Linear Thoughts and then an Aside or Four

If you know me, or have ever had a conversation with me, you know that I have never had a linear thought in my life.
Probably even not one.
I don't think in terms of logical progression, I think in a roundabout sort of way. I get there, just not the way you would have done it.
This thought process pattern has never been a problem, except in one area of my life. Math. I was a straight A student until the fourth grade. (I read something somewhere that said that kids who show intelligent and proficiency in schoolwork early usually show a sharp decline somewhere after the fourth grade.) I got my first B during the third quarter of that year.
When we started doing long division, I started to get confused. I did fine, obviously, but that's where I began to question my ability to grasp everything. What if there was something I might not understand?
Flash forward to seventh grade. I'm not going to linger there, but not being allowed to go into Algebra devastated me. My core was shaken (that's not even a lie, to this day I'll never forget how I felt about that). I lost confidence in my ability to move numbers around.
High school. Honors math, sure. Algebra went well for me. It wasn't until geometry that I had met my math. A quick refresher: geometry involves the use of theorems, weird exercises in which you are supposed to figure out how somebody got from point A to the end of the problem. Doing this, you find the steps they took to reach some conclusion. I barely held on in that class.
I have no idea how all of this works.
Flash forward once again to junior year of college. Logic. Started out great. I can do syllogisms in my sleep. They're easy, they make sense. Oh wait, what's this? Symbolese? This strange not even language but way of translating English into lines and dots on a chalkboard? Those are supposed to mean something? And then throw in the already impossible theorems and we had a recipe for disaster. I stopped. There was no wrapping my head around it.
Now I'm in Statistics. Oh my god, it all makes sense. There are actual numbers. They have actual formulas. You don't have to figure out how you got a right triangle's angles using a strange process of rules. You just do it.
I rocked the test I took this morning. Absolutely rocked it. The only thing I'm shaky on is percentiles (figuring out what the 90th percentile of some normal distribution is) but I've not done it wrong yet, so hopefully it was just math nerves coming back to haunt me.
I'll let you know when I get it back, hopefully soon, but I've got a great feeling about this.

In other news, happy Ash Wednesday to all celebrating Catholics. (Do other Christians do Ash Wednesday too? Probably, so if you're one of them, you're included too.) It's funny how I always want to apply Catholic tradition to every Christian and I completely forget that not every Christian is a Catholic.
Also, I've completely forgotten the difference between big C catholicism and little c so please forgive me if I've committed a grave capitalization error.

There are some things in live that could only happen to me. Adopting a cat with AIDs and cancer is something that probably has a .308% chance of happening. Well, the little lump I found on cat is possibly cancer. The shelter is going to take the lump out for free (thank god) and then biopsy it and let me know. Here's hoping that it's not cancer, not only because I can't afford to go through cat cancer treatment but also because he's only three and he has AIDs already.
So Friday morning, bright and early, I'm venturing to the low-income spay/neuter clinic on the south side to drop him off. Then I'll come home, go to class, go back down and pick him up. Poor little guy. He's not going to be happy about it. I'm not entirely pleased about the situation either.

He's sleeping with his paws over his eyes right now. I'm still in love. He's a quirky little cat and he fits right in, I think.


Ending thought for my day: Why is it that when something doesn't go your way, you'll go out of your way to get your side of the story out?

I've been silent for more than two months about the breakup. It's been a nasty, drawn-out, disgusting affair. I've said very little, both to him and publicly. I've not responded to the accusations that I'm....well, they're not quite fit for your eyes. I'm sick of it. The truth is subjective. I'm sure that everyone is sick of hearing about it, I for one am.
I've been belittled, harassed, embarrassed and I want it to stop.
I want to move home to Colorado where I don't have to hear endless lists of my inadequacies daily.
I swear, I'm not a bad person.  I just wasn't in love anymore; I hadn't been present in the relationship for nearly six months. I didn't want to get married. I didn't want to be attached to something that wasn't parallel with what I want to be. My dreams are different.

Of the lighter of the accusations, he accused me of being lazy, of not working. You're right.  I'm a student. I'm not working right now (this is one of the rare times since I turned 16 I haven't held a steady job). I do babysit though when I can and care work is legitimate work. I'm trying to get into graduate school.
I have a five year plan. I have a five year back up plan. I want to start saving for retirement. I'm willing to give up the dream of writing to pay my bills.
Someday, I want a family. I want a strong father figure for my children, not one that I can't trust to pull his weight in the family (not even necessarily financially, but in nurturing/care-giving as well).
I want a mature adult relationship, not one that can't withstand a night out or a serious talk about the future. I want adventure, travel, good conversation and shared goals. I want someone who makes me want to be the best person I'm capable of being. I want someone to love me with all of my weird quirks and lame stories. I also need someone who won't judge me for biting my nails or smelling the milk before I drink it even if it's before the expiration date.
Don't think I won't wait for it, either.
I'm smart enough.
I'm strong enough.
I'm devoted enough.
I'm pretty enough.
I'm clever enough.
I'm funny enough.
I'm kind enough.
I'm generous enough.
I'm classy enough.
I'm good enough.
I'm good enough for anyone.
I'm better than that, I deserve better than that.
And goddammit, I will find it.

ha, this post is going to come off as really self-obsessed or strangely desperate somehow, but I needed it. It's been starting to wear me down, emotionally. That felt really good.

A Snapshot of Chicago: March 2009

I feel like I should write a series of things about Chicago. If you'll remember, I wrote a whole piece about the Thorndale stop on the "L" last year for some journalism class and after, decided that perhaps I'd want to do a piece about every single stop on the Red Line, the main train line that runs north and south through the city. 

I found it (Thank god for gmail...I haven't lost all of my college documents) and am posting it below:

One Block Assignment

March 26, 2009 

Thorndale “El” Stop 

Seconds, minutes, hours, the streets lose count. Days, months, weeks, years. There’s a pothole in the middle of the intersection; it hasn’t been touched in a long while. Cars traveling down Broadway, southbound, avoid the pothole nimbly, jumping left or right around it and continue into traffic, slipping away to other places.

Above, the “El” slides to a jerky stop, passengers departing from the silver beast to swarm the street below. The go left and right too, just like the cars avoiding the pothole. They follow a slow line, crossing the street, blending into the foot-traffic already present at this busy intersection. The passengers who are left waiting for the other train become antsy, anxious. They’ve seen the train lights coming, they’ve felt the slight hope that comes with every train signal, every blast of the horn, every warning. They shift their weight, back and forth, on the platform as they sit there, stand there, either under the heat or out in the brisk wind. 

The “El” is the life-giver to this intersection. It provides a stream of people, one constant moving body, yet individuals among them. It is the pumping heart, the engine, everything pulsing and throbbing, feeding the storefronts, the shops and the small diner at the corner. 

From the “El” down the north side of the street: Bunz, a bakery, Castle Liquors, an alley, “The Little Corner Restaurant.”

From the “El” down the south side of the street: a small shopette with Maytag Laundry, Video Town and a Chinese restaurant.

It’s in the diner that you’ll find the regulars. These people chat with the waitress at the U-shaped bar in the center of the first room. They drink their coffee as she fills the bottles of ketchup and A1, smiling as a new set of patrons walk in. They seat themselves. In the middle of a swarming metropolis, a small town feel radiates from inside this small place.

“The Little Corner Restaurant” is a gathering place for a small amount of the people who pass around the corner and down the streets of this place. The waitress who seems to act as the hostess too went to Northwestern, long enough, but not too long ago. She tells me how she came to be here, and I find the story informal and sweet. 

“My friend lived right over there,” she says, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder out the southwest window of the diner. “Over there,” must mean Edgewater, an eclectic neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. “We used to come over here to do our homework.” 

I laugh; we talk about the fact that Northwestern students never had U-Passes and her attention is caught by the man Jim seated closest to the kitchen. He’s smiling and waving his coffee cup, boots hooked over the edges of the stool he sits on. 

The waitress, Anne, not so young anymore, a mother, a grandmother, a quick-witted lady, refills our drinks. She tells the boys seated around me not to cause me any trouble, because she has three boys herself. She beams as she tells us that she is expecting another grandchild sometime in April.

I smile and I’m excited for her. It’s one of those times when genuine emotions spill from somewhere you weren’t sure you were hoarding them. She turns away, slender wrinkled hands picking up an empty place on their way away. 

After breakfast, I pay at the cash register. It’s a large metal instrument, a relic from some other time. There are no digital number gracing it’s front, nothing except an odd clang as the waitress, sometimes hostess, punches in the total of my bill. It’s probably sat on that counter for more than 50 years, I ask, and she doesn’t even know.

“A long time,” is her only answer, followed by a smile. Her medium brown hair hardly moves as she hands me my change and tells me to have a nice day. 

I open the doors and step out into the bright light of the day. I walk across the street, cutting through the traffic waiting at the red light. They wait to go, push past the white bars of crosswalks and burst free into the world. 

I dodge an oncoming taxi, its horn blaring at me, shoving my still full self AWKinto a quick sprint across the two lanes. Safely on the sidewalk, I move to the right of the intersection, past a parking lot filled with cars. They sit there, patiently, waiting for their owners to return. 

Across an alley, a small strip mall sits, crumbling under the “El.” The small parking lot is littered with taxis, empty and waiting for a fare. “Video Town” is a business leftover from the 90’s when VHS tapes ruled the face of media. There are rows of crudely constructed shelves containing empty boxes. An indifferent teen mans the counter at the back, talking on his cell phone.

“We don’t have this one,” seems to be the most oft uttered phrase. He types neon words into a computer, spitting out neon numbers. It is a rudimentary database. Clientele from the Laundromat next door filter through, wandering aimlessly. I ask one of the men what he hopes to find, and he answers, “Shit, anything good.”

VHS tapes are still for sale, three rows, long shelves, tall enough to touch the ceiling. They sell for two dollars, says a sign crookedly taped to one of the shelves. Old titles, new titles, random titles fill the shelves and line the walls. 

A college-aged kid, David J., sits looking at the horror section. In his hands, he clutches a short stack of VHS tapes. I approach. “Hey!” he says. “See anything good?”

I ask him about the store. 

“I come here all the time, man,” he starts. “I’ve got quite the collection going at home. They’re so cheap! I make a special trip to come here.”

I ask him how he knows about this place.

“I live over there,” he says, doing the same point that the waitress at the breakfast place had done. “I get off the El every day and see it, so I decided, why not stop in, have a look around. I come every week, more often when I have money.”  

The Laundromat seems to be a hub of activity. A middle-aged Asian man stands guard over his space. He stands by the window, watching. College students, families and the like gather there to do the necessary laundry for their lives. The last wash is at 8, doors close at 10. 

The liquor store across the street is filling up. During the day, beer suppliers can be seen loading their wares. They sit stacked on the sidewalk. Passerby stare at them, perhaps longingly, perhaps in disgust. They walk by, looking back. I stand in the alley adjacent, watching. 

There is a bakery with a red awning. No one goes in or out and I begin to wonder who would go in. It seems to sit silent and untouched. “Bunz” advertises cookies and other delightful backed goods. I’m not tempted. It seems no one is. 

Pulses of people pour from the doors of the “El.” That’s what this corner is, a station full of hope for trains. People come and go, spend time killing time to see the train slide in on those infinite metal rails. Homeless men beg for spare change as a businessman picks up a newspaper and begins to read. It’s the way things are here, ever moving, ever changing, every day is another commute, another march up an avenue and down a street.

The Thorndale “El” stop is a colorful, commuter corner filled a vast amount of diverse people, but it is never stagnant. The block is shaped by its constant motion, its constant influx of people. At night, groups of kids will loiter here, cops will drive by slowly, lights on bright, and people will walk a little faster out of the doors of the station. The next day, the sun will dawn and the hours will tick by, the people will flow through and all will be the same. Ebb and flow, this “El” stop is nearly as predictable as the tide: people pouring in by morning, pouring out by night. Ebb and flow.  

Cat Update: February

Cat pictures. 

Valentine's Day

Babysat tonight. Seeing the little boys for the first time in almost two months was the best thing. Before I even got off the elevator, I could hear their voices and when the doors opened, they yelled my name and ran at me. Even the littlest one, who lingered a little behind their hugs, had the biggest smile on his face. I asked him for a hug and he wrapped his arms around me as I picked him up. It was the sweetest baby hug I've had in a long time.
He led me around their house, holding my hand, showing me all of his new toys. The other two had gone to DisneyWorld and were both talking about everything about it at the same time. We played Monorail tonight.
Of course, the night was not without its bumps. Thanks to us watching the Olympics (TV is usually a no-go in the house but they were curious about the Olympics and I was watching the mess around me grow so TV became a yes-go), we didn't even start reading stories until after bedtime.
Ah, but I'm so happy to have seen them.

I was mildly ill today after spending last night out with Anna. We ended up going to Wrigleyville and going to a few bars there. We swear we saw one of the guys from the Sonic commercials at the bar that we most often go to, but weren't in a particularly chasing mood. We went dancing, and ended up meeting some strange people. (Always, always have strange encounters). I wore these teal tights and my black and white Vans and a dress that I borrowed from Emily and I looked adorable. Relaxed. I danced, did some bar flirting (such a stress reliever, I think) with a cute guy who liked my shoes/tights combo but was wearing a really lame preppy scarf (I guess a conversation point, right?) and then ended up safely home. (I spent an extra ten bucks and took a cab from Anna's house to my house, not wanting to walk home at 3am inebriated. Best decision ever, obviously.)

Cat and I curled up on the couch today and watched the Olympics. We both slept. I am anxiously awaiting a call from the vet. I got home from out first vet visit on Friday only to find a little hard lump about the size of a pea on one of his shoulder blades. So I hauled a very unhappy cat back to the vet on Saturday to see about. He didn't want to go into his carrier at all Saturday morning. I think he still thinks I'm going to take him back. I finally smushed him in (smushed is the only accurate verb to use in this scenario) and carried him the five blocks.
They had to stab his little back a few times while I held him. It broke my heart. His little eyes looked up at me and I felt horrible, but glad that I was getting it checked out. They said that cysts in cats are odd and that they'll call me if they could get a read off the cells they took. I put him back in his carrier and he didn't fight; he just laid down and turned away.
The visit was free. Since it's within 14 days of me getting him, I have $500 worth of free medical care (I'm sure that there are some things not covered, but $500 is still pretty lucky) and I'm hoping this whole cyst ordeal is over quickly and cheaply.
We got home and he ran and hid for a few hours. I know it's good parenting, but I felt horrible.
I feel like we've bonded extremely well in the last few days.

Ugh. Valentine's Day is lame. I'll get to that later.
An exchange from this evening:
Boys: "We want to call Hunter!"
Me: "We can't do that. I don't talk to him very much anymore."
Boys: "Why not?"
Me:  "We don't go on dates anymore."
Little Hunter: "I'll go on dates with you."

awww......