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Both Sides of the Fence

A Tosa resident since 1991, Christine walks the dog, cooks but avoids housework, writes and reads, and enjoys the company of friends and strangers. Her job takes her around the state, learning about people's health. A Quaker (no, they don't wear blue hats or sell oatmeal or motor oil), she has been known to stand on both sides of the political and philosophic fence at the same time, which is very uncomfortable when you think about it. She writes about pretty much whatever stops in to visit her busy mind at the moment. One reader described her as "incredibly opinionated but not judgmental." That sounds like a good thing to strive for!

Why can't the chicken cross the road on a bike?

Oak Leaf Trail, Complete Streets, Wauwatosa, LaCrosse, Mayfair Road, Bluemound Road

In the past, it was just, ‘We're going to rebuild this road.' Now we're trying to pull in the ideas of, while we're doing this, can we lessen the stormwater impact? Can we improve bicycle, pedestrian, physically disabled accommodations? LaCrosse city planner Larry Kirsch

If the road we are talking about is Mayfair Road, and especially its juncture with Bluemound, the chicken can't cross the road because the chicken is too smart to take his life into his hands.

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How not to succeed in business (or governance, love, or just about anything)

Pragmatism, Serb Hall, Unions, fish fries, Milwaukee

Last night I had the pleasure of being kicked out of a bar for the first time. I guess at 62, it’s about time. But then, I’ve never much enjoyed bars or confrontation. It’s no surprise it took this long.

The bar in question was Serb Hall’s, one of the biggest bars around. I’d gone to meet a friend for a fish fry. If you’re not a local reader, fish fries are a pragmatic Milwaukee sacrament started during Prohibition, when all the bars needed to find new ways to make money. The tradition is honored to this day, only with large quantities of beer and other adult beverages.

(Serb Hall is another Milwaukee institution, the site of weddings and union gatherings, presidential visits, and more. A vast building, it also holds a bowling alley and promises “extraordinary hospitality.”)

I didn’t know at the time that this wasn’t any random gathering. Most of the others in the group of ten, people I didn’t know, were union supporters and activists, and they were there to show support for the handful of union staff left in the organization. The idea was to go, ask to be seated at the server’s tables, enjoy dinner, and leave a generous tip. You can read the backstory here.

But it was not to be. The host announced that we couldn’t be seated, as the waitress already had a table of 15 (people I later learned were doing the same thing we were, supporting union employees). That made sense to me, although my daughter, a waitress, informs me that she’d be delighted to be given two big parties. We were offered other waitstaff’s tables in the largely empty room but declined.

At which point the bartender, also a union employee, came up with a quick-minded pragmatic solution. “If you eat at the bar, I can write your tickets. You’d have to do the buffet: I can’t serve tables while bartending.” So we all said yes--good idea, paid our money, and started heading toward the buffet.

One or two of us actually made it. The food looked lackluster and smelled worse, but that seemed beside the point.

The rest of us were stopped before we made it to the dining room. The manager, sitting bulldoggedly at the bar between us and the buffet line, started yelling at the bartender and the one union waitress serving in the adjacent room, who, although we'd requested her, had just been "cut" (sent home early for lack of work in restaurant parlance).

“Come here when I call your name! Do you want me to write you up?!” the manager growled.

He told us it was against policy to serve food at the bar. Which seemed odd, one of the group mentioned, as the last time she was there she was told the only place she could order food was at the bar.

Heated discussion but no fisticuffs ensued. “Customers don’t tell us how to do our business,” the manager kept saying.

I was an interested but not involved party to the flurry of tweeting, recording, and filming going on throughout this encounter. Meanwhile, customers in the dining room watched or tried to avoid watching, looking miserable and uncomfortable.

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Babies, buildings, and government size: Confused in the pursuit of happiness

Escheweiler Buildings, Wauwatosa Common Council, Happiness, Forest Exploration Center

The other day my daughter, her dear friend, and the dear friend’s adorable baby, my pretend grandbaby, were in the kitchen talking and laughing. Buddha Baby grew restless so I handed him a whisk and metal bowl. Happy beyond expectation, he played for a very long time. No colorful expensive plastic products were involved, and I thought about all the time, energy, and money I had spent as a young mother obtaining stuff I believed would make my babies smarter and happier.

 Do you know what makes you happy? Chances are you think you do, but you don’t. The same is true of most of us, according to a growing body of fascinating research that says what we think we know about our own happiness is usually wrong. Researchers from the University of Chicago Center for Decision Research say we get stuck because we exaggerate the good features of what we prefer (or are being sold) and exaggerate the bad features of what we don’t prefer (or have already decided not to buy). We remember the worst of an event disproportionately. And we rely on beliefs that just aren’t true. You can read more about it  here: 

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