The Hot Childs (in the city)

Monday, December 28, 2009

Courtney came to visit

Monday, December 7, 2009

babies

And on the first night of Hanukkah, something amazing happened. Yes, the menorah was lit and would continue to burn for 8 crazy nights. But more importantly -- I got a job! Yes! Yes! Miracle of miracles, someone decided to trust me over a long period of time with their small child! None of us thought this day would ever come! I owe it to the miracle of Hanukkah!

*Note: By giving a shout-out to Hanukkah, I hope that all readers of this blog again recognize the open-mindedness of the writers. Yes, we love and appreciate Hanukkah. Yes, despite the opinions of some, we love and appreciate the neighborhood of Pilsen. Previous entries reveal our love for things like commercials about America, lesbian relationships (see: L word), Oprah Winfrey, art, Matt Thomas our neighbor who is half Indian, Russian women, socially conscious rappers, Nick Krafft, etc, etc. We don't shy away from provocative topics. And we don't plan to change our ways. Just wanted to clarify that point -- and we hope you will continue to join us in supporting the innumerable people and communities that our lives cross -- with a deep respect.


Okay, but seriously, I have now fulfilled the prophecy I spoke of myself, late one night when I was slightly/very/probably the most in my life intoxicated and left a voicemail for Margaret Graber. Basically, the message ended by me yelling "I AIN'T A MOM, I'M JUST A WHITE GIRL NANNY!" True, I was referring to moms at a park mistaking me for another mom, despite the fact that I was wearing cut-off jean shorts, a leather jacket, black tights, ankle boots, and basically looked like the poor hobo that I am. Aka not a mom. But alas, the words have now proved to be truer than ever. I am a white girl nanny.

So for the first time in a long time, I have dreams. I will have an income. I am excited about 2010. My best years are even numbered, discounting the year I was born, which was a good year. Though I was conceived in an even-numbered year, so maybe that should be considered.

I did want to talk a little bit about babies and how much I love them. Babies have become my life. I have three main babies that I baby-sit for, at least I will once I start my part-time nanny job. Let me introduce you to my children:

- Aurora. Aurora is the best baby EVER. We share the same birthday (cinco de mayo), the same hobbies (dancing, singing, reading), the same favorite foods (cheese), the same level of motha-effing adorabliness (well, fine, she beats me at that damn game every day), and the same ability to shake her hips like it is nobody's business -- on command. In the three months I have babysat Aurora, I think she has cried for a collective 10 minutes. Because she is a happy, happy child. She's starting to learn a lot of words, but she mostly just uses like five: "HI HI HI," "more"(always said forcibly), and "GOBO." Okay, that was three. But seriously, kid is obsessed with Fraggle Rock and dipping everything in plain yogurt.

- Cooper. Cooper is going to be the child whose development I nurture and foster as a nanny. I don't know him very well but he seems to like climbing and Wiggleworms. He seems cool. I am honestly more scared about the family dog. Babies? Sure. I used to be one. I never used to be a dog. I don't know what they want. I've never owned a dog. I'm a cat person. A cat and baby person. And apparently, when the dog poops, I have to pick it up with my hands covered by a plastic bag. That is sick. Poop is fertilizer. No one picks up fricking bird poop, or wolf poop. If a human poops outside, no one picks it up. They leave it. So why do I have to pick up the dog poop? Why? Why?


Okay now everyone knows about my life. I'm going to go make some guacamole, which is weird since I was just talking about dog poop.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Passage to Pilsen

First of all, I think our readers are owed an explanation for the last couple of posts. In a fit of pride and anger, I lashed at our Nick Krafft for his constructive criticism about this blog. Nick, who is like the circle to my square (BECAUSE HE LIVES IN LOGAN CIRCLE, WASHINGTON DC AND I LIVE IN LOGAN SQUARE, CHICAGO ILLINOIS), said, and I quote, that my latest blog entry, "sucked." And that I felt an immediate need to defend myself. But you know what? I was embarrassed and lying to myself. In truth, the blog entry about the L word and my Thanksgiving poem was a piece of experimental writing and yes, it did kind of suck. Ahh. That hurts to write. THE TRUTH HURTS. I had wanted to try to document Chicago events in real time instead of writing sensational narratives about past events. It was an experiment, like when someone lights a decorative gourd on fire. And it failed. Before Nick's comment, I had let myself believe that the experiment was overwhelmingly positive. Now, I can admit, that: it. was. NOT.

ANYWAY LET'S GET BACK TO ADVENTURE STORIES!

The title of this latest blog entry is called "Passage to Pilsen," an allusion to the book I read in senior year IB English called "Passage to India." Passage to India is basically about some white chick who goes to colonial India and is all like "I WANT TO DISCOVER THE REAL INDIA!" instead of living colonial-British-person-in-India life. So she befriends some "natives," and tries to go on safaris and really find "INDIA." In the end, something happens, I think she gets murdered or something, but the moral was something like 'one can never find the 'REAL' India, because such a place does not exist!' I think that this sentiment can be applied to my latest foray into Pilsen.

What is Pilsen? Pilsen is one of Chicago's many ethnically diverse neighborhoods. According to Wikipedia, Pilsen began as a refuge for Czech, Slovene, and other Eastern European immigrants. I only know Pilsen as the place where all the Spanish classes in high school would go for their yearly field trips, and since I took fricking FRENCH, I never got to go. And everyone would go and come back and be like "blah blah blah ISN'T PILSEN JUST THE BEST! I just love using my high school spanish skills among the native speakers in Pilsen! I love the tiny Mexican bakeries and signs written in Spanish! I love the bread! blah blah blah I'm so glad I didn't take French!" So, I spent a few days each year in high school being totally jealous of these people.

But then, last weekend, my friend Nick Simonson (aka Tribal Warrior) came to town. And since TW/Nicky/Niko studied Spanish at a language institute in Guatemala, I decided that it was time for me to discover Pilsen, with a translator by my side. I mean, Nick was excited too.

But how do you "find" Pilsen? I didn't know if the "center" of Pilsen really existed, but I wanted to find it. Unfortunately, if you type in "heart of Pilsen" into google, it just talks about bedrooms for sale. And when I wikipedia-ed Pilsen, it gave me three different subway stops that would take me there. So Nick and I decided to just kind of choose one, and try to find our way to the magnificent bakeries and eateries.

So we get off the (green? orange? some color?) line train, and... we are like on a highway. So we walk. We look down a few streets that we cross, but they are all creepy dead-end alleys that lead to no where except stacks of metal. We continue walking and see some signs with Chinese writing. Note: I have been to Chinatown. This was not it. So don't start saying, oh Lisa, you were in Chinatown. NO. I was not.

We stop in one rando store, pretty much the only thing for half a mile, and ask the guy about Pilsen. He speaks limited English but totally knows what we're talking about: "PILSEN! Ahhh yes... restaurants, stores, many of the Mexican people!" Yeah man. He knows what's up. And when I ask him where the heart of Pilsen is, he gives us a street name, and then tells us we are a few miles away.

So we walk some more. We walk down an abandoned road with overgrown weeds and no sidewalks and cars going by us at 50mph. We pass abandoned industrial factories, wood factories, and numerous landfills. This is: SOUTH CHICAGO. We pass a creepy bar in the middle of nowhere with cans of PBR for $1.50, all day every day. We do not go in. Soon, I see cop cars and churches in the distance, so I figure we must be getting close. AND I WAS RIGHT.

SOMEHOW WE MAKE IT TO PILSEN! I think it took about 2 hours. By the time we arrive, it is getting dark, so we duck into some restaurant that doesn't really look too promising... it's not crappy enough to be a hole-in-the-wall, but it also doesn't have any distinguishing factors (neat colors, weird paintings, radios). Well, I take that back, there was some intense soap opera action on the TV. Anyway, I just want some Mexican hot chocolate, so we order that and coffee. Nick also gets some guacamole, because, hey. Why not.

THIS TURNED OUT TO BE THE BEST THING THAT HAPPENED TO ME ALL WEEK.

Literally. The best. Hot chocolate. And guacamole. Of. My. LIFE. SO MUCH WIN. AND THEN.

This guy named... Barry? Came in and talked to Nick in Spanish about the revolution and school children and didn't realize that I couldn't speak Spanish for about 20 minutes. Then he played 5 traditional mariachi songs for us, and all of the workers in the restaurant demonstrated their favorite dances for us. So that's why everyone loves Pilsen, I guess.

Later in the week, I returned to Pilsen. Only this time, it was to party in a house with steel doors.

Other exciting things that have happened:
1. I've started babysitting for a guy who is on the hot seat of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, airing December 13-14!
2. I got lost on the way to their house and ended up on a scary underpass in the middle of the night!
3. I went to "the Chicago bar scene"(whaaaat there is a distract?) and fell into a dance off with some chicks and bros and schooled them so hard. And... I was wearing snow boots. BOOM.
4. I ordered a sandwich at a bar and they never brought it to me. I wasn't all that hungry, so I didn't mind. When I went up and asked where my dinner was, the bartender become excessively apologetic and gave me a free meal. This is the best experience I have had in Wrigleyville to date. This is also the night where I went with some people to a "$10 drink anything you want from 8-10pm" and the bar never made us pay the $10. This is also the night where I tried to befriend a Romanian cab driver by asking him if I should visit his country and he, in a voice like a pissed off Romanian Napoleon Dynamite, scoffed "YEAH WHY WOULDN'T YOU UGHH!" This is the best experience I have had in a cab to date. No, that's a lie. This was all a good night.


So, I'm looking forward to 2010, when hopefully I will have a steady job of some sort and the freedom to unearth my hopes, dreams, and vocation. This is the only way to end this post.