Yeah Write: Another Friday Night in the Park

I’ve been in the park across the street late on a Friday night before with my Lab and a glass of creamy, red wine discreetly hidden in a coffee mug. Sometimes by myself, sometimes not.

It’s big with a mile-long walkway weaving through it. It's "alive” during the day. At night, though, everything comes to a rest. You can hear the breeze blowing through tall, prairie grasses the elementary school children tend and the arcs of pond fountains spraying through floodlit beams.

Last night after my friends left, close to 10:00, we both needed a walk to clear our heads. Grabbing the last of the wine, we headed across.

At the far end of the park, the tennis and basketball courts were bathed in light and little specs were running around. As we got closer, we could discern the figures.

Two sets of daddy/daughters.

My heart leapt as it often does when seeing this combination of parent/child. Something about it warms me from the inside out.

We paused to watch for a while.

The little girl on the far side of the tennis court was 5 or 6 years old. Neon green balls, probably 100 of them, littered the court. Her daddy hit them to her, one after another after another after another. And she returned them with ease and amazing precision for her age. Some sliced directly into the net but most balls closely cleared its top edge for a “winning shot”. They were not speaking, just stroking the balls back and forth.

The young girl standing on the basketball free-throw line was close to 10 years old. She was tall and lanky, all arms and legs. It was obvious she took after her daddy, who was planted directly under the basket. She rapidly rifled off balls, playing with two at a time, almost faster than he could pass them back. They’d break every minute or two for what I understood to be a critiquing of her efforts. She’d just nod and begin again.

It was lovely, at first, being a spectator for their shared time together but it left me feeling unsettled as well. It didn’t seem playful or fun, but regimented, drill-like, pressure-filled, at least to me. It seemed too late at night for this. (Not that my thoughts or opinions on the matter actually…matter.)

Walking away, I heard one daddy ask, “Are you done or do you want more?”

“I want more,” the little tennis phenom replied.

My heart felt a little lighter as I walked home after hearing her reply.

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To my fellow “Moonshiners” over at Yeah Write, I apologize in advance for the probability that this weekend’s visits to your posts may not happen in a timely fashion. I need to get on a plane in a few hours. Arriverderci!!!

Yeah Write Moonshine: Saturday at the Mall

I’m betting within less than a minute reading this post, you will ask this question.

“Gina! Why the hell did you go on a Saturday?”

So I should start there.

I went to the mall on a Saturday afternoon for four primary reasons:

1.    It’s a gorgeous day in the Chicagoland area, full of bright sunshine, not too warm or cold, just right! My mall is the outdoor type with flowers, fountains, and all the pretty stuff.

2.    I had time to kill. And since I’m not much of a group shopper especially if I’m shopping for myself, it seemed like the perfect time because I was by myself.

3.    I despise the current contents of my closet. I’m not pleased with my choices, but it is my fault for that. I haven’t been to the mall, or shopping in any form for that matter, in four months. I dislike everything I have from the last few years.

4.    I have a date tonight and I would like to look nice.

What I quickly remembered about the whole driving there, shopping around, and driving home is I don’t like to go to the mall at all, especially on weekends.

And I’m not sure if my annoyance with the mall today is because I’m getting older, less patient, or I’m in a crabby mood. Probably all three.

The parking lot was a disaster because everyone (along with their sisters, brothers, cousins, etc.) was there. No parking spaces were available and I don’t mean the ones near a door either. There were cars lined up two deep, in each row, blocking passage for the rest of us. Annoyed, I circled and circled and circled before I scored my way far away spot.

Arriving into the interior of the mall is where the real fun began!

Three things here annoyed me (but, of course, there were plenty more).

People don’t use manners (could be post on its own). This bothers me immensely because I think I’m exceptionally polite. I use “please” and “thank you” obsessively. And I notice when other people are too ("See, honey, that lady/kid/daddy used good manners."). If I see you coming from a few feet behind, I will wait for you to get there holding the door open so it doesn’t slam in your face because I’m nice. And many of you didn't even bat an eye or spare a second to squeak out “Thank you”. That’s just rude.

Most weekend shoppers are browsers. They take up all the fitting rooms by trying on too many things, walk together in packs blocking racks, and talk far too loudly. It is not the same for the lone shoppers who tend to be on a mission. We aren’t there for fun. We are there to purchase, then leave. So when you are gregariously strolling through stores, please remember your spatial awareness (where your body is in relation to mine). I am not fond of strangers encroaching on my personal space or running directly into me and maybe, or not, saying “excuse me” or “sorry”. Sometimes I think I’m invisible. Additionally, your perfume should be smellable to you, the people in your personal space, but not stuffing the nostrils of the rest of us who are five or more feet away.

Nothing fit the way I wanted.

I didn’t leave empty-handed though, so that cheered me up until I decided to stop at the grocery store on my way home at 4:30pm on a Saturday.

I may be getting older and less patient but I am definitely crabby. And I need to get out of this mood because I have a DATE tonight!!!!!

The "If I Were..." Game

After a lovely and romantic Valentine’s Day dinner, we still had some time before catching the train back home from Union Station. Slightly giddy from wine, we ducked into a hip restaurant, squeezed in between a group of men to grab two seats at the bar and ordered.

“What’s the deal with the nametags on all those guys?” My husband asked nodding his head towards the group.

“Well there’s only one way to find out.” I answered.

I leaned around him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day. Why are you wearing nametags?’

“We’re here for an event.” Said one man rather abruptly quickly leaving the bar. Drinks in hand, the rest of the group followed.

"Did I offend him somehow?"

"I don't think so?"

Glancing around, we saw several people with their name and a number pasted to their chests. I’m much too curious sometimes for my own good. I had to know so I waved over the bartender.

“What’s with all with nametags?”

“They’re holding a speed dating event tonight in the bar. Every four minutes they rotate partners for the next hour.”

“Oh! So that’s why that guy was wonky. He was nervous. This should be interesting to watch!”

And every four minutes when the whistle blew, our heads would snap around to see the new rotation. Everyone seemed engaged in lively conversation. Smiling. They looked pretty good at it actually. The mismatches were a riot.

As spectators, we decided to play a few rounds of speed dating ourselves making up all kinds of wacky questions and answers.

“If you actually said that, I would never give you my number!”

“Well you’re not as funny as you think you are!”

We weren’t serious at all. It was really fun.

On the way home, we caught the milk run; a train that stops at every station. We didn’t care at all. We decided to play a game we hadn’t in a long time called “If I were hit by a meteor, would you…”

Date? Who? What? Where? When? How? Anyone I know? Would you marry again? How would your life be different without me (assuming the other was gone solely due to natural disaster always using a meteor)? Etc., etc., etc.

The next morning, the phone rang oddly early. My husband doesn’t often call before 7:00 unless it's something important.

“Have you been on the internet yet?”

“No. Why?”

“Go look. You’ll know what I’m talking about.”

What began as a fun and silly game one evening turned sad the following morning. Our game can’t be called “If I were hit by a meteor...” anymore.

Our world is one crazy, crazy place.