Capitol Court may be dead, but malls live in Milwaukee

I have a holiday confession to make: I don't celebrate Black Friday.

My refusal to take part in Black Friday (which is the Friday after Thanksgiving, the biggest shopping day of the year, for those who don't know) could be a result of my mall phobia.

I think it's fair to say I loathe shopping malls. Trying to maneuver a massive, overflowing parking lot gives me a headache. Crowds of rude shoppers — you know, the ones who cut you off in the aisles, snatch items from your reach, or run over your feet with baby strollers — make my blood boil. And, frankly, mall prices leave me cold.

Except to attend the occasional movie, I haven't been to the queen of shopping malls, Mayfair Mall in Wauwatosa, in ... oh, I guess it's been years.

This mall phobia I have is undoubtedly the result of growing up in the country, where shopping was a necessity, not a contact sport. I lack the skills to succeed, I readily admit.

However, I refuse to let a phobia run my life, so I have found a few malls I can stomach — at least on an average Tuesday. Two of them are in the city of Milwaukee, and I thought I'd let you know why they don't scare me like the others ... in case, like me, any of you are mall phobes :)

Frankly, they are not like other malls in metro Milwaukee ... which can be a bonus for anyone looking to change up the holiday routine. The fashions, for example, are decidedly urban, which works for me and mine.

Midtown Center takes over Capitol Court

I never had the (dis)pleasure of shopping at Capitol Court. It was long gone by the time I moved to Wisconsin almost 15 years ago. Yet, people still bring up Capitol Court when talking about malls in Milwaukee ...

Apparently, it left quite an impression. (Yes, I've been told both the positive and negative reasons, but let's not dwell.)

Today, the Midtown Center stands in its place at Capitol Drive and 56th Street.


Midtown is an open-air center, which means it's not enclosed like Mayfair or Southridge malls. (As with outlet malls, all the stores have doors facing parking lots.) I usually like the open-air concept: When I want a specific store, I can (a) easily find it from the comfort of my car, and (b) get in and out of that store quickly. Of course, when it's raining or freezing cold, I'm not such a big fan.

Midtown is also an "affordable" mall. It's anchors are not major department stores; in fact, its anchors are the popular, numerous Wal-Mart,* Pick 'n' Save, and AJ Wright.

I checked the Midtown Center's Web site for accuracy; all 35 tenants listed (with Web sites, if available) are indeed still open — including a Milwaukee Police Department substation, for those who worry about crime at the mall.

Some highlights: Teenage girls and young women, like my daughters, love the fact that discount clothing retailers Rainbow, DOTS, Fashion Bug, Simply Fashion, and Best Price! are together within walking distance.

Stores not listed as tenants but located nearby include Lena's Food Market, City Trends, U.S. Cellular, Playmakers, Manna House, McDonald's, and rare-in-the-city Taco Bell.

Unfortunately, Lowe's home improvement store came and went already.

The mall suits me well because I can spot and avoid crowds before getting out of my car. Parking can be a bit challenging during busy times, like after school lets out, but there are enough out lots to provide overflow space. (I recommend approaching the mall from 60th Street, which is the least busy of the five bordering streets.) And the stores are both practical and affordable.

*Side note: I know that Wal-Mart is a lightning rod among consumers, who love, hate, or love/hate the retail giant. The first time one opened where I lived, I refused to shop there, based solely on the fact that the corporation censors the musicians it agrees to market. However, when the first Wal-Mart opened in the city of Milwaukee, I decided to give the retailer a chance. After all, it was the only big-box, discount retailer willing to build multiple stores within our city limits, despite the crime statistics. Plus, I needed a place to buy inexpensive undergarments :)

The Shops of Grand Avenue will not die

Enter the east end of The Shops of Grand Avenue, housed inside historic downtown buildings on Wisconsin Avenue just west of the Milwaukee River, and you get a glimpse of the former Grand Avenue Mall's struggles: Empty store fronts outnumber full ones.

However, if you move west through the mall, the shopping improves. "It's the best place for shoe shopping," claims shoe-aholic daughter Cherish. Plus, "it has the best food court of all the malls," daughter Angel notes, adding that she and boyfriend "come here just to eat all the time."

Grand Avenue is anchored by a department store, Boston Store, in the mall's west-end building. Not officially considered part of the mall, Borders Bookstore is located in a separate east-end building on the river.

Myriad stores are found between these two "anchors," with all the buildings connected by skywalks. A few of the stores open to the street, like Office Max and Walgreen's.

Again, I checked the online list of 73 tenants, and all the retailers are open. (I didn't check the restaurants specifically, however.)

Highlights: Brew City Beer Gear; Planet TV, featuring all things sold on TV; Torrence's House of Threads and Danielle's, both featuring distinctive evening wear; hard-to-find-these-days photo booths; Peddler Jim’s Produce, with to-die-for berries; and the food court, which is conveniently separated from the stores in that it occupies the entire third floor of a building by itself.

Apparently, guys and gals love the shoe selections of Famous Footwear, FootAction USA, and all three Foot Locker stores: Kids, Lady and regular.

Also popular are sportswear store Fan Fair and hat and cap retailer Lids.

And, of course, the holidays mean a visit from the Leonard Bearstein Symphony Orchestra, with a castle backdrop. Children of all ages love the animated bears, who perform holiday classics.

Gone, unfortunately, are recent tenants Linens 'n' Things and Old Navy.

The buildings that house the mall also house a YMCA, Marriott Courtyard and Residence Inn hotels, and the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee School of Continuing Education, which means steady foot traffic and added security.

The mall suits me well because, well, it's rarely crowded (*sigh*). You must pay for parking, although it's a mere $1 per hour with store validation. (I usually park at a meter on Milwaukee Avenue for convenience, but I'm in and out quickly.) And many of the stores are unique to Grand Avenue, which makes the trip worthwhile.

Watch out for that weirdo; he just might help you out

A few years ago, I saw one gang member shoot another in broad daylight, at nearly point-blank range.

It's one of my favorite summertime memories.

We — the husband, three daughters and I — were attempting to cruise north on Lincoln Memorial Drive, near Bradford Beach. I say "attempting" because the Lake Michigan boulevard resembled a parking lot: All four lanes of the roadway were jam packed with folks attempting to cruise by the beach on this smoldering hot, humid day. We crawled to a dead stop so often that the hubby put the car in park every few feet, waiting for the cars ahead of us to inch forward.

Typically, such heavy stop-and-go traffic would annoy the hubby. He's a go-and-go sort of guy. But the city was entertaining on this particular day — everywhere were classic cars, convertibles, expensive SUVs, hot rods, motorcycles and, of course, swimsuit-clad hard bodies.

One pimped-out ride, a Cadillac convertible, caught my eye as we approached it, parked on my side of the road. I'll be honest: It caught my eye because it was totally stereotypical. The metallic paint job was accented by flashy rims and a leather interior — very nice. Exactly what you would expect a pimp or drug dealer in a Hollywood movie to drive.

And seated inside the car were — no surprise, if you believe the stereotype — four black teenage boys. Four black teenage boys sporting gang colors.

In the interest of full disclosure, I can't remember exactly how the teens were dressed. I do remember at least one red baseball cap, cocked atop its owner's head ... but little else. After living in Milwaukee a while, though, I can assure you it's easy to spot gang members when they're dressed the part; it's a certain look you just know. As the four piled out of the car, I just knew.

While I watched, the boy in the red cap jumped from the passenger seat and turned toward the driver of the car. He held a really big gun that he quickly pointed at the driver, and then — in broad daylight, in the midst of a crowd of people — he pulled the trigger. And he hit his target.

The driver was suddenly soaking wet ... drenched in water from his buddy's squirt gun.

Boys will be boys

Again in the interest of full disclosure, I knew I wasn't witnessing an actual shooting. The hubby and I weren't the least bit nervous watching those boys exit their car.

You see, after being parents for more than a decade and a half, my husband and I could spot happy teenagers a mile away.

Happy teenagers are rarely spotted by adults, any parent of a teenager will tell you. They tend to run in packs, away from their parents and other authority figures. And it's not always obvious from facial expressions when you do spot happy teens, but we parents just know.

And, on this day at the lake, we just knew we were catching a rare glimpse of four happy teenagers at play outside.

The sight was made that much more special — touching, in fact — because we saw four gangbangers defy the stereotype. They reminded us that, whatever their sins, they were still children.

For the afternoon, at least, they were simply boys being boys.

Random acts of humanity

I live for moments like that water-gun fight — moments when people pleasantly surprise others by defying stereotypes, betraying their looks, going the extra mile, turning the other cheek, being the bigger person.

A few more of such moments ...

Dinner and dancing: Last night, we picked up dinner at Speed Queen BBQ. Located at 1130 W Walnut St., it's considered the city's best by many barbecue lovers. The neighborhood is rough, however, and patrons regularly get hit up by the homeless. (This isn't a problem for us; I'm just establishing the setting.)

As we were driving away, my husband told me to look in the side mirror. I did so, and I got to watch a grown man dance his way across the street behind us on roller skates. The show was impressive, and we didn't pay a dime.

Spidey nonsense: We were downtown late one Friday night, stopped in our car at a traffic light, when — out of the blue — Spiderman crossed the street in the crosswalk in front of us. When he got to the sidewalk, he ungracefully tumbled to the ground, then quickly bounced to his feet and looked around to see if anyone noticed. Hmmm ...

No, it wasn't Halloween; it was the middle of December, and sidewalk ice kicked Spidey's butt. Spiderman, we guessed, was on his way to the Ladybug Club, 618 North Water St. (hiding in the building with the huge ladybugs adorning the facade), a dance club offering theme nights that opens its doors to those younger than 21 once a week. Not a bad idea; Spidey apparently needed help with his footwork.

Hometown hero: No, I'm not referring to Spiderman. One of my hometown heroes is a Walgreen's security guard working at the store at North Avenue and Martin Luther King Drive (which has since been moved a few blocks south).

The guard saw me withdrawing cash from the ATM inside the store one afternoon. I finished my business — I thought — and was leaving when he stopped me to tell me that I should wait a few minutes. Apparently, that ATM took just shy of forever to ask "Do you want to complete another transaction?" Had I left, someone could have accessed my bank account because I was still logged in.

He knew it had happened to other customers, so he was keeping an eye on the machine. Not his job, but ...

Chivalry isn't dead: Stopped at a ridiculously long red light at the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and 27th Street one day, I found myself staring at the folks at the bus stop for entertainment.

A tiny, frail, elderly woman with a walking cane and huge handbag approached the packed bus shelter. An ornery-looking teenage boy — think Ice Cube in, well, any of his movies — saw her coming and, without her saying a word, vacated his seat on the bench and helped her sit down. She was all smiles. So was I :)

Brotherly love: I was filling my car with gas one morning when I realized I was surrounded by a crew of taxi cab drivers getting their cars ready for their shifts. One of those drivers locked his keys in his cab while pumping gas — not a good start to his day.

The driver, obviously Middle Eastern, asked a fellow driver, a black man he clearly didn't know well, to open his door in broken English: "Brother, please help a brother out!" (I wasn't aware of this, but apparently more than one driver has the key for each cab ... or maybe there's a master key?)

Observers naturally laughed; his rescuer did not, choosing instead to unlock the door and reassure the cabbie that it happens to everyone. Brother to brother.

If folks keep it up, I'm going to be tempted to believe that we all can just get along =)

Today I sat beside Fear — and I don't much like him

I attended my first-ever unemployment workshop today, and I sat next to someone I remember from a past life: Fear.

I'd nearly forgotten how ugly he is.

Surrounded by a dozen people whose lives have ground to a halt because their jobs have disappeared, I couldn't help but feel incredibly, overwhelmingly fortunate. I may be jobless, collecting Unemployment Insurance benefits for the first time at the age of 38, but Fear doesn't shadow me like he does others.

My children are healthy, and the two who are adults are almost self-sufficient.

I still have health insurance, thanks to my ambitious and always-employed hubby.

I have a house and mortgage insurance that I'm in no danger of losing.

I have — at home — computers and access to the Internet.

I have a car and a valid driver's license.

Even if I wind up eventually losing some of the creature comforts I enjoy, I'll still be able to work a computer.

And I can read and write.

In other words, I'm spoiled.

Yes, it's time to thank the hubby

I know Fear personally — I recognize him by sight and sound, in the faces and voices of those around me — but these days I don't spend much time with him.

Once upon a time, the hubby and I lived paycheck to paycheck, utterly dependent on his jobs in the troubled manufacturing industry while I attended Michigan State University and got my career as a journalist off the ground.

Fear was always by my side, guiding my decisions.

I remember floating checks at the grocery store to buy food and baby diapers.

The children had peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches for dinner more times than I care to remember. The hubby ate ramen noodles for dinner more times than he cares to remember. (We were too proud to sign up for food stamps, although I did take part in the Women, Infants and Children - or WIC - program, which aims to ensure new moms and young children get enough to eat. That formula allowance was a godsend!)

Some months we paid the electric bill; other months we made the car payment. Rent always came first, of course, although it was often paid late. MSU was a good landlord, however, and gave us little grief.

I got to be pretty darn good at juggling the bills, staying just ahead of the shut-offs ... usually. The car was repossessed once; the electric turned off at least twice — maybe three times?

My first two children were born on Medicaid because the hubby wasn't offered insurance through his employer, which hired and kept him on as a temp for years.

I agonized over school shopping. There was never enough money — I remember the requirement of gym shoes, to be worn only in the gym, nearly gave me a stroke.

My children and I got all our clothes at thrift stores — props to Goodwill and, here in Milwaukee, Value Village. We still shop at both, although the girls started buying new clothes once they hit high school and earned their own money.

For the first five years we were married, I never developed a roll of film. I saved up the exposed rolls, taken with a camera given to me as a gift, until I got my first job and started helping out the hubby.

Speaking of that hubby: He never faltered. He worked hard — literally working his way up with muscle, sweat, elbow grease and smarts — and eventually made his way into a different field. He's now in information systems, and he has a relatively secure job.

As a result, Fear no longer shadows me.

The unlucky many

But today I was reminded how lucky I am.

Gloria Mitchell with Job Services at the Job Center of Wisconsin Northeast, who ran today's workshop, didn't pull any punches with us.

"In the 44 years I've worked for the state, I have never seen a job market this bad," she told us, adding that "there's no such thing as a secure job anymore," not even in government.

(Yes, Gloria knew Fear was in the room with us. She also knows she is among the fortunate few who needn't pay him any mind.)

The good news is, in other words, that we unemployed folks aren't alone. In fact, we're in pretty good company — and the party is damn crowded.

The bad news is, well, Fear is a roommate for many of us.

And that's why I'm recommending a stop at a local Job Center for anyone who doesn't have a job right now.

The centers, first and foremost, offer free computers, Internet access, fax and copy services, and phones to folks who can't afford such luxuries at home. Yes, I said free. And, of course, they provide job listings and help folks put together resumes and/or fill out applications so they can apply for said jobs.

They can also hook you up with the right people if you need additional help — say, with food stamps (or the Quest card, nowadays); energy bill assistance; basic job skill training; and so on.

Don't be too proud: The centers were created to help us. We pay for them with our tax dollars when we're employed; we're entitled to use them when we're not.

And they are invaluable, really, if you're trying to outrun Fear.

Fame comes with a price, Lake Michigan fans learn

I am mourning Bradford Beach.

No, they didn't close the (in)famous Lake Michigan beach on the East Side of Milwaukee. They "reinvented" it, in the words of people who revitalize dying parks.

See, two summers ago, Bradford Beach was languishing. Several factors contributed to her poor health: invasive lake species led to excessive algae and seaweed growth, which in turn made the water stink on hot days; county budget cuts meant no lifeguards and reduced grooming at the park, which compounded the invasive species problem; and criminals, some with guns, made it a frightening place for many.

This summer, after a summer of rebirth last year sparked by private donations, the beach is flourishing. Drive by any day of the week and you will find at least half the beach — the southern half, by the parking lots — packed full of sun-loving folks.



The dozen or so volleyball nets are in constant use. Sunbathers litter the sand with their towels and blankets.

Vendors hawk their sunglasses, hot dogs and other goods along the road. The concession stand in the parking lot — closed the first eight years we lived on the East Side — is open again, serving long lines of customers.

And, of course, the water is dotted with swimmers, sailboats and windsurfers.

Heck, you don't have to drive by to check it out; there is now a Bradford Beach lakefront video camera feed at LakefrontCam.com.

The Milwaukee County Sheriff’s Office stepped up patrols along Lincoln Memorial Drive — which is great news to some, nerve-wracking to others — and strictly enforced park hours, closing the gates to the parking lots at 10 every night.

Deputies even manned nearby mobile command units (trailers that serve as mobile command posts) parked in the boulevard median at times when crowds surged, such as Memorial Day weekend.

Yeah, the beach has come into its own this year. And I'm in mourning.

Out with the old

The Bradford Beach I knew when I first moved to Milwaukee was a quiet beach. It didn't matter what time of the day or day of the week you visited, you could always find a place to (a) park and (b) spread out your blanket.

It seemed, to my daughters and me, that it was our own "well-kept secret."

Of course, we usually had to swim at our own risk. And put up with a few weeds breaking through the sand. And litter under foot, including broken beer bottles. And that smell.

But we had a Great Lakes beach all to ourselves, we die-hard Lake Michigan fans.

For the most part, I believe, we visitors to the "old" Bradford Beach were city of Milwaukee residents — and, I'd be willing to bet, many of us had no air conditioning at home to give us relief from summertime heat :)

Trust me on this point.

When it's 95 degrees with 70 percent humidity and you live in a second-floor flat without a/c, you'll find a few weeds, a bit of litter, and some nasty smells aren't going to stop you from seeking out the cool of the lakefront.

Even sewage dumps at the treatment plant couldn't keep us away — from the sand, at least.

Crowds, however ...

In with the new

I'm sorry to say I didn't spend any time at the beach this summer. You see, I got a puppy I take everywhere with me, and I couldn't risk walking my puppy at a crowded beach. (Dogs aren't allowed on the beach, by county ordinance, but there is a popular bike/walking trail alongside the beach.)

I really wanted to check out the Bartolotta Restaurant Group's Northpoint concession stand. The lines for its burgers and custard made me think it would be worth a try.

But the thought of my dessert-loving puppy — a German shepherd who weighed 65 pounds at six months — among throngs of custard-bearing beach-goers stopped me.

(I also get a bit paranoid when surrounded by cops. I realize their presence means increased safety, but it makes me feel like I'm under surveillance ... especially when I'm misbehaving ... like maybe letting my puppy wander onto a prohibited beach :))

Instead, my daughters and I waited patiently for autumn to bring cool temperatures, which we knew would drive away some of the crowds. Then we introduced our puppy to Bradford Beach, on a day when only a handful of die-hard Lake Michigan fans braved the chilly lake breeze.

It was totally worth the wait — turned out, it was just like old times ... :)

Note: I started this post in summer but updated it in winter.

I'm sorry to disappoint, but I am not afraid

I really don't like to disappoint people, but I often do these days.

You see, I know a lot of people who live outside the city of Milwaukee — family, friends, coworkers — and, when I tell them where my husband and I bought our house, it's obvious what they are thinking.

Aren't you afraid?

Some people actually ask the question, in one form or another: Don't you worry about break-ins? Aren't you concerned about your daughter walking to school? What if your car is stolen?

Crime, apparently, was supposed to scare us away from Riverwest. (For those of you who aren't familiar with the neighborhood, we're located southwest of the intersection of Capitol Drive and Humboldt Boulevard. For those of you who do know the neighborhood, we're at Keefe Avenue and Bremen Street.)

But there's often a deeper meaning behind the questions, revealed in my personal favorite: Who will your girls date?

I've been in Milwaukee long enough to know what many people really want to ask: Aren't you afraid of the blacks (and/or the Latinos)?

In a word, the answer is "no."

Pricks come in all shapes, sizes and colors

I fear very little, not even "the criminal element," whatever its skin color. I suspect my lack of fear stems from growing up with my old man.

My father was a prick. He was an alcoholic who failed at court-ordered rehab more than once. He was a wife beater and whore. He drove drunk. He refused to pay taxes. After my mom divorced him, he was a deadbeat dad. He stole. He was lewd. He lied. He kicked our dog.

In short, he was a bully and a criminal.

And he was as white as white comes, living in the predominantly white rural Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

I remember him once telling me to stay away from "the injuns." (In the U.P., the largest minority is Native.) When he told me why, with alcoholism topping the list, it occurred to me that he was really describing himself. I have yet to meet a Native — the term preferred by the Natives I've met, when tribe isn't known — as big a prick as my father was, drunk or sober.

In fact, the person I feared most as a child was my father.

Desperate people do desperate things

As I grew, I started putting the pieces of my father together. His formative years were pretty rough on him, I learned, and he did his best with the tools he was given by his family.

Alcohol was his therapy. Anger was his release.

Living in the U.P. didn't help. Jobs are scarce in the U.P., with high-paying jobs rare, and men who cannot provide adequately for their families often feel useless and frustrated. Alcohol is the preferred way to self-medicate in the U.P., and frustrated men make for violent drunks. (Obviously, this can apply to women, as well; I happen to know more men who suffer the affliction.)

It can become a vicious cycle, when children are involved. My brothers both started out down the wrong path when they were young; they both have juvenile records, thankfully for nonviolent offenses.

It's a cycle I recognize in Milwaukee, concentrated because there are so many more people living here.

I checked out the 2003 study titled "The Two Milwaukees: Separate and Unequal," by Marc V. Levine, professor and director of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Center for Economic Development. Levine found that unemployment among blacks in Milwaukee was 16 percent in 2000 — 17.9 among black men. Ouch.

The U.P. is no stranger to double-digit unemployment rates, either. Three of the rural counties in Michigan finished 1999 with unemployment rates of more than 10 percent for the year. Monthly unemployment rates were nearly 20 percent in winter months, when farming, logging and mining operations came to a halt.

That means, speaking in terribly simplistic terms, that roughly one of every 10 working adults I knew growing up was unemployed at any point of the year — two of every 10 in wintertime. And that's just those who filed for unemployment benefits. Many adults I knew in the U.P. didn't bother; they worked under the table or went into an illegal trade.

My old man had a reason for being a prick. Not an excuse, but a reason.

Home bittersweet home

I know what you're thinking: If life is miserable because of unemployment to the point that you're self-medicating, why not move?

I know that answer, too, although I don't necessarily agree with it. Again being overly simplistic: Home is where the heart is.

My father knew that he could survive in the U.P., no matter how tough the going got. He knew how to lie, cheat and steal his way through lean times and, more importantly, how to stay one step ahead of the authorities. And he had friends and family in the U.P. who enabled him.

Milwaukee has neighborhoods with very similar vibes to them. Even with all hope gone of good factory jobs returning to the city, Milwaukee is still home to those who once worked in the city's factories.

And I will not discount the fact that, like Michigan, Wisconsin does provide for its poor with relatively generous social welfare programs. I am, after all, a welfare child, with six years of Aid to Families with Dependent Children benefits on my resume.

I couldn't have survived my father without it.

Survive my father I did, as did my brothers. And, despite the facts and figures that tell us we, too, should be pricks, we are not. (One of us has his moments, but he's still falling short of our father's standards.)

In summary: My father, someone I least expected to be a prick, was indeed a prick. My brothers, who statistically speaking should be pricks, are not pricks. Hmmm ...

I have to give credit where credit is due. My father taught me that it's wise to judge everyone individually. If you don't, the pricks will blindside you — you could wind up married to one! — and you'll miss the chance to get to know the genuinely good people all around you.

Think about it: I could have decided early in life to write off (white) men because of my father's behavior, but then I would have missed out on 19 years of marriage to my wonderful hubby. And who knows what might have happened to my brothers ...

You have nothing to fear but fear itself

Once I shed the fear of my father by getting to know him, I had no fear of people left in me. Fear has been replaced by curiosity and an insatiable sense of adventure.

Instead of waiting to be attacked by the pricks of the world, I make it a practice to seek out the good people — including those who, statistically speaking, should be pricks but are not. I enjoy finding gems in the rough, so to speak :)

Yes, someone has broken into our garage here in Riverwest. But our neighbor interrupted the thief, and our daughter was able to recover half the stolen stuff a ways down the alley. If we had never moved to Riverwest, we would still own a men's mountain bike, but we wouldn't know our neighbor is utterly trustworthy, either.

Yes, my daughter was once accosted walking home from school, back when we lived on the East Side. But a group of complete strangers came to her aid, defending her from a man easily twice her size. Had we never moved to Milwaukee, she wouldn't have gone through the trauma, but she wouldn't know the kindness of strangers, either.

And, yes, my daughter has dated the son of a confessed Latin King with a felony criminal record. But no harm has come to her; in fact, I suspect she is safer in his house than in ours! If we hadn't enrolled her in Milwaukee Public Schools, she never would have met the boy, but she wouldn't have seen first-hand how far an apple can fall from its tree, either.

If, in the course of my adventures in our new neighborhood, I do run into more genuine pricks, I'm not going to give them any ground in my life. There isn't room; there are too many good people hanging out around me :)

Oh, and no, our cars have not been stolen. Sorry to disappoint!

Do NOT attemp this with manicured nails

I remember singing along to "I'm a Woman" by Peggy Lee as a child: "I can bring home the bacon (and) fry it up in a pan ..." I suppose I owe her a li'l credit for the fact that I grew into a feminist in theory, if not in practice.

I readily admit that (a) I don't bring home enough bacon to feed my family without the hubby's help and (b) I'm not much interested in frying what little bacon I do bring home — or cooking anything, really, unless it's pre-prepared. (I guess I would qualify as a poor starving feminist, if I were on my own ;))

And, no, I cannot do everything a man can do even better than he can do it — unless I have the proper tools, that is. Take, for example, changing a flat tire.

Yes, I can change my own flat tire. I just did tonight. Tire irons and car jacks are our friends, ladies — never mind diamonds. And, with grease under my fingernails as I type, I'm proud to tell you that I needed no help with the tire ... until it came time to pay for the replacement :)

Hey, look out for that curb!

My hubby cringes every time he looks at or thinks about my car. See, I consider my car nothing more than one of many tools I own, albeit a pretty expensive one. It gets me from Point A to Point B without having to wait at a bus stop. Love it!

And I use it like my hubby uses his wrenches: I beat on it. I brake too hard, corner too quickly, go to the carwash too infrequently, and generally drive too fast. (I can't remember, in fact, the last time I drove the speed limit ;)) Things break on my car. Often.

My car, the tool, allows me to feel free, strong and independent, at least while I'm driving. But I have this strange weakness: Curbs kick my ass. (In my defense, I learned to drive in a part of the country where curbs didn't exist.) Tonight, I hit one on the way home. Don't ask how; I won't tell.

I couldn't pull over right away, as I was in a merge lane, heading northwest on Main Street out of Waukesha onto Bluemound Road toward Brookfield. Many of you know that stupid lane, I'm sure; it's the one that looks like a freeway entrance ramp but acts like a parking lane.

Anyway, after the blow-out, I had to pull off the main road onto the frontage road, where I could safely change the tire. I correctly guessed I would shred the tire, but I've always figured it's better to be safe and get off a major road than to try saving a tire that may not be salvageable. (Yes, this is experience talking: This was my fourth curb-induced flat tire. Again, don't ask!)

And then I acted out a porn scene: I got dirty after getting on my hands and knees.

Learn from my mistakes — or face the laughs

I'm a bit rusty, so it took me about 45 minutes to change the tire. Yes, I know: Guys — and some women, I'm sure — can do it faster. But I got it done.

This might be a good time for a PSA: Gals, don't make the same mistakes I've made — at least not while there are guys watching!

Tonight, the plastic thingy that pretends to be a hubcab proved too much for me. See, I didn't pull out my owner's manual right away. (I know what you're thinking: That's a man mistake. But I figured that if I was going to do a job a man usually does, I should do it like a man would do it: without ever cracking the instructions :))

I didn't realize the plastic thingy has attached lug-nut covers that screw off just like the nuts themselves. I quickly tired of wrestling with the stupid thing and ripped it off, breaking three of the nut covers off. Oops. Gentle with tools I am not! (My hubby will undoubtedly cringe when reading this ... perhaps for more than one reason ;))

The next step went well — this time. Once upon a time, I foolishly jacked up the car before trying to loosen the lug nuts. Guess what? The tire spins when you do that. Who knew? Now I know to loosen them while the car is still solidly on the ground.

A trick for you tiny folks: Most of those lug nuts are applied with machinery. They're on too tight for anyone — man or woman — to loosen with a simple arm twist. Attach the tire iron to one of the screws so that the handle is roughly parallel to the ground. Then stand on the iron and gently bounce to loosen the nut, being careful to brace yourself in case you slip off. (Oh, and remember that it's lefty loosey, righty tighty :))

Once those lug nuts are loose, you can jack up the car. It's really quite easy: You put the jack under the car in a spot where the frame is solid and straight and turn the li'l handle. Of course, finding a spot where the frame is solid and straight is the trick here ... I'll explain in a bit.

Once the tire clears the ground you can remove the lug nuts totally (if you haven't already) and pull the tire off. This part usually stumps me.

See, on older or well-used cars, the tires often rust in place. Pulling won't break them free. Kicking them won't break them loose. Lying under the car — a serious no-no! — and kicking them from behind won't budge them, especially when the car and the ground are both frozen in mid-winter. Trust me on this one.

I once walked to a corner repair shop and asked to borrow a sledge hammer so I could loosen a damn flat tire. The guy refused to give me one but was kind enough to walk back with me and use the sledge hammer himself. I was pleased it took him three swings.

Tonight, the tire came right off, lickety split. I was pumped! But ... then ... the bloody car slid backward off the jack, in slow motion. And I was powerless to stop it. Aaarg! (Remember that bit about finding a spot where the frame is straight? Oh, and the part about how dangerous it is to crawl under a car elevated on a jack???)

I'm fine. I think the car is OK. The pavement has a couple gouges in it.

I started over with the jack. Jack is my friend. Jack takes freakin' forever to go from six inches of elevation to flat and then back to six inches of elevation. But he does the heavy lifting, so I can't complain. Much.

Read the instructions!

I finally decided to get out the owner's manual at this point. See, I pulled the space-saver spare tire from the trunk and then realized I had no idea which side should face inward toward the car. And those space-savers look quite a bit different than the real things. Ummm ... ?

I read every part of the manual regarding tires, and guess what? There is no instruction regarding what direction to turn the tire before putting it on. (However, the manual does tell you how to find a secure spot for the jack, surprise, surprise.) I'm writing Chevy!

In the meantime, I figured it out by checking the curve of the lug nut holes and comparing it to the real tire ... You'll see what I mean when you get to that point.

Buttoning up is pretty easy. Put the lug nuts on finger-tight before lowering the car to the ground, for obvious reasons. Then tighten them the same way you loosened them, with the tire iron acting as your lever and your weight as your strength. Remember to tighten in a star-shaped pattern: This ensures the tire is mounted flat, not tight on one side and loose on another.

Fortunately, I didn't have far to travel on my spare. Tires Plus was less than a mile down the road. Figures!

The guys at Tires Plus were great. They didn't say anything about the heap of trash on my car floor, the freshly spilled yogurt on my steering wheel, or the plastic hubcab I destroyed.

And, with perfect businessman demeanor, the guy who gave me my bill offered me the phone when I told him that, ah, I was at my daily limit on my debit card and couldn't pay myself ... so I'd need to call my hubby and ask to use his debit card.

I swear, though, that he was laughing as I left the building, after almost forgetting my keys. Oh, yeah, folks: You need your keys to start your car ... ;)

In total, the experience took an hour and a half of my life. The good news is that there was no bacon waiting for me to fry it when I got home ... 'cause it simply would have been too much for me!

Pop goes my cherry, at the ripe age of 37

First, get your mind out of the gutter: I have three teenage daughters, you can see from my profile, so I lost that cherry ages ago :)

I finally got drunk for the first time the other night, during my first-ever male revue.

Yes, I ended a run of sobriety that lasted 37 years, four months and seven days surrounded by nearly naked men, after more than 19 years of seeing only one man naked.

What can I say? When I make up my mind to do something, I do it right!

Unfortunately, my oldest is disappointed in me for drinking — "Mom, how could you, after all these years?!?" — and believes I "cheated" on her pops by checking out other guys.

Ummm ... Who's the grown-up here, missy?

Irresponsible me

It's been a long summer. We bought a house; my oldest moved out with her boyfriend; my middle one started college; and my baby started high school.

So, when the gals at the office suggested a Girls Night Out at the Airport Lounge strip club in Milwaukee — where they host a male revue every Saturday night in the basement, aka the Cockpit — I jumped on it. (The idea, I mean ;))

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not at all straight-laced. I grew up in da U.P. (the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, for those not native to the area), where drinking is a sport, lifestyle and food alternative. My folks, no matter how poor we were, always had a fridge stocked with beer.

And, at the risk of sounding like a cliche, I have to say it: I have many friends who drink. I've spent a lot of time in bars, good, bad and ugly. I'm a top pick when it comes to selecting a designated driver.

The hubby and I have also been to more heavy metal and hard rock concerts than the average joe: We tried counting one night, and we got up to about 100. As you can imagine, I am no stranger to lewd and/or drunken behavior.

While I may sometimes act the part, I have never been drunk, stoned, high or otherwise inebriated myself. Oops! Addendum: Until this past weekend.

And, somehow, I managed to miss out on all the bachelorette parties involving sweaty, beefy, nearly naked men. How, given what a fan I am of the opposite sex, I'm not sure ...

No ding-dongs sighted

My oldest couldn't bring herself to say the word "penis" — or any of its common nicknames — in front of me and her dad, so she opted for "ding-dong." (Yes, she is straight-laced. When you have somewhat wild parents spawned by insane relatives, you have to rebel by going clean ;))

No, I didn't see any.

I did see butt cheeks, though. And six-pack abs. And thighs. And delts. And pecs.

Up really, really close. In live and living color. (Yes, I'd go back — in a heartbeat!!!)

And, I have to say, it was a pretty pleasant "first" experience.

The crowd was small — maybe three or four dozen women, by the end of the night — and the room intimate. The men danced on a slightly elevated stage that was shaped, as one of my coworkers pointed out, like a pair of balls. (For my daughter's sake, I won't clarify what kind of balls ;)) Two circles, really, each with a stripper pole in the center.

A bar ran round the two circles, so we were sitting about a foot away from the stage. And the men.

It's not a place to go if you're seriously shy. The guys are more than willing to jump over the bar to sit in your lap or stand over you while gyrating — in some cases, uninvited.

But I can honestly say I wasn't uncomfortable.

It helped that my girlfriend Ann bought me four Bailey's Irish Creams ...

But I was having fun even before I started drinking. Everyone was laughing at what was clearly a stage show. The actors engaged the audience, yes, but there was no real intimacy. No eye contact. No personal conversation. No groping — by the guys, anyway ;)

And Ann, a veteran of the strip-club scene, was a blast. She'd never been to a male revue, either, despite her numerous to strip clubs with her guy friends. Let's just say that she smoked many a cigarette by evening's end ...

(Yes, watching my coworkers was a blast, as well. However, I don't have their permission to blog about them, so I'm going to stick to Ann and me :))

Our only disappointment was the fact that we had a woman waiting on us. Where was our sweaty, beefy, nearly naked male waiter?

Boys, feel free to apply for the job ;)

No thinking allowed

Here's the part where I get serious, so stop reading if you're not interested.

In all honesty, I probably won't go back anytime soon. Here's the problem with being sober: You observe, and you think.

At least one of those strippers, Ann pointed out, was young enough to be dating my daughter. Ewww! Thank you, Ann, for pointing out that I'm a dirty old woman. (I already knew it, of course ;))

Not that big a deal, the feminist in me argues. And I agree.

But another used his Marine uniform as his costume. Yes, I checked: It was a real Marine uniform, which he wore while in service not so long ago. I started to think about why he was on that stage, and ... well, that's a buzz kill.

Ann reminded me that a lot of strippers choose their jobs, freely and willingly. She knows women (and now men) who enjoy the exhibitionism, the control, the attention ...

But what about those who don't enjoy it? Who see it as a means to an end: a decent paycheck earned with few job skills. Who are driven to it by demons from past — or present — lives?

Exploitation is exploitation, whether the exploited is male or female, the exploiter male or ... me.

That's where the Bailey's helped. I stopped thinking and started giggling about half way through the show. Phew!

But, I have to admit: Just as some strippers like the control they feel on stage, I dislike the lack of control I felt while sloshed.

Certainly, I couldn't have gotten home on my own. I was too drunk to drive, and I spent all my money in singles, so a taxi was out of the question. (Ann called her boyfriend to pick us up, and we could have called my hubby; no worries. But that's not the point ... ) I couldn't even buckle my seat belt once I was in the car, for Pete's sake! (I swear it was broken :))

I used to worry I would misbehave if drunk. I didn't. I was too giggly to be turned on by the show — sorry, guys! — and too enamored by Ann to wander off on my own. And, frankly, I didn't go to the show looking to get ding-dong. I went to hang out with the gals, not cheat on my babies' daddy.

This all makes me wonder about folks who use being drunk as an excuse for bad behavior. I still knew right from wrong... and, even with my inhibitions lowered and temptation waving its ding-dong a foot from my face, I did right.

Sorta right.

Or horribly, horribly wrong, if you ask my oldest ;)