Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | December 29, 2011

Snow-covered Stress (or is it stress-covered snow?)

Driving up the winding mountain road, my stomach started turning in knots. Every switchback twisted them tighter and tighter. I kept reminding myself that I liked snowboarding. In fact, it was my idea to go. Really, I like it…when I’m done. As in, when I’ve sat down at the bar at the bottom of the mountain, with a big plate of onion rings and a tall beer, and I say “That was really fun!” That’s the moment that I like it. As we drove up, getting higher and higher, the depth of the snow around us increasing, that moment felt far, far away.

I’ve only been snowboarding about three times in my life. I’ll admit, each time gets slightly less unpleasant. But only slightly. I’m dozens of trips away from truly “having fun.” At this stage, I’m much closer to “having to go to the hospital” or “having a nervous breakdown” than I am to “having fun.” So why do I do it?

Well, I blame my parents. I know, I know, it’s so trite to blame one’s parents, isn’t it? But I didn’t learn to ski as a child, and that (apparently) is when one needs to learn how to ski so that one doesn’t scream with fear when approaching the bunny hill. No, whatever window of opportunity there is to learn to ski, I missed it. I tried skiing for the first time as a grown-up, and it was an unmitigated disaster. What’s more, skiing involves things like wearing uncomfortable boots, being exposed to cold weather, suffering through hat-head, and spending copious amounts of money. I dislike all of those. I figured I was better off without the sport.

But then my kids started skiing. And my husband is an excellent skier. I realized I was missing out on something. Here was a 1) family-friendly activity that 2) got all of us into the great outdoors and 3) included some healthy exercise. On paper, it should be right up my alley. Except for the fact that I didn’t ski and was, apparently, too old to learn.

But then I discovered snowboarding. Snowboarding is a relatively new sport, and therefore lots of “older” skiers have tried taking it up. That means it’s ok to be bad. I sat in the lodge watching middle aged guy after middle aged guy fall on his butt. Hmmm, I thought, maybe I could try that instead. After all, I couldn’t be any worse than those middle-aged guys making fools of themselves, could I?

OK, maybe I could be worse, but it seemed like my best shot at being able to participate in my family’s winter vacations.

The problem is, when I tried it, I hated it. Well, I didn’t hate it for the .002 seconds I was standing up and moving, but I hated it when I fell. On my face. On my butt. On my knees. On my back. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

But, at the end of the day, down there at the restaurant, I declared “That was really fun!” And somehow, I meant it. Maybe it’s just one of those things that isn’t fun at the time, but makes you happy afterwards. Like running a marathon. Or cleaning the bathroom. And so, once again, I find myself at the top of the mountain, dreaming of those onion rings and beer that await me at the finish. If only I can manage to get there instead of the local hospital.

 
 
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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | December 4, 2011

Feeling Like a Dog

Did I really say I was going to try to qualify for the Boston Marathon?

A Shih-Tzu

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | November 20, 2011

It’s a Fine Line Between Optimist and Idiot

Race-wise, I’m blogging a little out of sequence, because I did the Monster Dash at the end of October and probably should post a race report about that (quick synopsis: nice race, beautiful day, a PR, although I was beaten by a guy dressed as a banana), but the real story these days is what I did the first weekend in November. Please direct your attention to the top of the page, where is says “Hi, my name is Sue and I’m a signupaholic…” Yes, it’s an ongoing problem. But never has it been more evident than when (I’m almost ashamed to admit it) I signed up for the 2011 Hot Chocolate Race.

You might recall last year I said I’d never do the race again. What’s more, in 2009, I vowed I’d never do the race again. And yet, there I was, for the third consecutive year, ignoring my own declarations, lining up at the start. Are you sensing a pattern? What the heck is wrong with me? Am I a total idiot?

I did the 15k Hot Chocolate race in 2009 and was irritated beyond belief. The event had far more participants than the organizers could handle, and the race route was downright dangerous in places. To top it off, after a harrowing, crowded run on the much-too-narrow lakefront path, there was no chocolate left by the time most of us 15k-ers finished. Not a morsel to be found. Of course, I didn’t do the race just to get hot chocolate (after all, it’s easy enough to make it myself), but to do a race with “Hot Chocolate” in the name and then have no hot chocolate, well, really, what’s the point? The race was disorganized, understaffed and generally a mess. I swore, never again.

Then along came 2010. A friend of mine wanted to do the 5k, but I didn’t want to after my terrible experience the year before. And then came the emails from the race organizers saying the race was in a new location! With a new course! And more chocolate! I’m either an idiot or an optimist, because I fell for it and signed up. Alas, the race was again too crowded and disorganized. Race officials were few and far between. So few, in fact, that a bunch of us were sent in the wrong direction to find gear check, spent 20 minutes searching for it, and then arrived to find a line so long that we ended up missing the start.

As for that “new course,” it was a nightmare. At one point, we were running on Lake Shore Drive, with cars narrowly passing us. It’s remarkable no one died. Yes, it was a new route, but they’d somehow managed to make it even more dangerous than the old one. What’s more, the hot chocolate was watered down and lousy. Never again, I said. And this time I meant it.

Then 2011 rolled around. When the emails touting the race started to appear, I declared on Twitter and Facebook that I would not do it. No, I said, NO! A new course, the emails assured me. Sure, sure, I’d heard it all before and I wasn’t going to get fooled again.

But then they offered me a 20% off and a free hat, as well as a seeded start. I caved. I was like the betrayed wife who falls for the flowers and candy.  Apparently I’m a sucker for a discount.

And so, on bright November Saturday morning, there I was. But this time, it was like a whole new race. The place was crawling with volunteers in bright orange sweatshirts. A sea of orange, as far as the eye could see. And they were making announcements and providing information. Useful information. And accurate directions. Could it be? Were things really different?

Yes, yes they were. When I went to find gear check, an orange-clad helper pointed towards a large tent shimmering in the distance, easily spotted from miles away. “You can’t miss it,” the volunteer said. And she was right. What’s more, it was staffed to the hilt. I walked up and dropped my bag, no problem. It was a whole new race! It had changed its wayward ways!

There were spacious, seeded start corrals, staffed with real people – people who knew what they were doing. The race start was delayed, and the course had to be rerouted, but the announcements were frequent and informative. When we started, just 15 minutes late, the course was roomy enough for everyone. The route was on the city streets, and other than the fact that the first mile marker was substantially past the first mile (presumably it moved during the re-routing) it was perfect.

Some people said the 5k course was too long, as much as 3.4 miles total, and as it turned out, race officials confirmed it measured out at 3.25 – a tad long. Still it was a PR for me, in spite of the extra .15. The post-race party was well-organized and well-staffed, and get this, the hot chocolate was delicious. All in all, it was a great morning.

So, there you have it, a race that was worth doing (although the registration fee was still a little steep). On this particular count, I’m glad my signupaholic disease kicked in. The race really has improved. So, am I an optimist or an idiot? Well, that question is still up for debate.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | November 13, 2011

A Wicked Pissa Lettah (aka A New Englander’s Introduction to Chicago)

When I heard that Theo Epstein, the savior who finally wrested a World Series championship out of those Lovable Losers, the Red Sox, was coming to Chicago, I was thrilled. Another local! Here in the Midwest with me! Maybe we’d even become friends. He grew up in Brookline; I used to work in Brookline at Pine Manor College. He went to Yale; I grew up right next door in Fairfield County. We probably spent years listening to the same radio stations. I wondered if we knew the same people.

But I knew from experience that moving to Chicago would be a big adjustment for him. So, I decided to write him a letter to help him with the transition. Then I decided to send it off to the Tribune. And then they decided to publish it. However, I got a message on Friday to call the editor ASAP. Oh no, I worried, was there something wrong with my paperwork? Did they decide to kill the piece? Nervous, I placed the call. “I have one question,” the editor said. “What’s ‘pissa’?”

Which, of course, is a good question. What is pissa/pissah? To begin with, there’s some debate about the correct spelling, since, of course, it isn’t in the dictionary. I go with the more traditional “pissa” but some choose to add an “h,” presumably to clarify the pronunciation. (I take umbrage at that – if you know the word pissa, you know to drag out that “ah” sound at the end. And you know that the more pissa something is, the longer you hold the second syllable) But what exactly is pissa? Is wicked pissa the same as supah? Personally, I think things start out pissa, progress to supah, and then finally arrive at the pinnacle: wicked pissa, reserved for the truly amazing, like a sale at the Basement, or a World Series win.

In any case, I think it’s wicked pissa, as well as supah, that Theo might get to see my letter to him. Of course, with space limitations in the Trib, I didn’t get to include everything he needs to know. For example, I forgot to mention how, when first arriving here, he might actually miss the WBZ traffic report. As a newcomer, listening the traffic report here was disorienting. Where is the Jane Adams? And who the heck was Jane? I’d hear that traffic on the Edens was backed up to 2E and wonder “Route 2 East? Exit 2E? Where are those?” (And if you’re not from Chicago, you may not recognize that they were really saying “Touhy.” Who knew?)

As a transplant, I longed to hear Gary LaPierre’s mellifluous voice telling me about the roads around Boston.  Sometimes, when I was particularly homesick, I would just recite the Traffic on the Threes in my head: “Pike inbound heavy at Newton Corner and again at the Pru tunnel. The Expressway slows by the gas tank….” Sometimes I’d even add that 128 was backed up by 4 and 225. Ah, I remember those days.

Now, given the fact that Theo grew up in Brookline, I have a feeling he does not have the classic Boston accent, or if he does, it’s somewhat suppressed. And since he went to Yale, I know he can step up his linguistic game when he has to. So I didn’t get too much into what aspects of Boston lingo he should ditch, other than, of course, telling him to avoid wicked pissa.

But, just in case, as my aunt (NEVER pronounced “ant”) pointed out, I should probably tell him that in Chicago, stores that sell alcohol are not referred to as “the packy.” So, no saying “I’m hitting the packy to get some be-ah.” People might think he’s a racist jerk, denigrating the nice Pakistani gentleman who works at the liquor store. Besides, here you can buy be-ah at the grocery store. But there’s no Stah Mahket. You have to hit The Jewel (yes, always use “The”).

Well, I’m sure there are a million things I’ve forgotten, but I have to head out to The Jewel now. Feel free to add more tips for Theo in the comments, and you can check out my letter to Theo here.

Have a wicked pissa day!

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | November 13, 2011

For Theo Epstein: A New Englander’s Introduction to Chicago

(This originally appeared in the Chicago Tribune, November 13, 2011. And Theo still moved here anyway.)

 

Well, now that it’s official, I’d like to say Theo Epstein, welcome to Chicago! You’re going to love it here. But I know, as a fellow New Englander, adjusting to life in the Midwest poses some challenges. I arrived here several years ago, straight from the home of the bean and the cod, and wasn’t sure what to expect. (Chicago? You mean that place where we change planes if the direct to LA is overbooked?) So, I thought I’d take it upon myself to share with you some of the things you’ll encounter when you arrive. To that end, I’m going to take a little tour of Chicago quirks. Want to come with?

See, that’s the first one right there: “come with.” No pronoun. Presumably in Chicago, if you’re asking someone to join you, it’s clear that you are the one with whom he/she will be traveling. No need to add the pronoun, I guess. But it’s jarring to the New England ear. In fact, you may think the speaker has suffered a small stroke and is unable to finish the sentence. Rest assured, there’s no reason to call 911 when someone says “Going to Potbelly for lunch – you want to come with?” It’s just the way they talk around these parts. You can silently add the pronoun in your head.

And when you’re on your way to Potbelly, be careful. They don’t know how to drive here. They stop at stop signs, yield when they’re supposed to, and – watch out for this – when the traffic light turns yellow, they slow down instead of speeding up. I can’t even count the number of people I nearly rear-ended when we first arrived. What’s more, banging a left in that nanosecond before the light turns green is frowned upon. As you’ll soon find out, driving here requires a whole new level of patience. Fortunately, there’s one spot that will seem like home: the Edens. Whenever you get homesick, just hop on the Edens and within seconds you’ll see people tailgating, weaving in and out of traffic, or cutting up the side lane. It may just bring a little tear to your eye.

Another thing that’s different here? The weather. Oh, sure, people will tell you the winters are the same as the East Coast. But they lie. Winters in Boston vacillate between huge, ridiculous snowstorms and days of blindingly clear sunshine. Here, there are streaks of frigid, gray days that stretch on for weeks at a time, making you want to smack yourself over the head with your snow shovel. And on those gray days, it will snow all day, and yet never seem to accumulate. I still haven’t figured out how that’s possible. Plus, winters here are longer. You know how back in Boston, the start of April is usually the tipping point where you can stash the winter coat for good? Well here it’s a little later. Like Mother’s Day. Heck, just keep the winter coat out all year long.

On the plus side, the city is more equipped to handle winter. Chicagoans know how to deal with snow. School cancellations are few and far between. The flat roads and easy-to-navigate grid system mean that a few flakes won’t bring the entire city to a grinding halt (well, there was that famous blizzard last year, but that was an exception.)

Fortunately, the warm people make up for the cold winters. You’ll find Chicagoans are exceptionally friendly, to the point that it might make you uncomfortable. Complete strangers will chat with you in elevators or in line at Starbucks (as you already know). Back in Boston, strangers only talk to you if they want to rob you or if they’re mentally unstable. Here, they’re just trying to be nice. I know, it’s bizarre, but eventually you’ll come to like it.

On the radio, don’t go looking for WBZ on the dial. You might find WBEZ, but that’s completely different (think public radio, not traffic on the threes). To make yourself feel at home, you can just recite the WBZ traffic report in your head. It was always the same, after all: “Expressway heavy and slow by the gas tank, Pike inbound slow at Newton Corner and again at the Pru tunnel….” You can even try to make your voice sound like Gary LaPierre’s, just for fun. As for music stations, I’ve got nothing for you. Q101 used to be equivalent to FNX, but now the station went with a news/talk format and I’m still mad.

One thing I struggled with when we first moved here was the lack of day-trip destinations. I remember in Boston, on a sunny Saturday, we’d throw the bikes on the back of the car, pack a cooler filled with snacks and head out, maybe up to the rocky coast of Cape Ann, or down to the sandy beaches of Cape Cod. We’d hit Newport to gawk at the mansions, or hike the rolling hills around Amherst to admire the foliage. Alas, here, everything within an hour’s drive of Chicago looks remarkably like everything else within an hour’s drive of Chicago. Fortunately, there are some destinations to check out. Wisconsin is a slightly flatter New Hampshire; Michigan is a less densely populated Cape Cod (minus the salt air – you’ll feel like you’re in Chatham but with a stuffy nose). There’s even that ugly stretch of highway in Indiana, which is the equivalent to 93 by the Dorchester gas tank – just avert your eyes and keep going.

Chicago is a fabulous foodie town, and there are lots of food lingo differences here, but no doubt you’ll figure them out. First off, of course, no one says tonic, because no one west of 128 says tonic. Same with jimmies. And be careful: they’ve got this anti-ketchup thing going with the hot dogs. Don’t question it. Just go with it. Fortunately, the pizza is fabulous. Nothing like Regina’s, that’s for sure, but delicious. However, it’s a tad heavy on the calories. You’ve been warned. You’ve heard about the gaining the Freshman Five? Wait ’til you put on the Chicago Ten.

The accent here is generally quite palatable to the non-native ear. Unlike back in Boston, the words “car keys” and “khakis” sound nothing like each other. So keep that in mind, lest you want people to think you’re walking around trying to remember where you left your pants. And certainly don’t say that things are “wicked pissa.”

You might think that a “parkway” is some sort of road, like the Hammond Pond Parkway. Alas, it’s not. It’s that strip of grass between the sidewalk and the road. Driving on it is not recommended. People here don’t cut in line, they budge. And I’ve never heard anyone here hosie anything. As for landmarks, everyone still says Sears Tower and Marshall Fields, no matter what the signs say.

I’m sure there are a million things that I’m forgetting, and I didn’t even venture into the quirks of politics and sports. I’ll let you figure those out on your own. But these few points should help make your transition easier. You’re going to love Chicago. It’s a wicked pissa city!

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