Did I Hear A Carrot Being Sliced?

 Our little pup wants in on whatever I'm chopping. As soon as he hears the Henckel blade against the sharpening stone, he's there hoping it's carrots.

 Whether it's lemons

 Lemonade

 

Yellow Peppers 

Red Peppers

   

Limes

 

Parmesan

 

Or green onions, he's there.

How To Keep Your House Clean: Get Rid of Your Kids

I hate to brag, but when I pee, all of it lands in the bowl. I don't hit the floor, or the back of the water tank, the wall, side of the cabinet, or even the window sill.

Also, I don't drop my toothbrush in festering pools of unhygienic liquid and leave it there until I need to brush my teeth again. I don't spray the mirror when I spit out toothpaste. I don't strew unused Q-tips across the bathroom. When I throw trash in the garbage, it doesn't miss.

Also, I don't leave food in the bathroom.

Or my suitcase on the front porch.

Or chicken on the floor.

Epic, you're thinking, but why this need to gloat?

I learned something these last eight days, when I had the house to myself, while my partner and two kids galivanted across the eastern seaboard:

When you live alone, it is easy to keep your home clean. 

Very easy.

VERY.

Easy.

Ridiculously easy.

The day my family left, the house was uncharacteristically spotless. It was spotless because we had a showing that afternoon. People don't buy homes that appear to be inhabited by unrestrained packs of wildebeests.

Here's what the house looked like eight days later, ten minutes before my family's return:

Clean, clean, clean. 

Those were eight busy days. I went to a movie with one set of friends, out to dinner with another set, had another friend over for dinner, successfully contested a ticket and tow in court, met three different client deadlines. I swam—twice, rode my bike, had dinner with my folks, took a walk, attended four meetings, had someone over for breakfast, two people over for lunch, read two books, prepared the house for two additional showings, watched two seasons of "Weeds." Lots of twos.

One thing that doesn't register in those eight days is cleaning. It was so easy, so effortless, it doesn't count as an activity.

So my friends with kids, if your homes are a mess, your walls look like a Red Line underpass, mildew thrives under your couch cushions, poop lines your bathtub, raccoons rot under your kid's bed, and/or your garden looks like an abandoned lot:

So what?

You don't lack discipline, good habits, or resolve.

You live with unrestrained wildebeests.

Sometimes they're even gorgeous.

Alley Walks: The Illustrated Version

A few weeks ago, I discussed my daughter and my new tradition of walking the alleys. What that post lacked was pictures. So here they are. Our alleys are pretty boring, as you shall see, so these walks are a process of finding something magical in practically nothing, an exercise that serves one well throughout life. Just the fact of walking through alleys though, where people generally don't, confers something special and otherworldly on the event, and I love to hear her digressions of thought and the feel of her warm hand slipping casually in and out of mine as she chatters. 

Here is a garage roof on the ground. The new roof is on the garage, you cannot see it.

This huge parking area behind/next to a building appears to be constructed with some thought as it is made from materials that absorb rainwater, rather than sluice it straight toward Chicago's overburdened sewers. But in all our alley walks (3 total), we have never seen a car parked here.

 A rare bit of color.

There is really not much of interest in our alleys. They are prim and sterile. The nice thing about the dearth of interesting is we get real excited about practically anything, including these two toolboxes. We approached timidly, as if they contained bombs.

 But—nothing.

 Lets play: what is this?

 Nice arrangement, but no thanks.

This got us a little excited because we thought it was an impaled animal.

 Aw, that thingymabob is smiling at us.

Now we're talking—a fenced-in vacant lot. She wants IN.

 But there is not much to get in for. Is it so ugly it's beautiful—or just ugly?

 It looks like a beach, Jessie says. I find this strangely beautiful. Unlike the Northern California coast, which is just beautiful beautiful.

 Whoa, a huge pencil and a rock.

OK, she's in. The mere fact of being fenced out made crawling under the fence irresistible.

I feel like I'm visiting her in jail. I hope this isn't a portent.

Super great find—a padlock. Her brother was so taken by this treasure, he insisted on going on an alley walk also.

Also No Durian

Speaking of gifts, my mother got my aunt and me the lovely gift of a food tour through Chinatown. Below is a sampling of foods we did not try.

Dim Sum.

Bird's Nests.

Melon Seeds.

Fish in a bag.

Ginseng.

Shark fins.

Lotus Pastries.

Sea Dragons or Sea Horses.

Fish Maws.

Plastic squids.

???

Eels.

Mollusks.

Turtles.

Razor Clams.

The twice-cooked pork and avocado-green tea smoothie was delicious, however.

Weeds

Bad News: USB cord for camera has not turned up. Weed, fork, and taco blog photos remain trapped in Canon.

Good News: Losing USB cord forced me to do what I've needed to do for a long time: purchase a semi-professional camera.

Better News: My Nikon D90 just arrived.

Bad News: I can't use it yet. No extras at all, including no camera bag or memory card. I am surprised there is even a lens cap.

Good News: Nikon's USB cord works on our old Canon. Now I can write my weeds post, my forks post, and my taco post.

On a related note, I am surrendering to the serial comma. When I was in high school, the last comma in a list was optional. The way it was presented to us, it was more enlightened to leave it out. This was the journalistic style, and journalism was worldly and worldly was . . . now all of a sudden the serial comma is mandatory—everybody's using it—and I'm not going to fight this fight. Serial comma it is.

Weeds: here they are, thigh-high weeds growing behind our garage.


Tacky, I agree—especially when you compare the back of our garage to the back of our neighbor's garage.


We are that neighbor whose weed spores flutter onto your freshly sodded turf. In our defense, it isn't as if the neighbors are out weeding behind their garages all day while we're inside kicking the dog. It's that we are one of the few on our block who do not park in our garage. We were even asked by a neighbor: "Why do you not park in your garage?" My parents never parked in their garage, for starters. Where would we store our lawnmower, child transportation devices and stacks of drywall if there were cars in the way, for two? No one else gets weeds because four heavy wheels roll over their wannabe weeds many times a day, stunting their precious growth.

Plus, I have better Sisyphean pursuits than weeding the alley. Other thankless chores I could do 1). take our four bags of aluminum cans to recycling center (thanks City of Chicago for your non-recycling) 2.) mop dining room floor 3.) file bills 4.) weed actual lawn 5.) grocery shop 6.) you get the picture.

But weed the alley I did, with this result:

Much better, but better than what? It's still a dirty alley behind a decaying garage. It doesn't look good in or of itself. Nobody is going to drive by and admire our dirty weed-free concrete. It only looks better than it did.

Postscript: Now I am stalked across the Internet by ads for the D90.

Next: forks.