Winter Hats

The difference between women who own a car in Chicago, and women who don't, is easily discernible by her headwear during the winter months.

One would think that a quick glance at the feet would be enough to know (heels=car, sensible walking shoes that may or may not be cute=no car) but I find that without a doubt, hands down, the more sure way to assess someone's car ownership status is to look at her head. If she is wearing something stylish but flimsy, something that only half covers her ears, or worse, does not even graze the top of the ear lobe, than she is undoubtedly, a car owner. She may take the train here and there, she may be known to hop on a bus, but rest assured, she owns a car and uses it frequently to do things like shop for food or go to the movies on the weekends.

If her head is completely invisible under some combination of a cavernous hood and comfy-looking hat, or her ears are covered completely in some witty way, then she is a pedestrian extraordinaire. As a pedestrian extraordinaire, I am at times awonder at the large amount of cute but non-sensible, non-warm, head fashion available at the many department stores I pass by every day. Twice, I have been given gifts by women who primarily drive cars. VERY cute winter wear, but in no way useful to me as a pedestrian. I have bitten the bullet and worn both gifts countless times (reason be damned), but my ears were angry that I did. I am still apologizing, in fact, to my right ear lobe. Seems pretty earrings do not appease her.

That'll be the day..

Every once in a while I very much want to eat a char-broiled cheeseburger and crispy hot french fries and wash it all down with a butterscotch milkshake, all the while listening to Buddy Holly singing "That'll Be The Day" on a jukebox. I think this is because my first job ever, as a fresh-faced naive 16-year-old was at a place called The Malt Shop in St. Paul, MN.

I was a soda jerk. I wore a purple shirt with ice cream splattered across my chest and it was permanently encrusted there (from the machine we used to make the shakes and malts). I am pretty sure I wore black tennis shoes that would slip across the floor all day (or night) long, until we mopped it clean of ice cream drippings. The juke box probably had more than 5 songs on it, but for now, I will say it had 5. I still know all the words, almost 20 years later. I had some friends there, I don't remember their names. I had some enemies too. But I loved that music. And I loved, still do, a good char-broiled cheeseburger, fries and a shake. I just....never......eat....them.....anymore. Sigh. The sadness of changing metabolism and the growing commitment to eating healthy.