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Sweet Home Chicago

I hate the Cha Cha Slide as much as I hate the Electric Slide. Ironically, I can do both with my eyes closed, tongue waggin', throwin' the improvisational extra dips and gyrations every step of the way. But as a rule of thumb I hate group dances other than stepping (not Chicago stepping) and nowadays I hate stepping too if it isn't Black frat or sorority related (even though us Black "Greek" people borrowed stepping from Africa). We all have our idiosyncratic hypocrisies. This is only one of mine.

Other than reuniting with my daughter and reconnecting with my folks, I didn't do much during my time in Chi-Town. The days were lazy, just as I had hoped. During the day, I cut grass and landscaped the property as if I were a day laborer. I ate as the sun set each day and curled up with absolutely nothing, barely able to stay up past ten once I got comfortable being home.

Crime is up in Chicago, but the hectic life I holler about during my daily New York grind is all but non-existent there or any other place I've been that isn't New York. In Chicago my baby was happy (not that she ever isn't), spry and free to roam and run in a way I haven't been able to offer her since she was born.

The grass is always greener from the outside looking in, but the whole experience left me seriously wondering if I should abandon New York and all my hollerin' for a less congested, outrageously-priced, and distracting life elsewhere.

Where is the question.

Making a move will also require the teamwork of my wife. We will need to get on the same page financially.

This will require some real strong voodoo. The kind one would use to make my long haired dachshund to sprout wings and fly away.

Up next: Talkin' money with your woman (or at least trying to).

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