girl at large

I like to write about life when you have a job, some kids, a fixer upper and a fatal disease.

recent posts

about

  • All Politics Is Local. Also, the Universe doesn’t care.

    IMG_9034

    IMG_9036

    On Tuesday night, I refreshed my screen a hundred times, waiting for the local election results. More than ever before,  I really cared who was elected to the Village Board. Shorewood has had a lot of development in the last five years (and by a lot I mean an eight story apartment building, a parking garage, a two city block Metro Mart complex with another parking garage and then right next to that another six story apartment block–all visible from my front porch. Oh, and the cute church on my very corner got torn down for a bank-from-a-box currently under construction). I love the walkability of our neighborhood, it's literally why I moved here, but a lot of how the most recent development was done is more than the little village could handle. I'm still learning, still catching up on board meeting videos, but my understanding is that there is wide spread discontent regarding these issues: 

    1) Not enough community involvement in scale, design and use decisions (i.e. That enormous building is ugly as shit).

    2) Inadequate planning for traffic changes; to date there is still no village wide traffic study.

    3) Inequitable facade improvement grants up to $200k from a program that was supposed to support older buildings and local business at the $10k level.

    4) Over use of TIF (Tax Incremental Finding) to "get" development deals instead of letting the market dictate.

    5) And of course, our taxes keep going up.

    So, it's ripe for political change. The previous VB President is retiring, and two Trustee seats were up for reelection. Apparently, (and I'm only up to speed on a few Facebook group and online forum gossip mill posts), there has been a lot of discord, infighting, and trash talking between the old guard (those who created, financed, and approved the questionable developments) and the new guard (two women Trustees who surprised everyone by unseating incumbents in the last election cycles). So, that's the set up.

    It made for a very exciting few weeks in this little hamlet! The Milwaukee County Executive even weighed in on our little race (with his private money) by endorsing some candidates as part of an expensive, glossy yet vague big-money political action group ad campaign. Yard signs were stolen, previous VB Presidents allegedly banned from Facebook pages, gossipy smear letters annonymously mailed to citizens…politics really brings out the best in people.

    I was really hoping for change, for my three picks to win. Allison Rozek for VB President, Jessica Carpenter for Trustee and Davida Amenta for Trustee (2 trustee spots were open, and Davida was seeking reelection, Allison was a sitting Trustee running for the President spot).

    At 9pm, the local news site said my gals had lost, with 100% precincts reporting. I was dumbstruck. I knew Allison was a fifty fifty chance, Jessica was safe with a second place showing, but Davida got bumped to third which meant she lost her seat. That was the worse case scenerio–if Allison had lost she would still retain her Trustee seat, but without Davida on the board her coalition for change was weakened. Davida losing was really crushing, I believed her seat was safe. But it was not to be, I was gutted.

    So, I tossed and turned all night..I made mental plans for a get out the vote campaign, I was rearranging my schedule to attend every village board meeting, writing my Concerned Citizen statements, grinding my teeth…

    In the morning, I checked the Facebook to read their statements. Stunning reversal! THEY DID WIN! All three of my picks WON! Turns out the local site had it wrong, Allison won by 103 votes, Jessica took the first trustee spot handily with the most votes, and Davida retained her seat with a squeaky but safe margin.

    I cried. I actually cried. Now, they may all make mistakes and we may find that all the decisions the previous board made were on the up and up, but most important to me is that now we will KNOW what is going on. This new group has promised to change the way the government communicates with and involves the residents, they have promised transparency and accountability. They better deliver, because my heart can't take it!

    It was an amazing morning, it felt so fantastic to get a win. There's nothing we can't do! March! Vote! Fund raise! Change is coming! The future is female! What a day!

    And then I put my car in a ditch. So, thanks Universe, for the reminder.

     

  • Pat Translator

    Mom has always had a language all her own, usually more accurate and descriptive then the "correct" version. Like Mark Twain and Yogi Berra, her brilliance is both profound and hilarious. The conversations during our annual Spring Break road trip were no exception.

    "You know that place we were just at in Texas or wherever." (We went to Arkansas, not Texas)

    "We're Americans, if we forget anything we can just buy it."

    "I can't believe how it changed. Oh, that's different. Why is that there? That wasn't there before"…(She hasn't been to St Louis in fifty years)

    "I'm just so glad that I'm not like those old people in denial, still driving and and not admitting when it's time to quit or time to move into assisted living. I'm not like that, I'll never be like that, I won't be that stubborn."

    You need hearing aids. "No I don't."

    "Do you still write on that blog? large girl or something?"  

    You mean girlatlarge.com?

    "Yes, that one you did about being fat, I thought it was so great that you were ok with it"

    What? It's Girl At Large, not Large Girl!  It's a reference to being out in the world! traveling! being adventurous! Not about being fat! (And yes, the links you read on Facebook are that very same blog.)

    Oh Mom. What a trip.

     

  • Snootypants vs Smartypants

    Grandma: "Corndog? No, I've never had a corndog. That's "Fair" food, I don't go to the Fair".

    Viv: "Do you like hot dogs?"

    Grandma: "Yes."

    "Do you like bread?"

    Yes.

    "Do you like corn?"

    Yes.

    "Hmm. I think you like corn dogs."

     

  • America’s Seedy Underbelly is Your Neighbor Larry

    (bumper sticker says ‘I choose the obnoxious prick over the corrupt bitch’)

    Really? Who raised you? If you're daring enough to put this out there (there was also a huge Trump banner inside the garage, right next to a Jesus poster), I give you credit for speaking your mind. Also, you're evil. And not Christian.

    I enjoy proof of well-to-do Trumpers; the "poor white men" narrative has always irked me because I KNOW there were just as many silent Republicans in those upper tax brackets who put him in office.

    I love America. Trumpers don't own patriotism, or family values, or loving America. We spent the week driving its highways and byways, like any good country song. Everywhere we went there were faces and voices of every stripe and persuasion, for the most part all friendly. Traveling with family may bring out the worst in you inside the minivan, but out at the pumps, we are all alright. And trapped in a snowstorm in the quickimart, we are all one.

    Be better to each other. Especially you, "Christian" a-hole.

     

  • Girl Out in the World

    It's remarkable how a little thing can put someone at ease. Everywhere we travel Viv is assumed to be a boy, except by priests, nurses, and teachers who (almost to a person) default to "they" or some other gender neutral substitute like the ubiquitous "buddy" without missing a beat. (Is it years of practice? Working with the public? Being wrong too many times in the past?) Its a small thing, but what a difference–to engage with kids and be in tune with their kidness, not their this or thatness. When did we get so boxed in?

    Viv doesn't care one way or another, but it bothers me that girlness is presumed to come in only one pink-wrapped, long haired package. (Of course, I'm conflicted. Why does it bother me when she's misgendered? I'll have to dive into that sticky emotion at a later date). Viv has opinions, preferences, and even at this young age, a "style". And by style I mean she wears and does and plays what and how she enjoys. Or as she says: "Why do boys get all the comfy pants?"

     

  • Don’t Get Me Started

    I made the mistake of getting engaged with the local Village Board election coming up in April.

    Paulie hasn't had the chance to attend a forum or read much, so I keep him informed.

    This morning was all about the TIFs, the lack of bidding out professional services, and the issues that never even got on the board agenda. One of the candidates for Village President said "I don't set the agenda, YOU set the agenda" to the forum crowd. Um, yes, actually the bylaws state that the Village President DOES indeed have sole authority to set the agenda as well as to select committee members. So, 1) misleading and pandering B) didn't answer the question which was what is your method for setting the agenda. Paulie wasn't there, so I played it out for him, word for word. Quite a lot of the forum got repeated for his benefit come to think of it.

    We covered all three candidates for the two Trustee positions, and the two candidates for Village President. Experience, qualifications, positions, and of course detailed analysis of their replies to my email questions. Then there's understanding the complicated Tax Incremental Funding and the relationship between the Board and the Communitiy Development Authority and that big money transfer made this year instead of closing one of the TIFs early, and did you know they DON'T GET COMPETING BIDS for professional services? And that they don't have CONTRACTS? And there wasn't a look back clause with the developemer that got the $5 million GRANT and then flipped the entire project in 10 months for $20 million profit? And so on…

    Paulie, from the shower: "Honey, why don't you just go ahead and run so I can get ready in peace some day."

     

  • Living with Pat

    “Here, take these underwear, they are too big for me.”

    “Are you saying I’m fatter than you?”

    “No, I just know they are too big for me.”

    Lifts up enormous granny panties (or as she used to call them, nipple huggers). Paulie could wash the car with them.

    “Mom! I don’t even wear these kind of underwear! I wear NICE underwear, I wear LACE underwear!” (Thank you France, and thank you Hanky Panky)

    “I thought maybe, you know, period underwear!”

    “You thought wrong. No.”

    “But I don’t want them to go to waste.”

    “Ok, let’s say I do want these, which pair did you try on?”

    Looking at the opened pack of five: “Hmm, I don’t remember”

    So Mom, suddenly a pillar of thrift, is asking me to play underwear roulette.

  • Home Fires

    In a stunning reversal, I like my house and hate my husband. Ok, so that's too strong, but I'm cranky this morning. And we're not seeing eye to eye. But, like all our marital storms, this one will pass.

    What will stay, I hope, is my new satisfaction with the house. The painting continues, one room at time, through the first floor. We literally have just one painter working in the house each day, the painting company is fitting us in between other jobs. Which wouldn't be that unusual except that typically they run a crew for this amount of work—walls, ceiling, then sanding, priming and two-coating all that trim. The playroom ceiling had to be stripped of falling ancient wallpaper and practically replastered. Davis, whom I have yet to meet in person, arrives after we leave for work and leaves before we return. Our very own magical painter elf. This is very our style of working with the trades—not needing a schedule or having a deadlin has its cost benefits. And makes the drive home from work more exciting; oh the anticipation!

    Adding to the feeling of CLEAN the paint has given the house, the three new light fixtures have changed my outlook on everything. Literally. I can now see just exactly how filthy, grungy, and dark the house was. Why did we wait so long? Oh right, because we needed a shower, and garage doors, and our own bedroom.

    Paulie did put up all three lights. And installed dimmers. Ok, truce.

     

     

  • Retro Christmas

    05C5B7FA-DCAC-40D3-B8D9-ACC5F7E4BFFA

    “I want a pogo stick and a scooter and a black and red watch” -Viv to Santa

  • Monumental Decisions

    I was not made for home ownership. I prefer to move every two years or so, changing my view of the town I live in, if not the town itself, downgrading or upgrading as needed. Despite my love of architecture and design, I have never wanted to OWN architecture. Like my love of hotels, I prefer both a less permanent and more luxurious arrangement.
     
    Paulie was born to own. He was literally born two blocks from where he is currently snoring. In our marital compromise, and also in a new-baby, got kicked-out-of-our-rental haze, we bought. We got lucky; in winter and the bottom of the market, we scored a solid structure in the neighborhood we love and now today could no longer afford. (Don't get me started on the unfairness of the real estate market and how young families, seniors and modest income folks are getting priced out of our village because the recent condo developments and duplex conversion programs favor the wealthy).
     
    We did not purchase, as I originally suggested, two adjacent one-bedroom his-and-hers modern apartments. We got a classic bungalow instead, complete with crumbling plaster walls, ancient plumbing, and…original woodwork.
     
    In the four and half years since, I have tossed and turned and wrung my hands about one particularly thorny issue. An issue many homeowners, HGTV watchers and renovators have passionately debated for decades.There are sides.There are camps. There are blogs and articles and curses if you do, curses if you don't. Only politics is currently more divided.
     
    To paint the woodwork or not paint the woodwork?
     
    Finally, I decided. I chose a camp. I chose Paint. The picture rail, door frames and baseboards all got painted a smooth, clean and lovely off-white. The wood doors, windows, and dining room arch columns will remain unpainted (and filthy until the budget and time allows for stripping and refinishing).
     
    And you know what? No one cared. No woodwork police arrived. Because it's my house, and god damn I can do what I want. Which is exactly what I said to myself when the property tax bill came last week, interestingly just moments before I said screw it and called the painter.