Category Archives: Life

Party with Puppet Bike

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It’s been more than a week since J. and I attended the first of three dates with Puppet Bike. It’s been a busy week, with health problems (Hodge’s), angst (mine), and exhaustion (mine). But I need to give the puppets their due — after all, it is the five-year anniversary of Puppet Bike, a Chicago phenomenon that I’ve only recently discovered.

First, I should mention that, in adulthood, especially middle adulthood, I’ve become reclusive. It’s not something I strive for, and my best guess is that it’s an attempt to avoid the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. You can’t be wounded if no one knows where you are — or that you exist.

The puppets make me smile, so I agreed to go to the Friday night party.

This is stranger than it sounds. While J. has met a couple of the puppeteers, and I’ve met one — the one who told us about the party — we would be going to a celebration where we would not really know anyone and where most of the attendees would be their friends. And I suspected many would be significantly younger. For an introvert like me, who felt lost at volunteer picnics where she knew most of the guests, this would seem to be at the least an exhausting thought.

I managed.

J. and I caught a 6:35 p.m. Metra train to the Ravenswood stop, then walked about a mile south. On the way, we passed a Napoli-style pizza restaurant. He said, “I wonder if the pizza there is any good?” and a voice responded, “It’s awesome!” A young woman smiled back at us as she passed.

Just when I wondered if J. could lug his heavy bag another step over the icy sidewalks, we found the Peter Jones Gallery. A young man on crutches and sporting a Morrissey T-shirt came over to greet us, calling us “super fans.” He is Brian Jones, the puppeteer we had tipped the week before. He had been able to see us, but we couldn’t see him. He said he’d broken some bones in his foot when he fell on ice. (And I’ve survived my numerous slips and falls — so far — intact.)

Later in the evening he showed us his portraits on the gallery walls and his portfolio of original comics characters. I found that refreshing because so many people draw the popular characters from the Marvel and DC universes and don’t try to come up with their own.

Of course, with so many puppeteers on hand, the puppets gave several performances (and took on many personalities). A few guests even tried their hand; some were actually very good. Not all!

Puppet Bike

With the theatrical (Black Forest Theater), musical, and karaoke entertainment, plus all the gallery artwork for perusal, we had a lot to do, and J. wanted to extend our stay until the last possible moment for him to catch his last train at 12:30 a.m. We dragged ourselves away at 11:20 or so. Reluctantly. I fell asleep on the el. J. tried to keep me awake.

With the theatrical (Black Forest Theater), musical, and karaoke entertainment, plus all the gallery artwork for perusal, we had a lot to do, and J. wanted to extend our stay until the last possible moment for him to catch his last train at 12:30 a.m. We dragged ourselves away at 11:20 or so. Reluctantly. I fell asleep on the el. J. tried to keep me awake.

Despite the lack of sleep, we drove back for the Saturday night party.

Upon arrival, I lost J. for a very long time. He was in the theater with his digital camera, enthralled by Environmental Encroachment. I had some beer, which I had not indulged in the night before, four altogether. I learned that three to four are enough to make me pleasantly tipsy.

But not tipsy enough to try karaoke. Despite the technician’s assertion that I should and that enough beer would put me in the mood (“It always does”), sober or drunk I know enough about my singing not to inflict it upon anyone. (Just in case, however, I had my song selected — “Riders on the Storm.”)

Although I watched many of the karaoke performances, including a particularly spirited rendition of the Steve Miller Band’s “Space Cowboy,” I escaped with my non-reputation intact — that is, safe in the knowledge that no one woke up the next morning wondering if they had been so drunk as to have imagined an off-key, hauntingly awful version of “Riders on the Storm” that would have killed Jim Morrison had he not already taken care of it.

In our wanderings, we learned that the bartender, an Eastern European whose name I’ve forgotten, alas, was the artist behind several of the brightly clad nudes in the front gallery. I liked them, and the plaid Packard-type car, and hope that she is able to sell them.

We were even more reluctant to leave than we were the night before; by Fridays, I am drained, physically and emotionally, but both of us felt much better after the day away from work.

On Sunday, conceptual sculptor Alan Emerson Hicks gave us a tour of his studio, explained his time machine in the front gallery, and told us more about Puppet Bike.

We left around 6 p.m. and decided to try the “awesome” pizza at Spacca Napoli. The wait was predicted to be 30 minutes or more, but we were greeted at the door with a sample slice each of pizza, which made it bearable. We ordered two different pizzas, one for dinner and one for later (in my case, lunch the next day). Both were good.

As we were in the general area, we couldn’t resist a stop at Julius Meinl, where we ordered coffee and crepes, Nutella for J. and strawberry jam for me. If Julius Meinl were in Hyde Park, I would live there. It was a satisfying end to a one-of-a-kind weekend.

But, as the last episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, reminds us: “All Good Things” (must come to an end). And so today Jason Trusty announced the end of Puppet Bike. I am saddened. In the broadest sense, it is a wonderful thing for Chicago, a city that needs more truly wonderful things. Closer to home, the puppets have helped me to stay sane during a very difficult time personally and professionally.

I will miss Puppet Bike, too.

See some photos.

Edit: J. T. relented. For now. Support your local PuppetBike!

Melting ice, freezing heart

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After days of cold and snow, snow and cold, and cold or snow, there was a partial thaw last Sunday. At this point, the ground is so saturated that the melting snow and ice run off into the street or pools on the grass. Now that it’s cold again, the park reflects the odd gold of the streetlights at night.

By Sunday morning, so much water had run onto the north end of South Shore Drive that it had reached the hubcaps of a half-dozen cars parked in the lowest area.

When I looked out, I spotted a person (gender unseen) in knee-high boots, stabbing at the water between cars, occasionally making mopping or sweeping motions toward the park edge. This person worked hard at this for a half hour or more, as though he or she were trying to clear hidden, randomly placed drains, poke drainage holes in the pavement, and sweep the water back into the park, whence melting water was still flowing onto the street.

From an outsider’s perspective, it was a Sisyphean task — perhaps the perfect metaphor for my life and the state of my mind. It was painful to watch, yet compelling in an inexplicable way.

Last Saturday, I took Hodge to the veterinary clinic for urine testing (crystals). I had decided to leave him for a few days because I needed to take a break from taking care of him, and I needed to be alone — completely alone — with my thoughts. I told the veterinarian that I would like to leave him until Tuesday evening, and she looked at me oddly and said, “You’ll call Monday evening to let us know when you’re picking him up?” She looked as though she thought it likely I would never return. No matter how I feel, though, a sense of responsibility wins out, which is why I am still here.

As she started to turn away with him to take him to the back, he reached out to me with both front feet and pawed my chest. The veterinarian told him, “Now, now, Mommy can’t save you.”

She couldn’t have known that Mommy’s under enough stress saving herself.

Three days, three falls

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Another day of snow.

Three days, three falls.

And numerous failed (?) attempts. Graceful I’m not, but nothing broken.

According to the good doctor, Hodge has a tender bladder.

Better that than other organs we could name.

Yesterday’s mixed bag

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Yesterday was a mixed bag.

On the plus side, I completed CPR/AED (automated electronic defibrillator) training and now have a cute wallet card. I will, however, defer to seven-year-old Boy Scouts at places like airports. By the way, it’s apparently an advantage not to watch television, because I had no delusion that I could resuscitate the dead, a gift only actors have.

I also learned that a colleague claims she would rather die than have her clothes removed for the administration of CPR (that is, until I reminded her that her children might not appreciate the result of such modesty). This led to the idea of a potential interview question, “Are you willing to have your clothes taken off?” and the natural extension of the following conversation.

“How did the interview go? Did you get the job?”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“I wouldn’t take my clothes off.”

I celebrated this minor achievement by waiting in wind, blowing snow, and frigid temperatures a half hour for a bus. Even better, when I got off the bus and headed for the corner, I fell on a smooth patch of ice cleverly hiding under snow. This was really for the amusement of the nearby college students, one of whom, a female, offered to help. She must not be a physics major, because even I know that without traction there’s no helping anyone slight up, let alone someone of my bulk.

I wobbled home on more ice and rewarded myself with tea, ham and goat cheese on peasant bread (later remembering that I forgot the heirloom tomato), and chocolate chip cookies. Then, while reading, I decided to warm up by taking a quick nap, just for a few minutes, just to rest my eyes . . .

And at 10:45 p.m. struggled out of one of the first untroubled sleeps I’ve had in a while.

I needed that.

And more.

Happy anniversary to me!

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If my memory is correct, this month I celebrate (if that’s the correct word) 35 years of menstruation, or approximately 420 flushed eggs. As much as I’m not keen on ritual, at least as practiced in American society, I’m feeling a strange need for a ritual to acknowledge this anniversary. With a ritual, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so different and alone. Maybe I could share some of my secrets and fears, and maybe someone would understand them — really understand them.

Despite all the secret society filmstrips and lectures, I didn’t even recognize my first period when I got it. All I knew is that during the afternoon I started to feel bad. It wasn’t a headache, a stomachache, or anything recognizable. It was an overall sensation of ache, emptiness, pain, and malaise. I thought I was going to die and that that wasn’t a bad idea, under the circumstances.

The feeling came out of nowhere, as did the light brown stains in the panties. After telling my mother how lousy I felt, I showed them to her and said, “Do you think this [whatever it is] has anything to do with it?”

I don’t remember my adolescent cycles being painful, but then I had other things to focus on. PMS and dysmenorrhea seemed to come with adulthood, along with anxiety and depression. Welcome to the world of grown-ups.

Nothing helps PMS for me — for the past 10 days I have been tense, irritable, and despairing, despite knowing the underlying physical cause. Knowing and recognizing the pattern gives me no control over my feelings and little over my behavior. Last night I disappointed J. because I couldn’t bring myself to go to the University of Chicago folk festival. I had slept much of the day, trying to block memories and feelings, and to sit at a uplifting concert with tension pummeling my innards and my heart seemed unthinkable. Even grocery shopping, which requires some effort but is at least as unemotional as it gets, was preferable. Poor J.

Over-the-counter painkillers help the dysmenorrhea, but as time went on I took too many of them.

On one memorable occasion, my period started when my aunt had taken me to Charlottesville, Virginia, to see Monticello, Michie Tavern, and Ash Lawn. For me, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see them, so I could not afford to feel terrible, and I didn’t want to ruin my aunt’s trip, either. (She wanted to go because she was approaching 70 and didn’t know how much good health she would have left to take such trips. She proved to be wiser than she knew — after a very active life, she died at 71 of pancreatic cancer.)

So, in the morning I took more than the usual amount of ibuprofen, more than the dosage recommended for an entire day.

It didn’t work quickly enough, so I took more.

And more.

And more.

I don’t know how much I took within the next hour or two or three, but I guessed later that it was somewhere between 18 and 24. Although I was woozy, naturally, I did enjoy the trip, one of the highlights of my life. But I vowed never to do anything so foolish again.

A few years ago, I quit taking ibuprofen and aspirin because I wondered if abuse of them had contributed to my hearing loss. Now I seem able to get by on the regulation dosage of time-release acetaminophen.

If I assume 22 years of PMS, 12 times a year, lasting 10 days on average, that means that for 2,640 days of my life I have been a physical and emotional wreck, whatever my actual circumstances. That’s more than seven years. Seven years. For those seven years, which doesn’t take into account the dysmenorrhea, I have not been rewarded with a spouse, children, or a happy and stable family life. It’s been seven years of futility, of unrewarded pain.

Now, as I approach 47, remind me why I am supposed to dread menopause — the end of something that never really began but that caused a lot of misery for a lot of years.

Toes, tourniquets, and imagination

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For the past week my right big toe has been in varying stages of infection. When this happens, I leave it alone, and usually it resolves itself in a few days.

By Friday, however, it was clearly demanding attention. It was and is red, hot, swollen, and tender. There seemed to be two options: amputation or antibiotics. Despite temptation, I opted to start with the latter supplemented with an antibiotic bandage.

Last night when J. and I returned from Whole Foods, I took my shoes and socks off first thing — and spotted blood on the bandage.

“Hmmm,” I said, “where did that come from?”

“What?” J. said, focused on checking his mail using my DSL connection.

“Blood,” I said, removing the bandage carefully. Usually my toe doesn’t bleed. “Oh,” he said. Nothing ruffles him when he’s focused, although spurting blood might get his attention.

I peered at the bandage. I took off my glasses and peered more closely at the bandage flecked with red and at the toe, which was still red, hot, swollen, and tender, but which was definitely not bleeding.

Then it hit me what the “blood” was.

“Hmmm, never mind, it’s the fuzz from my red socks,” I said. “Hmmm,” he said.

I may be more imaginative than intelligent, but at least I’m methodical.

Which brings me to tomorrow.

As far as I know, I’m signed up for a class on CPR/AED (automated external defibrillator). This should prove interesting, because this is the kind of practical, useful information and work for which I am ill suited. In a society where every pair of hands is needed to do something productive, like cooking, sewing, or crafting, I would be voted off the island immediately.

I’m reminded of my Girl Scout days, probably at least 35 years ago. One day, probably on a Sunday afternoon, I found myself in what I think was a community center or church in a neighboring town, participating in a first-aid class. The atmosphere of the place, which with its folding chairs and whitewashed walls and echoes of spaghetti dinners was perfectly ordinary and even institutional, combined with the dreariness of the day seemed to inspire my imagination with an impossible-to-describe feeling of both homeliness and novelty. Places that were new to me always left me feeling strange, probably because I did not get to go to many of them.

All I remember of the class is demonstrating our newly acquired skills on an adult dummy and a baby doll.

There was one other thing. I came away thinking that tourniquets were bad, a very last resort, because they meant amputation. This impression was so strong that I had it for years, until I was older, less imaginative, and more knowledgeable, when I finally understood the purpose and use of a tourniquet and that limbs didn’t fall simply because one had been used.

While this is step one of enlightenment, it doesn’t mean I could ever learn to apply one.

I think of one of my Girl Scout friends, an eminently practical girl who undoubtedly breezed through the program and who used to wonder occasionally how someone so “smart” could be so stupid, and who still seems to feel the same way about me. I suspect she is not alone.

And I think of the idealist protagonist of Anne of Green Gables, whose daydreaming inattention to food storage led to a mouse drowning in the pudding, to her foster mother’s chagrin. I can see Anne, ever the dramatist, mistaking red fuzz for blood (and citing an appropriate poem for the occasion) and envisioning amputation while bypassing the reason.

Thirty years of adult life and loneliness have stifled some, perhaps much, of my imagination and my tendency to skip the details and to react before thinking, and out of necessity made me a little more pragmatic and practical. The cares of adulthood seem to be the enemy of imagination. We don’t have the time or the luxury not to be practical, efficient, and responsible — all things that sap the joy out of living.

I miss that Girl Scout, who was both bright and stupid and who frustrated everyone with a practical nature.

And I could use a friend like Anne.

In today’s mail

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I received this today in the mail, from a “Hodge Schirf,” with my return address:

Happy Valentine’s Day
From the Cat

Dear Diane,

Who needs candy,
when you have sweet,
adorable me?

Love,
Hodge

Naturally, I wonder where the detonator is hidden.

My aunt Dorothy

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April 22, 1925 to January 12, 2008

Dorothy D. Dengate, 82, Bellwood, died Saturday at The Village at Morrisons Cove, Martinsburg.

She was born in Bellwood, a daughter of the late James M. and Dora E. (Davis) Hollen. She married George L. Dengate Dec. 25, 1944, in Bellwood. He died Dec. 12, 1992.

Surviving are a son: David J., with whom she resided; and a sister, Charlotte Mountz of Clearlake, Calif.

She was preceded in death by a son, William L.; four brothers; and two sisters.

Dorothy was a member of Logan’s Valley Baptist Church, Bellwood.

She enjoyed doing crafts.

A memorial service will be held at 10 a.m. Tuesday, Jan. 15, 2008, at Logan’s Valley Baptist Church, Bellwood, with the Rev. Robert Coddington officiating.

Interment will be at Logan Valley Cemetery, Bellwood.

In lieu of flowers, expressions of sympathy in Dorothy’s memory may be made to Logan’s Valley Baptist Church, Bellwood. Arrangements are by Jon C. Russin Funeral Home, Bellwood.