Ernesto, Here I Come!

Just when I thought I was ready.

I have worked all week to prepare for my trip to Ocean City, and I was just about ready, and then...Ernesto.

Tropical Storm Ernesto is scheduled to hit Ocean City about the same time we do and hang around all weekend, bringing rain and winds of 40 miles per hour.

Swell beach vacation I'm going to have.

I am pretty bummed that my first beach vacation since age 14, my second beach vacation ever, is going to be wrecked by a stupid tropical storm. I am also a little bit worried that it's going to be worse than it sounds and my family is going to end up in danger. I plan to keep my eyes and ears open for anything and hightail it out of Ocean City should things look the slightest bit scary. Weather is not to be trifled with; in these battles, it often wins.

But every cloud has a silver lining, and mine is this.

The weather forecast being what it is, it's pretty unlikely I'll be needing to put on a bathing suit!

I Don't...But I Do....

I don't like the band Chicago, but I do like the city of Chicago.
I don't like cherries, but I do like cherry-flavored candy and Pop Tarts.
I don't like animals, but I do like animal crackers.
I don't like Jessica or Ashlee Simpson, but I do like "The Simpsons."
I don't like the show "The Real World," but I do like living in the real world.
I don't like clowns, but I do like clown fish.
I don't like poo, but I like Winnie the Pooh.
I don't like whining, but I do like wine.
I don't like the names Candy or Cookie, but I do like candy and cookies.
I don't like having gas, but I do like my car having gas in the gas tank.

Here For The Food

I don't give a flying fig about sports.

I never played sports growing up, never followed any team, never rooted for any athlete. Sports in general just never interested me. I've taken a lot of flack for it, but I didn't care. I would much rather read a book or watch a movie than tune into any sort of sporting event. It's just not my thing.

When I started dating my fiance, however, I quickly realized that I couldn't hide from sports anymore. He's a big Chicago White Sox fan, and he enjoys watching and following various other sports, although the Sox are his favorite. When it became clear last year that the Sox would be a top contender for the world championship (which, of course, they eventually earned), I was subjected to game after game, night after night, on TV.

I don't mind attending live games, because there's a lot going on besides baseball, and the food is fantastic. I'd happily watch paint dry if it meant I'd get nachos and a kosher hot dog. And as a bonus, they give you those cards when you enter the stadium that say if your team scores so many points you get a free donut or if your pizza wins the race, you get a $3 coupon, making the whole sports food experience even more wonderful.

To watch games on TV just isn't the same. I get bored. Sure, last year, I got caught up in the excitement of the hometown team going all the way, but I think I could have been satisfied with, "did they win last night?" "Yeah." "Cool."

Still, I had several friends who were die-hard Sox fans, so I figured I ought to give the team a chance to win me over as a baseball fan. They had the best chance of anyone; they were my hometown team, they were doing really well and their ballpark has great food.

But that wasn't enough to fully hook me, and try as I might, I couldn't even remember who many of the players were. So to get myself interested, occupied and educated, I used the only thing I knew would keep my attention.

The food.

I began to imagine what the White Sox would be like on my turf. If I had a backyard barbecue and invited the Chicago White Sox, what would each person bring? Who would be doing what? Who would have the most fun, and who would leave early?

After that, I felt like I knew the White Sox a whole lot better. When this season began, there were some new players, so the list had to be tweaked, but I am still mighty proud of the lineup.

So now, I present Erika's 2006 Chicago White Sox Backyard Barbecue.

A.J. Pierzynski -- grillmaster, second year running.
Freddy Garcia -- marinates steaks and surprises everyone by doing a very tender vegetable kebab as well.
Jermaine Dye -- keeps the beer cooler stocked
Scott Podsednik -- makes sure all the ladies perpetually have a drink
Jim Thome -- the babysitter, keeps the kids occupied. This position belonged to Frank Thomas last year, but I don't think Frank's coming to this year's party.
Bobby Jenks -- ice cream -- Breyers neapolitan. Also brings Hershey's syrup.
Brandon McCarthy -- barbecue chips
Ross Gload -- red-skinned potato salad, made by his wife/girlfriend, who insisted they bring something.
Rob Makowiac -- pasta salad with tri-color pasta and black olives
Tadahito Iguchi -- Diet Pepsi. I read somewhere that he likes to drink it.
Alex Cintron -- volunteers to bring the napkins and plastic silverware but forgets them on the counter at home
Neal Cotts -- hamburger and hot dog buns
Mark Buehrle -- cups and ice. Also brings a marker so people can write their names on their cups.
Paul Konerko -- keeps writing silly nicknames on all the cups.
Juan Uribe -- comes for a drink and a burger but has somewhere else to go that day.
Joe Crede -- brings fireworks and almost blows up a tree setting them off.

Sure, it's only part of the team, but I'm glad at least these guys could make it.

Vacation, Have To Get Away

It's an old, tired joke.

"Going on vacation was so stressful that I need another vacation just to recuperate."

Har de har har, but it has a ring of truth to it.

This week, however, I am finding that I need a vacation just to get ready for my vacation.

My fiance and I leave on Friday morning for a weekend of sun and fun in Ocean City, Maryland, with my parents, sister and brother-in-law. I have been looking forward to this trip since we planned it several months ago, and, I am especially excited now -- just two weeks after my fiance became my fiance -- because this is the first opportunity I'll have to show off my sparkly diamond ring and chat about wedding plans with my family.

However, the closer the trip gets, the more unprepared I find I am. On my to-do list:

- Do enough laundry to have clothes for the four-day trip and for at least a day or two of work after we return, because we won't get back until the wee hours of Tuesday morning and have to return to work that day.

- Stock up on sunscreen and other needed sundries.

- Clean out fridge, take out garbage and otherwise eliminate anything that might smell bad after being left alone for four days.

- Pay bills that are due during the time we'll be gone.

- Go to the gym two extra times during the week to make up for the two visits I won't make on Friday and Saturday.

- Find someone to get us to the airport at 5:30 a.m. on Friday and pick us up at 11:50 p.m. on Monday.

- Knowing no one who owes us that big of a favor, check prices for parking at airport from 5:30 a.m. on Friday to 11:50 p.m. on Monday.

- Clean out car, leaving no traces of anything being stored inside of it, thus lessening the chance it will be broken into.

- Pack.

- Repack, upon learning new restrictions about what can and cannot be taken on an airplane.

- Re-re-pack, upon checking weather in Ocean City.

- Lose 10 lbs. OR pretend to have forgotten bathing suit; come up with host of fun activities that do not require beach wear.

- Make sure that at least left hand looks good and nails are painted to accentuate sparkly ring.

- E-mail parents one more time to make sure there will be cold beer waiting when we arrive.

- Find something to do on the flight to Philadelphia, where we will meet my sister and brother-in-law, and the 4-6 hour car ride from Philadelphia to Ocean City; e-mail sister to see if it's possible to have cold beer waiting at the airport.

- Buy cold beer to last the next few days, as with that list, we're going to need it.

African Cultural Hour

Flipping through the channels on a boring, gray Sunday, I came across the 1987 classic "Can't Buy Me Love" and eagerly tuned in.

The story of a young geek (Patrick Dempsey), who pays the head cheerleader (some blonde girl no one remembers) $1,000 to pretend to date him for a month so he'll become popular has been one of my favorites since I saw it in the theatre as a kid. It is one of my favorite 80s teen movies out there, and I do love my 80s teen movies.

I could say a lot about the merits of this film, but I will cut to the chase. This movie has the scene that is, in my opinion, one of the top five scenes of 80s teen movies, and certainly the best high school dance scene of 80s teen movies.

It's the African Anteater Ritual.

Patrick Dempsey's character boasts about his dance moves to his date, and then he realizes that he can't dance at all. Panicking, he turns on "American Bandstand" just before it ends and learns a hot new dance. He hears his little brother coming (a precocious Seth Green in one of his best performances) and runs away, just as the dance on the TV ends and a man in ethnic robes thanks the exchange students who have just performed the African Anteater Ritual on PBS' "African Cultural Hour."

Unfortunately, Patrick Dempsey isn't around to hear that part, so he goes to the dance and starts performing the ritual in front of everyone, thinking he's doing a hip new dance. The other students think it looks strange, but they figure if Patrick Dempsey is doing it, it's cool, so they join in. Soon, all of the students are doing the African Anteater Ritual, and the only people who know what it really is are the nerds, Patrick Dempsey's former friends who he dumped once he became popular.

It is a fine, fine moment in movie history. For nerds, cool people, and probably for African anteaters too.

Into The Woods And Out Of The Woods And Home Before Dark

Prologue

Once upon a time, this past May to be exact, a young girl bought a brand new, shiny iPod nano.

For three weeks, she took it to the gym, to work, everywhere she needed a musical boost to her day. She loved her iPod, and it loved her.

But the happiness was short-lived. One day, inexplicably, the iPod died. Unable to charge or turn on, the iPod laid on the girl's computer desk like a forgotten old toy.

The girl had a friend who worked across the street from the Apple store in downtown Chicago, and he offered to take the iPod in to get it fixed or replaced. The nice folks at the store replaced the iPod, and the girl soon had another new, shiny iPod to love.

But two weeks later, suddenly, inexplicably, that iPod died, just like the last one had. Unable to charge or turn on, this iPod was destined for the grave, just like its predecessor.

All week, I've fretted over what to do about my iPod situation. During the short time I've actually been able to use the iPod(s), I've really liked it (them). But having gone through two iPods in three months, I became wary of the product. The frustration just was not worth the $247.81 I spent. According to Apple's warranty, I could get my iPod repaired or replaced, or simply get my money back. Not wanting to have to replace the iPod every time I needed to charge it, I opted for door number three.

So yesterday, I made an appointment at the Genius Bar (i.e. support desk) at the Apple store in Oak Brook; I figured it would be easier to drive there than into the city, pay to park and all that jazz, and I couldn't ask my friend again. Not wanting to sully my Friday off, I decided to devote my Thursday evening to the trip, figuring I'd get there, get my cash and get back home to get started on my weekend relaxation.

I left home at 7:30, leaving myself plenty of time to get to the store by 8:30, the time of my appointment. At about 7:45, it began to rain, sprinkling at first, then raining steadily, then pouring. I wasn't familiar with the area, relying on Mapquest directions, which were correct but not comprehensive, so I ended up getting turned around a few times.

The route took me through the woods, a long, menacing stretch of road with no homes or businesses. Although it reminded me of the old days in my home state of Pennsylvania, I felt uneasy. Dark and undeveloped, it looks very different from what is normally found in the suburbs of Chicago. With nary a beige house or strip mall in sight, I was alone with the trees, the rain and my visions of being abducted and held in some psychopath's basement.

"I'd better get a refund and a free iPod for this," I muttered to myself.

Counting my miles and following Mapquest's directions, I made it to the mall just in time for my appointment. The map on Apple's Web site had made it seem that the store was on an outlot, so I expected it to be easy to spot. After making a lap around the property, I realized that wasn't true. I dialed the store's number, and an automated lady told me that I'd find the store across from Sears. So into Sears I went.

It is at this point in the story that I should explain how the mall in Oak Brook is laid out. From the outside, it looks like a normal mall, but there are actually no indoor corridors; one must go outside and through a courtyard to get into another store. I had never been to this mall before and hadn't known this useful nugget of information, so I searched to no avail for an exit that did not exist. Finally, I asked a Sears employee how to get out, explaining where I wanted to go, and she pointed me to a door.

When I walked into the store, it was approximately 8:45. Luckily, the store wasn't so busy that my missed appointment mattered, and a nice young man immediately offered to help. I told him that I wanted a refund; he asked when I had purchased the iPod.

That's when he told me that the store will only refund for 14 days. The company's policy is different, but in the store, it's only 14 days.

Flustered and frustrated from my long trip, I asked with a heaving sigh what I would need to do to get my refund, and he said that depends on what's wrong with the item, inviting me to follow him to the Genius Bar. He took the dead iPod out of its box, plugged it into his wall charger and turned it on.

He turned it on. And it just turned on, working like it was supposed to do. I had just driven through the rain and the haunted woods for my iPod to magically start working perfectly.

The nice young man also tested the USB cable I'd been using, and that, too, worked just fine. I was baffled. Even moreso, I was embarrassed. The guy probably thought I was some sort of idiot. He told me that the problem might be the speed of my computer, that sometimes charging by computer can take longer than through a wall charger, especially when the battery is drained to almost nothing, sometimes up to 15 minutes. I told him I had had the thing plugged in for hours (yes, the computer was on). I had tried everything the Apple support site had recommended, and nothing had worked. Yet this guy could make the iPod work with no problems.

I was tempted to break it myself at that point.

My boyfriend has a wall charger for his iPod, and the nice young man at the Apple store told me it would work fine with mine and recommended that I use it instead of relying on the USB cable. And with that, I left the store.

I called a friend to vent about my wasted night, and we had a nice chat. As soon as I reached the haunted woods again, however, it began to rain. Hard. I'm not just talking steady rain, I'm talking monsoon. It reminded me of one of those amusement park rides where you're on a raft, sent through a wall of water that pounds down on your head so hard it hurts. Only there was no other side to this wall of water. It just kept going. I couldn't see anything; I wanted to pull over, but there was no berm in the haunted woods, and I was afraid that someone would hit me anyway. So I kept going, as slowly as I could, windshield wipers whipping to and fro.

As water gathered on the road, I had a few close calls. The puddles were hard to spot, because the haunted woods was dark, very dark. I was going very slowly, but even my slow pace was enough to send a wall of water sailing over the top of my car, bringing to mind images of cars floating around the streets in flooded areas...as well as my own car, wrapped around a tree.

Somehow, I made it back to the main road, where the puddles were more treacherous but easier to spot, and eventually, the rain began to let up, becoming just a steady pour rather than a blinding deluge. By the time I got home, I was exhausted.

Before I tumbled into bed, however, I pulled out my iPod and plugged it into the wall with my boyfriend's charger. Within a few minutes, it was nearly finished charging.

The iPod lives another day. And despite the best efforts of the haunted woods and enough rain water to fill Lake Michigan, so do I.

But I think we're both a little wiser. I hope so, anyway, because if I have ever have cause to take that iPod back to Oak Brook, I'm throwing it into the haunted woods.

The Soundtrack of Life, Part One

I have been going wild with music lately. Exchanging CDs with far-away friends and raiding my boyfriend's computer has enhanced my music collection by leaps and bounds.

Many of these new additions are songs that have been in my life for a long time, songs that once held a special meaning that has long been forgotten, or at least put aside. But as I listen to these tunes again now, the memories (and often tears of hysterical laughter) come flooding back. Here's a sampling of what I mean.

"Lollipop" by The Chordettes
This one goes way back to fourth grade and the heyday of the movie "Stand By Me." No one who has seen that movie could forget the image of Corey Feldman and Jerry O'Connell rambling down the train tracks singing that tune.

My pals Kelly and Krista and I liked the song so much that we started singing it during recess. We made up a dance routine, sang in harmony and performed for our friends. No one really ever came to watch, but we had a great time. By the end of the year, we had a whole show. My personal big song was "Great Balls of Fire," during which I would play "air piano" in the style of Jerry Lee Lewis.

"Don't Go Breaking My Heart" by Elton John and Kiki Dee
This song held no special significance with me until years after it originally came out, when Elton John re-recorded it with RuPaul. This was the year I was a sophomore in high school, when we all read "Julius Caesar" for English class.

One of the teachers (not mine) required her students to complete a project of some sort on the play but let them pick the format. Many made posters, some re-wrote the story, others did other things. Krista decided to write lyrics and insert them into an existing song, Weird Al-style. The song she chose was "Don't Go Breaking My Heart."

The teacher wanted her to sing it to the class, but she was a little shy, so, being the good friend and ham that I was, I offered to assist, even though it was not my class. Together, we put on a real show, bringing in a tape of Elton and RuPaul (not the best singalong version, for the record), dressed in togas and sang the ditty. I even remember most of the words.

Don't go stabbing his heart.
This knife's too dull to do that.
In the Senate on the Ides of March
Caesar will be out flat.

Brutus made up his mind.
He'll be on their side instead.
The conspirators are all ready,
And JC will be dead.

Caesar, he never knew it. (He never knew it).
We'll go on with our plan, with Casca's "speak hands."
Caesar, he never knew it. (He never knew it).
Calpurnia's dream was all that it seemed.
Oh, oh, it was all that it seemed.

So don't go stabbing his heart.
I won't go stabbing his heart.
Don't go stabbing his heart.

"She's Always A Woman" and "Only The Good Die Young" by Billy Joel
Our sophomore year was a big one for parody songs, and, for some reason, Billy Joel. For whatever reason, Krista and I got on this kick of writing parodies and couldn't stop.

One of these songs ended up being "He's Always A Woman," which was about a friend of ours. Thinking back, it was a little mean, but it was never intended to be. I had meant it to be gentle ribbing, but the subject of the song, unfortunately, was not as amused as I had hoped. Then again, I suppose writing a song about a guy who waxes his legs and dates Lorena Bobbitt isn't really complimentary.

The other began as simply a title out of my philosopical-for-a-15-year-old mind. "Only The Young Die Good," with lyrics by Krista, ended up becoming a song about another friend of ours who liked a trumpet player who was in band with us. The highlight of that tune was a line demanding that the guy's current girlfriend stick her head in a bucket of paint.

"Apache" by Jorgen Ingman
This song was part of a Billboard compilation that my friend Darcey had bought and brought along when a group of us went camping the week after graduation. The CD insert described the instrumental ditty and encouraged listeners to pay attention to the "whizzing arrow" sound. The song was so cheesy that we got into it and eventually started ducking the arrows.

The song became the highlight of many "you had to be there" moments that week, and hearing it now makes me laugh at them all over again.

"Owner of a Lonely Heart" by Yes
Lonely heart. Those two words were never so funny as they were after a few of us more snarky gals on the high school newspaper staff read a poem by one of our colleagues about his quest for love.

He was a nice enough person, but "Lurk," as we dubbed him, was undeniably creepy. He was one of those guys who was so desperate that it made him even less attractive than he already was. He must have asked 30 girls to the prom. I guess I've got to hand it to him; he was brave.

Anyway, he wrote these poems which I suppose were heartfelt and sincere but really came off as trite and cheesy. The favorite among the snarky staffers was "My Lonely Heart," although I can't remember if that's the one that had the immortal phrase, "you asked if I had a quarter and told me to call someone who cares."

I wonder what happened to that guy. My guess is, he's either just as creepy as before, or he's ended up rich with a Playboy model as a wife.


Isn't it funny how music can hold such memories?

The Rainbow Cone-nection

One of my favorite things about traveling is sampling the local cuisine. Not just the famous, obvious stuff, but the out-of-the-way stuff too, the stuff that is famous only locally, that residents flock to but visitors don't often know about, unless they have family who lives there or really seek it out.

Since I moved to Chicago from Pennsylvania four years ago, I have been given a multitude of suggestions about what I should try and where, and most have lead to tasty experiences. I've enjoyed countless burgers, steaks and deep dish pizzas. I've even eaten cheesecake on a stick -- which, for the record, was ironically disappointing in that the food itself was too good to spear in that perilous manner. I enjoy most types of food on a stick -- corn dogs, popsicles, you name it -- but I prefer to keep that to foods I wouldn't mind dropping on the ground. Drop a corn dog, and it's no big deal. Drop a piece of cheesecake, and you're bummed the rest of the day.

This past Saturday, I was visiting a pal in the Beverly neighborhood of Chicago, and she introduced me to a place where I sampled my most original local cuisine yet: The Original Rainbow Cone, which is the name of both the place and the product. I had heard of the place (and the product) a few years back but never experienced it for myself...until this weekend.

The shop has been open since 1926, and although I haven't done the homework, I assume that the cone has been around this whole time; if not, the shop's early customers must have been confused. Anyway, the cone consists of layers of chocolate, strawberry, pistachio and Palmer House (cherry and walnut in vanilla) ice cream and topped with orange sherbet.

Sounds weird, doesn't it? Well, that's why I ordered a small. I don't even like to eat more than one flavor at a time from the carton of neapolitan. Still, there's no denying the Rainbow Cone's success over the past 80 years, so perhaps there was something to mushing together five layers of ice cream and sherbet.

And oh, there was. Suddenly, I was sorry I hadn't ordered a large.

The Rainbow Cone is a classic, a dazzling addition to the Windy City's repertoire of local treats. The odd combination makes for a tasty one; you get a different taste in every bite. But why do those flavors go together so well? I'm baffled. But judging by the name, and borrowing a phrase from a famous frog, I figure "it's probably magic."

Too dramatic a description for an ice cream cone? Perhaps. But 80 years' worth of lovers and dreamers from Chicago would disagree.