

Anywho, when I have my sitcom pilot done, I may tell you all about it.  But I am shy of sharing it!

Scottsdale!!!

Day 4—Scottsdale

The drive from NM to AZ was really amazing, too!  I went through a section of US Forest land, and I felt like I had fallen in to a Rankin & Bass forest from “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and was hoping the Snowman Narrator (as portrayed by Burl Ives) would guide me to the North Pole.  I mean, it was beautiful----and I couldn’t get enough of it.

Amazing Mountains, with snow and green green trees.  

I arrived in Scottsdale in a section of town that was comprised of endless apartment complexes, gated communities and new housing.  Not my cup of tea, but really lovely nonetheless.  I settled in with my sister Kitty’s BFF—Kim.  She’s a wonderful host, and also has a very tidy house.  (That really impresses me—as I a am a MESSY Marvin.  I saw so many immaculate homes that I started to get a complex about my dust, clutter and such.  But, as soon as I came home, my normal life exploded all over and I decided I didn’t care, mostly.  People are different!)

Anyway, Kim had some bone broth boiling and Pickle SCORED with some free bones!  We hung out at her apartment complex’s dog park.  Pickle never seems to be that excited about a dog park---even if I encourage her to run and play—she mostly stares at me, and makes a bee line for the fence and exit.  Just another way this dog is disappointing to me.  (It’s ok everyone—I can say that about her—she’s a dog, not a child.  She can’t read this blog).

Kim cooked and we visited and caught up.  Pretty nice there in Scottsdale. 

The next morning, I slept in (BIG SURPRISE to my regular readers) and couldn’t figure out how to operate her shower so hopped in the car DIRTY. 

(Oh! I should mention, lest you all think I am a cretin, I brought each of my hosts a host gift.  Shoutout to myself!!!)

NM--Day 3 heading west

NM—Day 3

Oh my god---once I got in to New Mexico---the view outside really picked up.  Red hills, canyons and mountains all around.  What a beautiful state.  I was pumped to go see Santa Fe, and decided to get my headlight repaired there.  I felt like I was in the land of Wil E Coyote and the Road Runner and was bouncy, happy and smiley, looking forward to seeing one of the funniest people I know, Mr Joe Carney.

I pulled in to Santa Fe, and it was hard to see the charm, as I was at the Jiffy Lube just outside of town.  It was  a very nice Jiffy Lube, but nothing special.

I walked the area while my oil was changed, and bumped in to some adobe houses with ornate iron doors.  Kind of hit the mark?

Anyway, the Jiffy Lube fellows couldn’t get the headlight to malfunction, so I drove away with just an oil change.

I drove through the old square of Santa Fe and it did seem charming, but almost in a New Orleans, come and drink and party way.  Lots and lots of strings of red peppers and margarita signs.   I was hoping for more crystals and turquoise, but maybe you have to know where to go for that.

I rolled down the hills to Albuquerque and arrived at the Carney manse.  Little John Carney and Terry and I took Pickle up a hill in a nearby park and the view was awesome.  They live in an area of rolling hills, a mix of old and new houses.  Joe pulled up and we met him and I got to see their lovely house with a huge backyard.  John has allergies, so Pickle agreed to hang out in the laundry room.  Joe wrestled with the baby gate that would keep Pickle confined for at least 10 minutes until he finally got it to work.

A bit about Joe—he’s got a round round Irish face and any feeling he has shows up right on that mug of his.  Black hair, blue eyes and he looks like an Irish man, straight out of central casting.  Joe is an amazing mimic, tells the best jokes and likes to gossip.  He’s such a funny funny dude—and I’m so grateful to him, and Terry and John for putting me up.  Years ago, I dated/hooked up with one of Joe’s pals.  It was all very casual, but I found out that he had slept with someone else on St. Patrick’s Day.  Carney was giving us both a ride home, and he and I “broke up” with me in the backseat of Carney’s car, while his friend was in the front passenger seat and Carney was driving.  Carney handled it like a champ and even dropped me off after the split.

Carney’s got a brother, Tommy, and parents “Mr and Mrs Carney” and every St Patrick’s day, Joe and John fly in, and the guys march in the St. Patrick’s Day parade with the Irish Fellowship.  I’ve never gone to the parade but usually join the group afterwards at Cavanaughs, a downtown Irish bar in the Monandock building  http://www.cavanaughschicago.com/home

A few years ago, I stayed home from St. Patrick’s day, licking my wounds from a breakup, and turned on the TV to watch the parade. 

And I just knew, that right at that moment, I’d see those round Irish Carney heads, wearing the Irish Fellowship Sashes, Aran sweaters and waving at the crowd. 

And there’s nothing more fun than watching local coverage of the lame Thanksgiving Day parade, New Year’s eve and St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  Chicago is a town that likes it’s drinks, and all the broadcasters are boozing it up, Judy Baar Topinka is in studio with a mysterious to-go coffee mug and people like “Chicago’s own Matt Walsh” as the Grand Marshal. 

The true party is at the South Side Parade on the Sunday of St. Patrick’s---I went only once, and everyone bitched because it was being invaded by Northside revelers, pouring off of busses from Lincoln Park, a bunch of trixies and todds trotting their way over Southside bungalow front yards.  I was there with a legit southside irish family, and as I munched on corned beef and cabbage,  I watched them all scowl at the partiers.  A few years later, they shut the parade down, but that only lasted 2 years.  I haven’t been back since, but that’s pretty fun, too.

Anyway, we went out for dinner (to an Irish pub, of course) and I made Carney do all his impersonations of our mutual friends, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

When we got home, Pickle had peed in the laundry room and John brought me paper towels to clean it up and almost gagged.  Poor kid.

We hung out a bit more, but Pickle bitched the whole time, so we put her in the kennel and called it a night.

The next morning, I saw Joe and John leave, with both of them wearing neat polo shirts, tucked neatly in to their trousers.  John told me all about his school routine (I love hearing that shit) and Joe showed me how lock the front door (So the bad guys don’t rob us, Beck Becky).  What a nice family.  Oh, I was closing pocket doors to keep Pickle out of rooms, and I think I broke the dining room door.  I left a note, but  Joe hasn’t said anything, so I’m prepared to check it on my return visit and pay for the damage.

Off to Scottsdale!