The weather has been so incredibly fabulous this weekend, that I've hardly been able to tolerate a computer. I�m now feeling like a mogul sitting on my bed looking out into tree leaves and listening to the birds sing and the wind blow while I'm typing away on two laptops. I feel like a mogul. But without the suit and slavish secretary. Oh, but wait! The fab husband just brought me coffee! I still have to do my own typing, but I�m telling you, this work situation could be a lot worse.

The second computer, my husband's, is for burning CDs for tomorrow�s lecture, as I still haven�t been able to part with my computer to get the drive repaired. I will give myself an enforced post-exam (and grading) vacation and ship it back to Apple at last. Meanwhile, I still have to polish off a lecture on the Second Viennese school in which I will attempt to have the class write its own 12-tone piece without panicking. And then we�ll be talking about the aesthetics of it all.

Strangely, their textbook tackles the Second Viennese school with one work from each of its chief composers (Schoenberg, Berg, Webern), only one of which uses a 12-tone approach. It does, however, give me ample ammunition for making the case that the 12-tone method, despite its formidable rules still allows the personality of the composer to come shining through � Webern�s 12-tone pieces sound a lot more like Webern�s non-twelve tone pieces than they do like Schoenberg or Berg�s 12-tone works.

But enough about Hooked on Dodecaphonics. Friday night my husband and I did in fact leave the house sans child! (Even more amazing is the fact that we will do so again next weekend, to attend the wedding of friends and possibly hit the Zebra Lounge, one of my favorite Chicago bars. I�m a sucker for piano bars, as rs536 knows all too well). We went to a mediocre Mexican/Caribbean place with terrible service.

Actually, it probably comes in third in the bad service category. The first prize award goes to a now defunct Chicago Loop Thai restaurant where the waitress seated us, forgot to bring us menus until we'd been there for 40 minutes, at which point we started to leave. She ran over to us and started complaining that we were leaving and then, because we�d been taking up her table without eating (seeing as no one had given us menus or offered to take our order), berated us to hurry up and order while she stood there holding the menus. She spilled food on us and not only failed to apologize, but blamed us for it. And amazingly she was so surprised that we didn�t leave her a proper tip that she chased after us down the shrieking after we had left the restaurant.*

The second worst service award goes to the famed Charlie Trotter�s. In fairness to them, we went there on an incredibly hot day when half the city had no power because of a substation explosion. Things began fine and we were having an enjoyable meal, despite the fact that the dining room was rather warm. In fact, the service was amazing for the first half of the meal. But then the waiter disappeared. At Charlie Trotter�s they serve numerous small courses and everybody has more or less the same thing (there are vegetarian and non-vegetarian versions). Somewhere before the penultimate course, the waiter clearly forgot about us. For over an hour. And when he returned, he skipped a course and jumped straight to dessert without any explanation (we didn�t notice the missing course until we got home with our souvenir menu, which they gave us after the meal was over). Again, no apology. And although we weren�t desperately in need of another course, when you're paying as much as Charlie Trotter charges, you�d like to get all you�ve got coming to you.

On Friday, the waitress disappeared completely after she took our order. She didn�t come back until she brought the check (someone else delivered our meals) and then she literally threw it at us, almost knocking over a glass of red wine in the process (although I believe that was a misguided attempt to appear friendly and casual rather a hostile gesture). She never brought our drinks and we had to flag down the maitre d' (who I think, in this case, was the owner) to get something to wash down our meal. But we had a good time anyway. After dinner we drove around for a while in search of nightlife in the northwest suburbs � alas, there doesn�t appear to be any if you are between the ages of 18 and 60. We ended up at a roadhouse that we'd driven by a few times. It was in an old building with a tin ceiling with no-nonsense wooden benches and tables inside. Everything was painted dark brown and assorted ancient beer advertising (like the Budweiser Clydesdales plodding endlessly inside a clear plastic cylinder while a bucolic background turned behind them) adorned the walls. We drank beer, chatted with the friendly bartender, and listened to Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett on the jukebox and eventually wandered back to our car and drove home with the feeling of a mission accomplished, at least in part.

The rest of the weekend was spent in assorted gardening and academic pursuits and helping AJ with his bike. He made his first solo trip down a hill and while he started out terrified, he ended up loving it. Still, it was a nail-biter, at least for me! And now, I must run through my plan for tomorrow to see if it still makes sense.

*I would like to point out that this is the only time in my life that I have ever left less than 15% for a tip. Waiting tables is a very hard job (I know � I used to do it) and the whole tipping system can be very unfair. I know I've had plenty of bad work days and no one ever docked my pay for it so I don�t feel that I should effectively do the same for someone else. However, when I am expected to pay for the privilege of being insulted when it was absolutely unprovoked, well, that's where I draw the line. But for the most part, waitstaff has a hard life. If you don't believe me or if you want to know what really happens to rude patrons and bad tippers, check out this site.

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