Writing – Page 19 – Britt Skrabanek

Chicago: Beyond the Shamrock Shenanigans (And Dessert)

I don’t know why, but one thought came to me after my recent trip to Chicago…crème brûlée.

Perhaps because it’s complicated, rare, and amazing.

You can try it over and over again, but each time you crack its intricate surface, you’ve barely even started to devour the insane richness beneath.

I didn’t eat any creme brulee in Chicago last weekend for Mr. H’s birthday celebration. That’s because I ate the majority of his birthday cheesecake the night before we left, for breakfast the morning we left, and the moment we got home the next afternoon.

To say I have a love for dessert is an understatement. Without remorse, I devoured my spouse’s leftover birthday cake like it was mine…all mine!

In my defense, he totally had the first piece.

So, where was I? Creme brulee.

Mmm…creme brulee.

Sorry, where was I really?

Ah, yes. The windy city!

The other day I ranted about our St. Patty’s experience. Be sure to check out Chicago: In the Throes of Shamrock Shenanigans if you want to read what not to do for St. Patty’s.

Unless you’re the public lush enthusiast, then by all means…go!

Have no fear. I’m all done bitching about the clover clad half-wits. Moving right along!

So, once the drunkards stumbled back to their emerald caves, the city was manageable again.

This was my fourth visit to Chicago – a few were last minute “Whoo, whoo! Let’s go clubbing in Chicago tonight!” trips, and the other one was spent in Bucktown/Wicker Park visiting a super awesome friend of mine.

(Love Bucktown/Wicker Park by the way!)

But, this particular adventure was all about downtown.

Chicago is a big ass city, guys. Pick a neighborhood and get in there. Don’t bother seeing “it all” because you totally can’t.

GETTIN’ PLACES

Thinking of driving? Imagine this.

After countless hours in traffic jams at unimaginable times, followed by barreling down the wrong way of a one way street that came out of nowhere, you finally arrive at your destination. After your tenth lap around the block searching for a parking space, you think you finally see one.

But, guess what? It’s a mirage, and your ass is parked on the sidewalk and an opportunist is now selling souvenirs from your trunk.

For crying out loud, take some public transportation – the “L” is a guaranteed good time. I even sat across from a questionably alive man during my first ride. Give it a whirl!

And, a word of advice while walking around. Don’t use Starbucks or Walgreens as landmarks because they are on every freaking block, and let’s face it…they all look the same.

CRASHIN’ PLACES

We stayed at the W City Center and it was pretty perfect. An eight minute walk west gets you to Union Station. An eight minute walk east gets you to Michigan Avenue.

Centrally located, indeed.

Because it was Mr. H’s birthday I called ahead that morning and requested a sweet ass view.

I worked for a big name chain hotel for a couple of years right out of high school…in the trenches of guest services. When there’s a special occasion, don’t be shy.

Ask for a little extra, but ask nicely.

We ended up on the top floor with this rad view…

My only complaint with our hotel room was the vent in the bathroom, and it’s kind of a weird story.

Apparently, because we were on the top floor, we were very intimate with the roof top vent. As such, every time we turned on the bathroom light it sounded like a space ship was landing.

And even better, when you gazed up bravely from the toilet to check out what was going on, a strange black thing moved in a slow manner.

Between the spooky ruckus and the intimidating shadow, I whispered a desperate prayer for the aliens to leave me in peace each time I sat on the pot.

And, they did.

PLAYIN’ PLACES

Any die hard tourist would look at our weekend romp and say “Shame on you.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah we thought about going to some attractions – specifically the Museum of Science and Industry or the Art Institute.

But, we were only there for twenty-four hours. So, Mr. H and I did what we always do when we arrive somewhere…we strutted.

We tend to strut.

Even though I’m one of those super organized control freaks just about everywhere else in my life, when I travel I like to wing it. And Chicago is one of the best places to get lost.

Remember that creme brulee opener? Every spectacular building stood on display like one of those dessert trays in a fancy restaurant.

You know the kind, where you drool over every single delight and you can’t choose your favorite.

Like this one. How about this dark chocolate Burberry building with rainbow sprinkles and crisscrossed icing?

Or how about wandering into the old Marshall Field’s – now masquerading as a Macy’s – and hurting your neck staring at this ceiling treat that looks like wedding cake you want to swim in…

When you wander around Chicago, you can sample every tasty building with your eyes.

And, it tastes good…I take that back…damn good.

So, we gingerly cracked the surface of Milwaukee’s famous neighbor, the city of Chicago, our honking piece of creme brulee. But, what we tasted was perfectly charred and just the right amount of sweet.

We’ll be back again soon for more.

chicago jazz hands — I couldn’t resist some Jazz hands. Come on…it’s Chicago!

Chicago: In the Throes of Shamrock Shenanigans

New Year’s Eve at Times Square in New York City definitely comes to mind…and I never ever had a desire to be there.

Why, you ask? Because it looks like my worst nightmare.

I like to get loose every once in a while – just not with everybody, especially amateurs. This is something I’ve always known without previously experiencing such a hellish ordeal firsthand until…

Chicago. St. Patty’s weekend. Cringe.

Nobody drugged me, tied me up, and strapped me to a bright green party bus covered in leprechauns that said, “Honk if you’re after my lucky charms”.

I went there voluntarily, on my own accord. (Damnit.)

So, how did this happen? How in the hell did I end up in the second most popular U.S. city for St. Patty’s Day debauchery?

Saturday was Mr. H’s birthday. (Mr. H is the artist formerly known as hubby.)

We needed a getaway, and luckily for us Milwaukeeans, Chicago is a hop, skip, and a jump away. The logistics of St. Patty’s Day didn’t resonate with us as we were arriving the day before, and we wrongly assumed we would be safe.

We seriously thought Chicago would be romantic.

My book I’m currently working on, The Bra Game, takes place in 1950s Chicago. And what better way to do research than to immerse yourself in the chosen setting? I imagined myself pointing at a beautiful monstrosity of a building and jotting down the surrounding street names just so I could include the moment in a future scene.

I seriously thought Chicago would be inspirational.

Romantic? Inspirational? Oh, how naive I was.

Twenty-somethings ran amuck like it was their last day on earth and the only way to ease the pain was to drink everything in sight.

Thankfully, I didn’t see any of them leaning over the side and lapping up the frigid, green river…

In fact, I believe their day started very differently than ours.

First and foremost, we showered. We ate breakfast. We dressed in chic outfits, which were warm and practical.

They rolled out of bed with glee…no time for cleanliness. They guzzled their cheap beer breakfasts. They layered on their emerald adornments: antennas, tutus, glitter, hats, and foul t-shirts.

Most did not bother with coats, therefore frozen arses were out in full force. And it was bloody cold, you guys.

Cold.

These dense hooligans wandered into you like it was acceptable, stepped on your feet for sport, walked in front of cars to look cool, and picked fights in the middle of busy intersections even though they threw wimpy punches.

Now I’m actually a wee bit Irish, and I’m half Czech. I know how to pour a proper beer and I know how to keep my shit together.

I found out that my great-grandmother’s last name was McSperitt.

And, Britt McSperitt was one pissed off lassie.

The shouting and belching echoed through the city like someone just learning to play bagpipes, overshadowing the intermittent hum of the “L” and the rhythmic tooting of the buses with the most horrendous sounds.

When you’re worried about some clover clad half-wit spewing on your arm, the romance is gone…long gone. And, any daydreaming about my lovable novel was replaced by a basic need for survival…survival of the fittest.

But, something magical happened after we found refuge in a pizzeria for lunch and the parade fizzled out.

The windy city blew the lightweights away to their questionable hostels and their stained apartments, to either land spread eagle on the floor, profess their undying love to the toilet, or in many cases…both.

They looked like this at Union Station the next day…

And I, Britt McSperitt, lived to tell this spirited limerick of shamrock shenanigans in Chicago.

Stay tuned for the second part of my weekend trip…Chicago: Beyond the Shamrock Shenanigans.

Sometimes Colored Outside the Lines

I’ve seen it all…the martial artist, the OCD chick, the alcoholic, the dude who liked to throw chalkboard erasers at kids, and the wrinkled old bag who told me not to eat my birthday cake because I needed to lose weight.

Did I mention these are teachers I’ve had?

The cake Nazi was a ballet teacher I once had. Fortunately, I didn’t end up with an eating disorder at eighteen. Unfortunately, my birthday was completely shot to shit.

My lovely friend Letizia over at Reading Interrupted was reminiscing about her first reading of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, fondly describing her rotund teacher stirring her imaginary cauldron for dramatic effect.

During our conversation, she divulged another fun fact about this teacher. She often wore sneakers, which were borrowed from her daughter, with “I love boys” written on them.

Amazing, right?!

This spunky discussion threw me down memory lane, one where the street turned into the chalkboard I stared at for countless years. As I walked along this chalkboard street, I saw them all…the teachers of my past.

By the creaking stop sign I saw the nicotine-perfumed spinster who always got mad at me, because my handwriting was slanted the wrong way; across the potholed street I saw the blonde with the infectious smile who was always patient with us, because she loved it when our light bulbs got bright; on the corner I saw the wise guy with the coffee-stained teeth who always encouraged us to be smarter, because he knew we weren’t children, but adults incognito.

When I glance in the rearview mirror, back on the pencil-scented air and the permanent grass stains on my back pocket, the best teachers stand out…they just do. They thought outside the box of crayons, coaxing us to color the world any way we wanted, to become the people we are today.

Here is a tribute to a few of the ~~crazy~~ best ones I have known…

THE FLYING POOH

Around the time chalkboard erasers were being launched at my head, my first dance teacher had something more creative to throw…a fake piece of pooh.

“Do you know what you all look like right now?” he demanded, his eyes darting wildly, daring someone to answer defensively.

I was the youngest in a class of teens and we all looked at each other, then back at him, remaining silent and dreading the punchline.

He pointed at the fake pooh. “You all look like this.”

Quite magnificently, he leaped as he chucked the pooh across the room. Our mouths hung ajar as it plopped on the floor, underneath the ballet barre.

We tried the choreography again, and we didn’t look like pooh that time.

THE HOMELY GIRL

The first short story I ever wrote was in my sophomore honors English class. Until then my writing had been happily concealed from the public, strewn across my journal which was tucked beneath my lumpy mattress.

But, damn this one English teacher!

He decided to share my story “The Homely Girl” with the entire class, a room full of unforgiving teenagers just dying for something to snicker at. And, snicker they did as he read the first sentence, and he stared until they stopped.

He had menacing brown eyes. He didn’t say anything for several minutes – he didn’t have to.

The room was muted except for the ticking of the clock, one of those chintzy ones that falls behind, making time stall after lunch.

Finally he said, “You’re going to listen to this. This is writing.”

I was mortified. But, hey…a writer was born.

THE BLIND SEER

I had this college professor who made intelligence appear effortlessly savvy, but it wasn’t…because he was blind. A Palestinian refugee who ended up sharing his impeccable insight with all of us bleary-eyed political science students, he taught us to stop looking at the world and instead, to start seeing it.

When we complained about reading, he gently reminded us of his lifelong struggle for education, a colorless world where sounds and scents reigned supreme. Words were not something he could see, but we could.

He also had this amazing way of engaging the class. He learned everybody’s name based on their assigned location in the room. Even the rebel in the back corner wasn’t safe from his mental map.

Since he was the head of the department, I had to check in with him before my last year. I sat across the scarred desk from him in his musty office, ready to enter the real world without an effing clue.

“So, Brittney. Why is your primary focus on conflict management anyway?” he asked, leaning back in his basic chair, his arms crossed for emphasis.

“Uh, I don’t know. I want to work for the UN some day, to save the world I guess,” I stammered lamely.

He sighed. “Yet, I can see you’re not a conflict girl.”

I sat silently, fuming. There I was at the end of my college years, and my professor was telling me I was doing it wrong.

“You can do more with the world without pretending to be a conflict girl.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

We laughed.

“OK, then.” And I traipsed out of his office, confused but smiling.

I never did anything with my expensive piece of paper, my International Studies degree. But, I did some other things.

I danced most of my life, moving thousands through the art of performance and teaching hundreds the art of movement. I kept scribbling nonsense in my journals, and eventually wrote a couple of books and started this sweet blog. I finally figured out that the world begins to be healed when we heal ourselves, and I became a Yogi.

Teachers can be the pencil sharpeners, spinning minds around and around, bettering those who want to be better. We can be the pencils, writing our stories and never worrying about not having an eraser, for they are perfect just as they are. The world can be the coloring book, sometimes colored outside the lines, but forever lovely and full of possibilities.

What about you, my happy pencils? What are some of your memorable teacher tales?

When there’s no occasion

It was a Thursday in downtown, around 5:22pm. I was tiptoeing through the melting snow, immersed in some gorgeous tune courtesy of my teeny headphones – just another cog in the hustle and bustle machine.

Then, I stopped.

I saw this eyesore nestled against the gallant architecture, a neon sign that said “thank you”. Seagulls sprinkled the vastness above like tasteful glitter – annoying, but somehow lovely.

We give thanks in such a lackluster manner – exchanging money and goods, and sometimes sincere compliments.

When I saw this sign, I thought about how little I say it, and how little I mean it.

So, I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you…when there’s no occasion.

Today I’m not thanking you for buying one of my books, which are thousands of words that may or may not make sense. Today I’m not thanking you for liking one of my blog posts, which are hundreds of words that may or not make sense.

Today I’m thanking you because I am grateful that anyone would take the time to pause…to see a common bird in the endless sky, to see the everyday as something – anything at all.

Thank you for being there.

Winter, you can kiss my pasty ass!

No, that’s not my bike – frozen, buried, forgotten.

My bike is named Silvie.

Silvie is currently nestled in the teeny hall of my apartment, buried beneath itchy coats, scarves and mittens, and tragically forgotten through the winter that won’t quit.

I’m sure some of you, especially my dad, are snickering right now. I’m the girl that never had seasons growing up and loves snow, right?

I no longer love snow…I loathe it.

I want vivacious colors to make my eyes sore, I want pungent grass to make my nose itch, I want zealous sunshine to make my skin drunk, no…intoxicated.

I don’t want white, I want green. I don’t want decay, I want bloom. I don’t want chapped, I want sweaty.

Winter, you can kiss my pasty ass!

So, anyways. This is Silvie and I when we were happy…

It was summer in the fine city of Milwaukee, the year I first moved here. Without batting an eye, I gleefully traded in my clunky car Booger for sleek and sexy Silvie.

That’s the Milwaukee Art Museum, gorgeously designed by the great Santiago Calatrava, cascading behind me.

Of course, strangled by Winter’s crone hands, the museum looks quite different now…

So, back to the frozen, buried, forgotten bike I mentioned before I went off on my cabin fever tangent.

This bike is stationed right outside my apartment. And strangely, it’s been sitting there since last summer.

I know this, because I like to park my bike there when I’m on the run. Unfortunately, my prime parking was always commandeered by this asshole bike with the lame basket.

Well, well, well…look at the asshole now. Actually, I feel kind of bad for the asshole.

Not only is he on his way to becoming a snowball, a career he certainly never intended to have, he has turned into a tourist attraction.

Now that he is one with the snow, people stop and take pictures of him every day, spotlighting his public abandonment and emasculating him even more than that frou-frou basket.

Although Silvie has been neglected for months, she knows I still love her, that I yearn to frolic with her on the city streets, narrowly escaping death through the treachery of downtown commuting.

She knows.

So, my question for all of you is…what the hell happened to the owner of that bike?! I’ve been mulling over many theories lately, but I’m interested in what you have to say.

Humor me…I’m bored as shit.

(Please pardon my unladylike language throughout this post. The Winter Blues have spoken.)