Blues, among other things

I babysat the three little boys for the last time last night.
Blaise is two now, and he can annunciate my name. Hunter and Luke will be five in September, so we talked about me leaving and they told me that maybe they'd go on vacation while I was gone too, but wanted to know if I'd be back for their birthday. When I told them I'd be gone, Hunter looked at me and said, "Maybe you can come over the day before."
We had a good night. Two of them weren't feeling well, so we made juice popsicles and watched too much Thomas the Tank Engine. I choked back tears while we were reading stories, and then again when I put Blaise to bed. I've always had a special bond with him; he's such a happy baby.
Then, things got bad. I put Luke to bed in the boys' room and he wanted me to sing to him, so I asked him what he wanted. "A song about you," he said, so I sang something. "Actually," he said after I'd badly sung a short, made-up song, "tell me a story about you." So we talked about them, and Carlos, and life.
I told him I loved him and tucked him in and then went to find Hunter, who was in the other room. He wanted to sing to me, he said. He hummed me a song and then asked me what my favorite part was. "The middle," I answered.
"It's Tinkerbell's birthday song," he said. "Now you sing me one."
I hummed Blackbird.
And then I cried.
They gave me a beautiful card and each of the boys gave me a piece of paper they'd decorated.
It's been a wild two years, but as I told her when I left, I'm wildly more prepared for motherhood. I remember when I had just started with them and I'd find myself overwhelmed at times. Now, I can weather tantrums calmly without being stressed at all. Last night, there were those tired tears that only sleep can solve, a problem so simple it wasn't, and Luke telling me he had to have popsicles by midnight. The only problem? They weren't frozen yet.
I looked at him and I said, "What do you think will happen if you don't have one before midnight instead of waiting until tomorrow?"
He thought about it.
"Nothing too bad, right?" I said. "Now, you may have banana or applesauce."
The tears continued, but I continued doing what I had been doing and I didn't bat an eye. Later it was applesauce that solved the problem.

After I got home last night, I called my friend Patrick (who met Maddie a few months ago on his first night in Chicago) and told him I wanted to go out. Then I called my new Irish friend (how funny is it that we majored in the same thing? However, he also has a Master's degree and I do not) and asked him what he was doing. He was at a blues place. So Patrick and I went. The place has two stages, and the musicians switch back and forth between the two all night. One of their group had talked to the musicians after the first set, and they invited him up to play with them. The club was open until 3:30, so we stayed there as long as we could. (I'd only gotten there around one.)
I ended up home with McDonald's breakfast around six thirty, and I managed to find what I believe is legal parking (it's street sweeping day, but there weren't any signs) so all is well. That group of guys is hilarious. They're seven guys here for the summer, excited to meet American girls, but so far have only met Irish ones (and me, but I don't think I count. They keep asking me if I have girl friends. I tell them I'm working on it). I have thoroughly enjoyed the couple of weeks I've had with them and am going to be sad to miss their summer here.

Mike gets in tonight! I'm not sure what we're going to do, I have a huge final tomorrow, and still think I'm going to write a six page paper, but haven't decided yet, so it might be a laid back night in.
I'm miserably unprepared for this move and it's starting to make me nervous. I know that I don't have much to do in Colorado, but Dad is leaving just before I get to his house and the idea of being somewhere unfamiliar at a high-stress time with Carlos and other cats is stressing me out. I'm employed, though! I start at Subway next week. I'm about to the best qualified "sandwich artist" that ever lived.
But South African preparations must begin.
Ah, summer. Hopefully Denver is ready for me.

Moving to Denver: 2010: Cat Update

I apologize for that last post.
My life list should actually look more like this:

To Do:
Stop being such a melodramatic bore.


Instead of doing anything on either of those lists, I spoke with Mom on the phone for well over an hour, referenced Virginia Woolf more than I should have, and then promptly overworked myself about cat nail clippers. You know, that sort of afternoon.
Carlos' nail clippers are missing. And his claws grow faster than baby's fingernails. So perhaps my Sunday drive today should be to PetSmart (Is it PetsMart? Or PetSmart? either way, there) to get some new ones that won't shred his nails.
That way I can prove to myself and him that I'm not a bad mother.

The ankle is another issue entirely. I played ultimate frisbee and then kickball yesterday, neither of which are activities conducive to healing. I now have a solid mass just above my ankle bone. I'll keep you updated for developments in that department.
However, I love running around. I also love it when neighborhood moms say that 22 year olds can still have popsicle breaks. Perfect evening.

Firetruck on my street and others fast approaching. Hopefully it's the second great Chicago fire and I can finally capitalize on my renter's insurance policy.
(Cute joke, I promise. I'm pretending that I'm not leaving and have therefore not begun packing. It's that sort of week as well. It might be easier if half of my possessions were charred. It would certainly make packing easier.)

The short-lived audio player will return, just after I've made some adjustments. That one was cumbersome and ugly, and if it's one thing that I prefer my blog not to be, it's that. (Take your pick, cumbersome or ugly.)

I'm going to hit up the PetSMart (there, end of discussion) downtown and make sure that I can get Carlos  what he needs. Maybe he'll want to come with? We're trying to practice car driving. (Redundant, I know.) He's not been bad at it; the only thing he HATES is getting in. And with those claws? He'd be a free cat in no time.

....
(Some time later)

I've returned...I have a new dog carrier for Carlos (since he's too big to fit comfortably in the cat ones) that should be spacious enough for the road trip. (I'll hopefully be able to fit a small litter box and some food/water in there as well....fingers crossed!) I didn't want to go too big, he doesn't need a cat palace. But he also got a new collar (it's adorable - white with dark brown flowers along it) to replace the one that was lost when he had his surgery. I'm not going to bother paying to make a tag or anything, he's microchipped and easily recognizable by all of his physical injuries.
Apparently, his teeth are out of order too. The front fangs are behind other fang-like teeth (I'd like to say incisors, but I'm most likely wrong. Fangs are incisors, right?) but should be in front of them. Thankfully, it doesn't seem to bother him although it might explain why he eats like a hyena.

Today was beautiful: hot and sunny, the Pride parade was today. I didn't go, instead I chose to decompress (and rest that ankle) and lay around watching the NCIS marathon on USA.
Perfect day.

I'm off to my friend Harrison's for our last movie night tonight.

The countdown has begun.
I'm at home today, not doing much of anything.
Lots to do: cleaning, obviously, a 6 page paper due Wednesday, packing, etc.

Tomorrow: A test at 2, then work from 5 until midnight.
Tuesday: Apparently, Mike flies in.
Wednesday: Final
Thursday: work
Friday: Denver.

Not much to write, not in the mood to write about much of anything.

Be at peace tonight.

Truth, Lies and the In-Between

Is there a disparity between who you are and who you present yourself as?
I've been wondering that a lot lately.
It's interesting. I've recently become close with a girl whom I was introduced to by a mutual friend. We share the same group of friends, for the most part. People often ask her why she's friends with me. She's confused by that question.
I'm confused as well.
And it's been making me wonder what the perception of me is in the social circles that I run in.
Of course, I try to follow the golden rules: acting to others as I'd like to be treated, trying not to do a terrible amount of gossip, kindness, respect, loyalty, etc.
But that's where things get gray.
Everyone thinks that what they're doing is correct.
Of course, I was watching reality television when I came to that conclusion. The Real Housewives series is a showcase of points of view. Since you see the drama unfold and then hear interviews that reflect the opinions of the participants, you get a glimpse of the ways that conflict operates. Of course, there's great truth in the idea that there are always three sides to the truth: yours, theirs, and the real truth. And I've come to the conclusion that no one knows the real truth about anything. Watching the housewives talk about their dramas, I find my sympathies rarely change but that sometimes, I'm not even sure who I want to sympathize with. Instead, I watch their impending arguments with fascination. Each is convinced that her opinion is correct.
One was lauding the fact that her son was in law school, yet I read in a law blog yesterday that he'd been kicked out for being unable to pass. Her reaction? To criticize the school for being unable to handle his learning disabilities. The blog's response? "And given that the practice of law involves lots of learning, maybe it’s best that those with JDs not have LDs." I can see both sides of that argument. Who can't? There are things I'd like to do with my life, but won't because I know I lack the skill set. Doing crime scene investigation and evidence-analysis? My dream job. But I can't because I lack the mathematical prowess.   

I'd like to merge the truths that I feel about myself with the truths that people feel about me. I know that everyone feels differently about everyone based on their situational relevance and proximity, but I would hope that someday I may merge all thoughts about me as a person in order to create a singular image of a composed, classy (but still fun), irreverent, intelligent, feisty woman. However, if anything, this has served as a wake up call to me that I need to reach out to the people around me and work on revealing my inner self rather than working on projecting something that may be an inaccurate reflection of myself.

My blog the other day received some criticism that I welcomed, although I was unsure as to how it fit into the scheme of the thought process. I had been intending for that particular post to be a contrite look at a past situation by analyzing and comparing it to a more recent situation. I wanted to show personal growth and make amends, even though those amends won't be heard by those who need to hear them.
However, rather than let the commentary do anything other than annoy me, I will say one thing: when you're going to call someone stupid on the internet, please make sure you do so after correcting your grammatical errors. It increases the power of your argument tenfold.

Think about whether or not your actions support the outward image that you wish to present. Obviously, that image might be different based on different situations, but if the end goal is respect, then hopefully even your less savory experiences (such as Friday nights out) might reflect your ability to support friends.
Today I was a better listener. That's been a big goal for me. Listening is really hard for me, because I'm always brimming with information that I want to share. Today, I was quiet and I supported my friend while she talked.
See? Working on it.

in between

It's 3:17pm.
I've done nothing today except reheat leftovers and look for information about the oil leak in Egypt.
It's hot in the apartment.
Cat is laying on the floor in front of the fan.
The ankle thing has put a cramp in my style, but today I'm going to go for a walk. And take pictures of the things in my neighborhood that mean something to me. And I'm going to buy cherries from the Devon Market and I'm going to have a wonderful evening.
It's going to be the perfect by yourself sort of day, the kind where you don't clean and you don't care.

I'm afraid to start packing because I'm not sure how it's going to go. Mom wants Mike to fly out and then join me for the drive back. I'd be alright with that.

"If I could change one thing about tomorrow..."

Preparing to leave Chicago is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. While I'm about to embark on one of the greatest adventures of my life, I'm also leaving behind four years of friendships and experiences.
As I do during most great times of change and the turmoil that comes with that, I've spent a lot of time lately reflecting. This week, it's on my own actions and the actions of the people around me.
I was reading an article in The New York Times today that discussed the problem of not knowing what you cannot know. (I've been wondering a lot about this specific thing lately, so it was pleasant to find an article on it. It made me realize that perhaps my thought trajectories have a purpose or at the very least, some semblance of normality. Linked here.) I often wonder how much of my life has been spent fumbling around simply because I did not know that there were alternate opportunities. This has lately made me wonder if I might have flourished in marketing or business during my undergraduate career, where I spent four years floundering in confusion as to my future. I wonder now how much floundering I've yet to do, simply because I'm unaware.
However, at the moment, I'm resigned to my fate because I've got a plan that will take me to at least December. During that time, I do believe there will be a lot of soul-searching and a lot of re-designation of life's particulars. I am going to take August to revel in myself, do some volunteering, and hopefully do some meager babysitting in an attempt to get some petty cash. And after that, I'll come back in debt, homeless and jobless, but at least I'll have had adventure and experience and a slightly thicker resume and I'll be lacking all of the student loans that my peers have accrued throughout their collegiate experience.
I'm looking at the great Cape Town adventure as a semester abroad, something that nobody should be deprived of and something that will be life changing no matter what happens. (It's also costing what the five week Rome study program would have cost, so for that, I'm wildly grateful. Rather than spend five weeks, I get to spend eight-plus and do something so much more worthwhile [hopefully].)

I've digressed, of course, but you knew that I would.

You'll remember our friend Ian, unless of course you don't. He was Hunter's roommate during their junior and senior years of college. He had two suicide attempts during the time that I knew him, once while they lived on the South Side, the night that Emily and I left to drive back to St. Louis the summer of 2008 and then once again January 31st, 2009. Neither of them were particularly successful: once, he took some Adderall and then immediately told a bus driver what he'd done and the second time, he disappeared from a party to send veiled text messages and to wander the city by night. We were frightened both times, but the second was the last straw.
I'll leave out things that happened in the interim, things that I would prefer to forget myself, but I'll say that it wasn't as though he was without any fault in the ultimate outcome.
My last words to him were, "I love you," at five o'clock the next morning, when he came back to the apartment on Magnolia to collect his things. He left through the back door, down those gray steps. There had been tears and shouting that night, anger and hurt feelings shared by us all.
And he was gone.
We went out to breakfast that morning. Me, Emily, Hunter, Coupe and Kyle. We gave thanks for our strong friendships, for the love that we shared together.  After that, we didn't hear from Ian and we made no attempt to contact him either. He settled things with Kyle and Hunter and Coupe, figuring out the bills, etc. We made cruel jokes, said hurtful things, and shut him out. The butt of all the jokes was Ian. At the time, it seemed like the sensible thing to do: band together and knit back together our hurt feelings.

Time passed.

I often wonder what he's doing with his life. I don't really care to know, as some of the things that happened between us don't deserve an answer, but now I wonder if we should have handled it differently.

I never foresaw the outcome of the breakup before I did it. I sometimes wonder if I should have stayed in the relationship just to avoid the aftermath, but then I realize that there was no option to do that. The reaction to the breakup confirmed everything I was thinking and solidified the fact that what I had done was right. (The manner of the final break up may not have been the most tactful, of course, but there was a complicating situation that had arisen in the meantime that necessitated an immediate and complete break up.)
After, I realized firsthand what the group mentality can do. I've lost more friends than I can count simply because of that group ideal of banding together. Because I'd hurt him, that I'd disrupted the flow of normalcy, I was no longer welcome. There were incidents, of course, and there was the final end. People who I counted among my confidants, among my very best friends, no longer speak to me. They pretend that I've committed some unspeakable act against them, that I'm despicable. They joined in calling me disgusting names behind my back, spreading lies and betraying confidences.
Running into mutual friends who've "de-friended" me on Facebook is always a sick pleasure for me. I love being polite and nice, and I love to see their reactions. I'm not the evil person I've been made out to be. But to them, I am. I hurt one of their own and have suffered the consequences. And while I'm not particularly hurt by it as I was never truly one of their company, I am more hurt than I thought I would be.
The immaturity and lack of respect shown by these individuals toward me makes me think about how I acted when I was a part of that group. And it makes me think about the Ian situation.
What could we have done differently?
What should we have done differently?
Were our actions correct?
Probably not, but at the time, we were unaware of different avenues of expression of our grief and dismay.
I feel badly, and while I'm not sure exactly what I would have done differently, I do know that we handled the situation immaturely and disrespectfully. Perhaps we were right to cut him out of our lives based on the stresses we were facing as a direct result of his actions, but we were not in any way correct to say some of the things that we did. We were in no way right to make the generalizations that we made.
And so, I am apologizing. None of us were right. Not you, not me, not us, not them. But we could have acted differently. And we should have.

Next time I'm faced with a situation that involves the termination of a friendship or some other severe conflict, hopefully I will be able to step back and take a look at the situation before I act in a way that I may someday regret. At the very least, that might present a positive outcome from an otherwise miserable situation.

Write. June 2010.

Because I'm too tired to try to recount my weekend, and because I'm too stressed out to want to relive it right now, fiction:

“I’m sorry,” she whispered; then she was gone.

            He watched her go, staring at her cotton-clad back as she disappeared down the cheaply carpeted stairs. As soon as her footsteps were fading into the dark hall, he shut the door, slowly, hoping that he’d have a chance to throw it open in an excited welcome.

            But he didn’t.

            The reluctant click of the deadbolt cemented the end of her sound, and he went to the window to watch her pass through the gate. He stood near the window tentatively, hoping she wouldn’t glance up to see him watching her.

            She did.

            “Shit!” he said, before remembering that it was summer, and all of his windows were open. “Shit,” he said again.

            She stared, her eyes widening in faint surprise. She’d not been expecting him to watch her exit, but then again, nothing about tonight had gone as she’d expected. Look away, she thought. Look away. But she found that she couldn’t.

            Just his head now was visible in the lit window; he’d tucked his body back behind the wall.

            “Shit,” she said, disgusted, echoing his word choice but not nearly his sentiment. Finally tearing her eyes from his, she walked quickly in the direction of the train. She had no intention of taking the train, not tonight. As soon as she was sure that she was out of his line of sight, which was quite farther than she needed to worry about, she broke into a sprint. She’d done quite a bit of preparation in anticipation of their date tonight, and worn clothes that were not conducive to running.

            By the time she hit a street she knew she’d be able to catch a cab on, she was breathless. Her chest heaving and her heart racing, she threw her hand out blindly.  And she waited.

            As she was throwing her arm into traffic, he was finally pulling away from the window. He’d been hoping she’d come back to claim the lipstick she’d dropped. He didn’t realize that she’d left a trail of the contents of her purse behind her on her mad dash away. He wasn’t aware of the fact that she wouldn’t care.

            She wasn’t yet aware of the fact that fate would throw them together again. 

Friday house cleaning

Bruise watch: Day 7: Purples, yellows, hints of green. It's not so much the bruise that's worrying me at the moment but it's the fact that I'm still in pain when I walk on it. But there's no way I'm about to go to the Wellness Center for it, so it's going to have to wait until I get back to Colorado.

The days are passing quickly. I spent a good portion of yesterday cleaning. It's a slow process and I don't feel as though I accomplished a lot. I've been lounging today; I think I'm still trying to catch up from the weekend and the settling in of that horrid sleep schedule. But there will be cleaning today and then there will be game night with some friends. 

We have an open house tomorrow morning, so Carlos and I are going for a drive. (I will have to hide his litter box somewhere...) I don't want anyone to know I have a cat this late in the game, although I'm sure that he's been spotted hanging out in the windows. 

The people below us on levels one and two have moved out. It's weird; I always used to talk to the family on the first floor. The dad was always going to work at weird hours and once he almost gave me a bike when mine had a flat tire. The mom was always trying to wrangle the two kids. One once told me to "have fun at college." It was adorable. 

I've been cancelled on three times for babysitting this week. Once from a woman whose child had developed hand, foot and mouth or something for Wednesday day. And then I filled Wednesday night, but her book club was cancelled and so was I. And my regular Thursday afternoon cancelled as well. It's always nice to not have to work, of course, but at the same time, I've been looking forward to that income. It's going to be a really rough couple of months financially and any extra cash helps. 

(I'm going to put out a nannying post once I get back to Denver....hopefully someone will pick me up for six weeks post or even some random evenings.)

I still hate Kobe Bryant. I don't want him to be compared to Michael Jordan; it's frustrating. He's not a good human being. I have this conversation at least ten times a year, and I think this year I'm going to learn all of his stats so I can throw down with people and fight them about his supposed greatness.

The weather in Chicago is insane right now. It was hot today, then it turned cloudy, and now the sky has opened up as is unleashing torrents of rain on the city. Carlos hates thunderstorms. At the first sign of distant thunder, he was under the couch. As the storm grew closer, I looked down to see how he wa doing. He was gone.
I always know where to find him when I can't see him in one of his normal haunts.
I crawled down and looked under my bed. There in the darkness, next to boxes from my bed frame and assorted items, I saw two yellow eyes. He doesn't come out once he's under there. He'll sit there until the storm has passed. I love him.
I met someone else's cat last night, and I will say that it is nothing like mine. It was small and skinny and very cat-like. It seemed fragile and dumb. I was so happy to get home to see Carlos, who is thick and smart and has intelligent eyes and a pensive gaze.
We're going in for vaccinations on Thursday. (At my vet they're half-priced on Thursday and I have a $10 coupon.) He's going to be upset. He hates that. 

Wade Williams

I met Wade Williams at Dairy Queen. It was many years ago. We became friends after I called the number he wrote on a receipt.  His friends had dared him to do it. And so he had.
We've been friends for years. I haven't seen him since high school.
Wow, has it really been that long? We talk here and there.
We are the two most opposite people on the planet. He went to Colorado Christian University. Granted I did go a Catholic high school and a Catholic college, but we are religious people on very different planes. I'm spiritual (and consider myself to be in that typical post-adolescent transient philosophical stage) and he is religious. Deeply so. In ways I'll never comprehend.
But tonight, he paid me a high compliment.
It made my night and reinforced to me that friends come in all forms.

Wade

well im gonna go, 630 breakfast comes early, im so glad i got to chat with you, you are so cool, you know that right? i have not met too many people who are have the zest for life, wit and intelligence you do

Bruise Watch: Day 5

Attractive, yeah?

Another wild weekend.

(The ankle: see below. I promise my feet aren't normally this unattractive...not that feet should be attractive, but...)

The last time I went to sleep was for an hour, this morning. Before that, it was Sunday night.

Somehow trivia stretched into a visit to Mullens, our favorite Wrigleyville bar, which stretched into darts and then I met some Irish (Madeline was like, "It does not surprise me at all that you just came back in and said, 'I met some Irish, let's go.'"), which stretched into a joining of groups and then the late night bars. By then, it was past four, and the sunrise was calling to us. We climbed the lighthouse, pulling out fencing to crawl under before attempting to scale the ladder leading to the top. We were unsuccessful, and so we waited patiently, dangling our feet over the edge as though we could touch the water. We couldn't.
The sunrise never came, but the light did.
And so we drove to Midway.
And then I came home. And then closed my eyes. And then I opened them, dashing off to babysit in the suburbs. It was a long day.
I dared not sleep while the kids were napping, for fear I'd fall into a deep, necessary sleep. And so I watched "Twilight," that teenaged vampire movie.
And then I took the wrong highway because I was nearly a zombie at that point. Two hours later, I arrived home.
Only to leave again to do more trivia.
Third place tonight.
The trivia announcer tells me he always enjoys our wrong answers. They're always hilarious, he tells me. I smile.

The thirteen pounds of furry black animal has been renamed Carlos. I love him. I've been making my absences up to him with Fancy Feast (which is fancier than you'd think), and so he's got this roundness about him that I find entirely too endearing. He's in love with plastic bags. Not to eat, but to sit on. Currently, he's lounging on a Target bag.
He went for his first car ride the other day without his carrier. He hates getting in; I'm assuming he thinks we're going to the vet, because that's where we're always going and they hurt him so much every time. But once he was in, he laid calmly and napped. Until I got out and then he gave me these fearful yellow eyes and I kissed the glass and told him he'd live.
Not surprisingly, he did.

The swelling on my ankle is not going down. I am in considerable pain, but not enough to hinder mobility (sort of...) This injury is the result of a soccer game with friends and then a bunch of Chicagoans in the park on Saturday. A kid wearing glittering cleats (thus his new name, Glitter Cleats) kicked me, right before being yelled at to take it easy on the girl. That upset me, obviously, and it didn't bother me until I looked down and saw the emerging mass that had become my ankle.
That night Maddie, Patrick and I joined Harrison for a comedy show downtown and then went to a bbq being held by one of his friends. I seriously enjoy conversation. It was odd; I knew no one there, but I decided to make the best of it. It was enjoyable.

I'm rambling.
I'm going to start posting my pros/cons lists for Chicago/Denver.
Chicago Pro: Humidity makes my hair curl gorgeously.
Con: Humidity makes all of my cereal stale.

Matisse and a Picture Post

I'm prefacing this post by saying that it's about 85 degrees in my apartment right now. My brain is being slowly over-cooked. Also, the bugs have taken this warm weather as an opportunity to crawl around. I don't mind them, but I do.
Maddie and I are switching back and forth between "Say Yes to the Dress" and "SportsCenter." That very much sums up our lives.

Today I joined my friends Greg and Carolyn at the Art Institute downtown. The city was hot and muggy, but full of energy because this morning was the Blackhawks' Stanley Cup celebration parade. The streets were full of people dressed in bright red, hot but happy. We spent a pleasant afternoon perusing parts of the museum; we saw an exhibit featuring many Chicago artists trained at the Art Institute (SAIC). Then we went and saw the Matisse exhibit. I generally stay away from modern art, so I don't know a whole lot about it, but having Greg as a tour guide added to my experience.
I'm in the middle of attempting to upload my photos of Matisse (only one, since photography was prohibited and I had to sneak it) and also of my one true love, the Impressionists.
                                      
                                                                   Below, Lake Michigan.

If you quint, you can see me! I'm wearing a blue Oxford and brown shorts in the bottom right, below! 

Above, a man whose suit was tremendously horrible. It was part chartreuse and part rust, and when he walked, it seemed to change color in the light. And he has Gene Wilder hair circa the "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" era. Scary.

                                      
                                          

Above, the Art Institute lions wearing hockey helmets.

I've been thus unable to retrieve my pictures from today, so be sure to check back because I'm going to post them tomorrow (or whenever I get them...apparently my 3G isn't so hot right now, or the fact that I'm trying to simultaneously email 25 pictures from my cell phone may have slowed progress). But I want to talk about Matisse a bit, so it might be worth it. 

Au Revoir, Chicago. You've been but a dream.

June 15 until July 1st is going to be a very interesting time for me.
And by interesting, I mean the exact opposite.
It's going to be very lonely, but I'm sure that I won't mind just removing myself from the world and being. Perhaps it shall be me and my beloved city and that damn cat, all alone in our strange apartment or all alone on the train or at the beach or in line at the grocery store.

And I'l hate to see it go, as I slip away for the last time (of course, it's never the last time, but symbolically, it is and that's crushing). I'll cry, just like I'm doing now, and that will be the end of it.

I hadn't thought how to say to goodbye. I still haven't.
I'll stand in the middle of Michigan Ave and look south, toward the river and the buildings and I'll say goodbye.
I'll wander by the lake and look out and pretend it goes on forever.
I'll walk west past Ashland and be surrounded by concrete and chaos and brick and history and I won't forget the ways that I've felt here.
Summer lies to me, though, I must remember. In the winter, I am dreadfully cold.

And then I'll drive down Lake Shore, reminiscent of Ferris Bueller taking his day off, and I'll see the city and my heart will break. The glint of steel and glass in the sun will call to me, reflecting scattered bits of colored light through my windshield and it will be like the shattered bits of my heart, which finally thought she might have arrived.
Ah, Chicago, like a siren. So much to take in. Nearly too much to survive. But just enough to keep the adrenaline alive.

"Their Dangerous Swagger" by Maureen Dowd

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/09/opinion/09dowd.html

From The New York Times:

It was set up like a fantasy football league draft. The height, weight and performance statistics of the draftees were offered to decide who would make the cut and who would emerge as the No. 1 pick.

But the players in this predatory game were not famous N.F.L. stars. They were unwitting girls about to start high school.

A group of soon-to-be freshmen boys at Landon, an elite private grade school and high school for boys in the wealthy Washington suburb of Montgomery County, Md., was drafting local girls.

One team was called “The Southside Slampigs,” and one boy dubbed his team with crude street slang for drug-addicted prostitutes.

The young woman who was the “top pick” was described by one of the boys in a team profile he put up online as “sweet, outgoing, friendly, willing to get down and dirty and [expletive] party. Coming in at 90 pounds, 5’2 and a bra size 34d.” She would be a special asset to the team, he noted, because her mother “is quite the cougar herself.”

Before they got caught last summer, the boys had planned an “opening day party,” complete with T-shirts, where the mission was to invite the drafted girls and, unbeknownst to them, score points by trying to rack up as many sexual encounters with the young women as possible.

“They evidently got points for first, second and third base,” said one outraged father of a drafted girl. “They were going to have parties and tally up the points, and money was going to be exchanged at the end of the season.” He said that the boys would also have earned points for “schmoozing with the parents.”

His daughter, he said, “was very upset about it. She thought these guys were her friends. This is the way we teach boys to treat women, young ladies? You have enough to worry about as a 14- or 15-year-old girl without having to worry about guys who are doing it as sport.”

Another parent was equally appalled: “I think the girls felt like they were getting targeted, that this was some big game. Talk about using people. It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

Landon is where the sons of many prominent members of the community are sent to learn “the code of character,” where “a Landon man” is part of a “true Brotherhood” and is known for his good word, respect and honesty. The school’s Web site boasts about the Landon Civility Code; boys are expected to “work together to eliminate all forms of disrespect” and “respect one another and our surroundings in our decorum, appearance, and interactions.”

The Washington suburban community of private school parents has also been reeling this spring from the tragedy involving former Landon student George Huguely V, a scion of the family that owned the lumber business that helped build the nation’s capital.

Huguely, who was a University of Virginia lacrosse player, was charged in the brutal death of his sometime girlfriend, Yeardley Love, a lacrosse player on the university’s women’s team who also hailed from Maryland.

The lovely young woman’s door was kicked in and her head was smashed over and over into the wall.

The awful crime, chronicled on the cover of People with the headline “Could She Have Been Saved?,” raised haunting questions about why Huguely had not already been reported to authorities, even though other lacrosse players had seen him choke Love at a party and his circle knew that the athlete had attacked a sleeping teammate whom he suspected had kissed Love. Huguely had also been so out-of-control drunk, angry and racially abusive with a policewoman in 2008 that she had to Taser him.

In The Washington Post, the sports columnist Sally Jenkins wrote about the swagger of young male athletes and the culture of silence that protects their thuggish locker-room behavior.

“His teammates and friends, the ones who watched him smash up windows and bottles and heard him rant about Love,” she wrote. “Why didn’t they turn him in? ... Why did they not treat Yeardley Love as their teammate, too?”

Some of the parents of girls drafted for the Landon sex teams think that the punishment for those culpable should have been greater, and the notification to parents should have been more thorough. Was the macho culture of silence in play?

Jean Erstling, Landon’s director of communications, said she was “aware of the incident” but that “student records including disciplinary infractions are confidential.”

She said that “Landon has an extensive ethics and character education program which includes as its key tenets respect and honesty. Civility toward women is definitely part of that education program.”

Time for a curriculum overhaul. Young men everywhere must be taught, beyond platitudes, that young women are not prey.

American Exceptionalism

Still not about teen pregnancy, my apologies. I've managed to convince myself that talking about it will lead me to write about eventually.

However, this article caught my eye this morning. It's from Feministe, and I thought you might enjoy it. It makes me think of those damn chain emails that always irk me so much and then spark posts where I try to say something like what is written below but fail miserably in my attempt.

And thus, written by guest blogger S.E. Smith, is "American Exceptionalism and You."

Enjoy:

Talking with a lovely Canadian the other day, we were discussing a really common problem we encounter on the Internet: The assumption that all readers are from the United States, and thus have a detailed understanding of issues that pertain to the United States and are deeply interested in these issues.

There’s a term, ‘American exceptionalism,’ that is used to describe some of the interesting social and political attitudes that surround the United States. Officially, it has to do with the idea that the United States is somehow exceptional or special, occupies a special position on the global stage by virtue of its accomplishments, deserves a special place in history because it’s just so darn unique. None of these things are true, but they directly contribute to the way the United States engages in foreign policy and interacts with other nations, behaving as the self appointed playground monitor that can do no wrong.

And this plays out in the way that people in the United States interact with the rest of the world as well. There’s a dominance that happens; US English is assumed to be the primary mode of communication, for example. Sites assume that readers can access Hulu videos (only available in the United States, but you already knew that, right?). Or that all readers are up on current political events in the United States. There’s also an implication that everyone from the United States has shared values and life experiences that acts to erase many people.

This very term, ‘American exceptionalism,’ speaks to the special place that the US thinks it occupies. Did you know that there are 36 countries in the Americas? That the Americas span two whole continents and the Caribbean? That US English is not the only language spoken in the Americas? Yet, the United States has coopted this term, ‘American,’ all for itself. Some people have even taken special care to weaponise this term in the immigration debate, demanding that the United States should be closed to people who aren’t ‘American.’

Assuming that everyone is from the United States doesn’t just erase the identities, interests, and concerns of people who are not from the United States. It also makes it fundamentally challenging for people to engage with content on US-centric sites. The assumptions that they will know about things slung about quite casually with no context or background get really frustrating; who wants to Wikipedia their way through a blog post to understand what in the hell is going on? Not I, that is for sure.

And I note that when people who are not from the United States write, they often do so with a global audience in mind. They explain things as they go along. They provide context and information so that people can understand what they are reading. They add insight and commentary. They do not assume that readers will understand the ins and outs of their political systems or will know the titles of laws by heart or will understand coded references to historical events. As a reader in the United States, I still sometimes feel a little bit lost, in part because of the ignorance cultivated by the way I engage with media, but at least I am not completely at sea.

When I go to the front page of overseas newspapers, often it’s US news that dominates the headlines. The 2008 election was covered in exhaustive detail in publications all over the world. Yet, Britain recently had an election, and it received barely any coverage here in the United States. Many US readers couldn’t tell you what a ‘coalition government’ is, let alone why it matters. Australia has an election coming up this year, but you probably wouldn’t know that if you read the news in the US exclusively.

US newspapers report news in the context of ‘how this pertains to the interests of people in the United States.’ Foreign newspapers don’t do this. They assume that readers might actually want to know about things that are going on in the world, even if they do not directly related to events going on at home.

There’s an othering that happens here too. When I read news stories about things that happen in other countries, it’s all about the Other. Over There. Those People. And The Horrible Things They Do. No matter that the same horrible things happen here in the United States, no matter that the United States might actually have some culpability in those horrible things, some involvement in a history of colonialism and exploitation.

That othering crosses over to interactions online as well, with people regarding nations outside the United States as abstract, exotic places. A certain amount of patronising seems to develop. Even on sites that supposedly have an international bent, the assumption is that everyone is from the United States, as though people from other regions of the world can’t access the site, or are perfectly happy to remain on the margins, to allow other people to write about their nations and their experiences. Sometimes it seems like everything must be filtered through the US lens.

Considering what happened the last time someone at Feministe tried to point out that the United States is not the centre of the world, I’m sure this will be tragic to hear, but, folks? The United States is not the centre of the world. And the widespread insistence on centreing experiences and concerns that are primarily relevant to people in the United States, and to referring to these things as ‘American,’ effectively ignoring the existence of the 35 other countries in the Americas, is really a significant barrier to conversation, not just here, but on many sites across the Internet.

South Africa: Preliminary Information

I'm sidetracking off of teen pregnancy, although I'm coming back to it after I post info about South Africa.

WE'RE GOING TO SOUTH AFRICA!

Coinciding with this wonderful news, The Economist has been so kind as to publish a special report about South Africa (just for me, of course. It has very little to do with the upcoming World Cup being held there later this month).

However, I'm going to link you to it, because hopefully this will be the start of a very wonderful journey for all of us. (I'm contemplating starting another blog to focus solely on my experience because I'm hoping to do some actual analysis and writing while I'm there....but we can get to that later.)
Click on the words below for links to the individual stories.

The price of freedom

Jobless growth

Still everything to play for

Colour me South African

When the whistle blows (not part of the special report published this week)

The great scourges

Don't get ill

Last in class

Your friendly monolith

Hold your nose

"Money can't buy you class" and other assorted random things

Two posts in a day, be sure to scroll down for pictures of the Mustache Bash bar crawl from Saturday.

I've been getting back into fiction lately. I went to the local library (where I'm not yet banned and don't owe them large sums of money. Going to miss that small freedom once I get back to Denver) and got some books last week. Ah, the oppressive stacks of the cramped space reminded me of my youth, when I was quite a bit smaller and not as tall. I made an effort to look at the titles near the floor, but it was impossible to do. But I ended up picking out four hardcover books. Hardcover to remind myself what literature really is. The crinkle of that plastic wrap is a magical, comforting sound to my over-auto-tune-subjected ears. Two murder mysteries (um, because that is what I do best), a book by John Connelly called The Gates, and then Clinton Kelly's fabulous etiquette book. Thus far, I've consumed The Gates and the fabulous book about being fabulous, which I enjoyed, but was thoroughly relieved I'd not spent any actual money on it. I enjoyed The Gates immensely. It was light-hearted, even though it was about Hell.

But it's been making me realize that I should be writing. Seriously. I need to up the English levels on my blog. I need to stop writing such melodramatic trash so that you're convinced you're not following some sort of soap opera. Instead, I shall focus on social issues that I care about and whatever else I can drum up. Hence the teen pregnancy allusion in the last post. I will get to it. And when I do, you will come away astounded. (Not by teen pregnancy, hopefully. There's really not much about it that might astound.) But I'm going to be a real (and by real, I mean completely amateur, un-official, writing from my apartment) journalist about this and do some research. You know, get the real facts before I spout off about stuff that no one really needs  to know.

I finally took the cover off of my laptop because I'm convinced it's scratching my laptop more than it would be scratched had it remained uncovered. I'm in the market for a new case as of tomorrow, so perhaps a stop off at the Apple store is in order. I'd also like to check out the iPad, in case we do end up going to South Africa.

Um, did I mention the applications and deposits have been submitted? WE ARE GOING TO SOUTH AFRICA (most likely)! I couldn't be more thrilled. I'm terrified, obviously, as I am about to embark on a mission deep into the unknown, however, I think that when it's all said and done, my life will have been irrevocably changed. For the better, hopefully. Unless I'm not. But we can deal with that at some later point. But The Economist seems to be on my side. My mailbox today was full of a fourteen-page special report on South Africa, which I will read on the train tomorrow and report back on. I enjoy their coverage. I am keeping my subscription to their magazine, partially because I think the British spellings are cute.

Also, it's not "for all intensive purposes." It's "for all intents and purposes." I feel like an idiot. I want to issue an open apology to anyone I may have grammatically offended over the years. Just so you know.

The title of this post is in reference to a song, if it can be called that, sung by an over-privileged woman from New York (she's on the Real Housewives, a show I can't get enough of). It's a horrible mess of song but it's hilarious and catchy but not in a good way. Catchy in that it'll be stuck in your head all day and you'll be wishing for anything else. Even a Rickroll would be nice about now.
And on that note: a really bad song sung by a really annoying woman

I've realized that one of the things I love about my cat is the way he sighs. It's so adorable. One thing I wildly disapprove of is his need to go bolting out the front door when I open it. Lame. Chasing him down the stairs seems to be his favorite game.

Post-bar crawl

The bar crawl benefitting the Chicago Children's Hospital was a wild success. Madeline and I drew on mustaches with liquid eyeliner. Hers was small and possibly French and mine was a wild handlebar-curved-sort-of-ordeal.

We had a great time. Our friend Patrick brought his friend Duane and we went around to the bars. It was crowded, and we were glad that we'd been able to bring side beers with us. It definitely softened the financial blow and allowed us to add a little bit more, uh, refreshment to our afternoon. We made it through about half the ones on the list before we were sidetracked by a group of Irish/other people we met. And that's where things got interesting.
Maddie walked off to go the bathroom and I didn't see her for the rest of the night. She was on her way to get a cheeseburger when she decided to head home. (I heard from her, though, don't think I'd ever let her just walk away unattended.) I stayed with the boys and we stayed with our new friends, abandoning the bar crawl for pitchers at a bar next to Wrigley, or "the cubs stadium," as the Irish tweeted from my phone.
Somehow, we ended up on the train and then a bus and then the South Side on our way to a party,  which was not a great plan in that I was not as patient as I could have been, so we ended up heading back up north. I came out of yesterday with a twelve-pack of Bud Light that some guy bought and then left, so I feel like it was a success.
Today was understandably a very relaxed day. I lounged. I made sun tea. I ate strawberries. I drank Vitamin Water. I snuggled the cat.
Tonight, Maddie and I are ordering Chinese food and watching the MTV movie awards because a comedian that we love, Aziz Ansari, is hosting.
Expect a post about teen pregnancy at some point soon. (Obviously not my own teen pregnancy....but teen pregnancy in general.)

Sex and the City 2: A Defense

I was reading a post on Feministe.com about Sex and the City 2 and I got upset.
The original article can be found here: http://www.feministe.us/blog/archives/2010/06/01/defending-sex-and-the-city-sort-of-not-really/
If you choose to read it, peruse the comments as well. They're bound to ignite some sort of fiery reaction in your blood, no matter your views on sexism, racism, ageism, and so on.
I take issue with a lot of the criticism of the show and of the sexism that the post suggests the show propagates. Yes, Sex and the City was popular when our economy was booming and when excess was the norm; the idea of keeping up with Jones's really meant overspending and under-saving. Of course, that's all come crashing down. But has it really? And if so, does that make Sex and the City irrelevant?
While the middle class and other socioeconomic underprivileged persons are arguably unable to spend, and of course revenue is down, has the recession trickled up to reach those wealthy who everyone was actually trying to emulate?
For some, yes. But for others, arguably most, no. We're not re-aligning our mindsets toward redistribution of wealth or reallocation of government resources for some better purposes. We're just biding our time until we're  better employed and we can start spending all over again. Spending with the hopes of upward social mobility.
While the writer and the commenters (when not veering off to discuss the state of Muslim women in the world) believe that the women of Sex and the City care only for their clothes, shoes, men and money, I'm arguing that they too face very real-world problems, even in their carefully scripted, fairytale Manhattan lives. Emphasis on scripted, fairytale lives.
Carrie has long been a renter, and at some point (I'd like to say season 4) is forced to make the decision to either buy or relocate. She has no money, no savings; there's not a hint of financial responsibility surrounding her character because the audience is well aware that Carrie is happy to spend her paychecks on fashion. She spends time considering what to do and it's revealed that she's spent the better part of $40,000 on shoes. That's enough for a down payment. In the end, of course, it all comes to a resolution and the shoes are safe.
While a small incident in the show's 6-year run, the money crises that Carrie suffers from shows that while perhaps Sex and City is merely a fairytale, it is also grounded in some sort of reality. While not all of us can afford to walk around in Louboutins (oh, and I wish that we could), we all face issues regarding our own use of money at some point.
Another issue, which I'm finding to be more and more common in my own life, is the issue of lending money to friends. There's a row over that at some point as well, with rich Charlotte hesitant to lend money to one of the girls. Of course, I once sided with whichever of the women asked for the money, but now I understand much better to never mix friendship and money.
These examples show that while Sex and the City may very well be at its core a frivolous look at unrealistic women with expensive tastes, it's also a show that understands that no woman, not even the best-dressed or most educated can escape certain problems. There are also bouts with sexually transmitted infections, cancer, raising children, etc.
It's a show. I don't want to spend my time watching my own life problems played up on the screen. I want to suspend reality and pretend that I too have the weight of the world upon my shoulders when I must choose which of my designer outfits to wear to the newest club opening. That's the world viewers want to see.
The sprinkling of reality was just to taste.
Also, the article quotes another article which talks about the refreshing moment when Charlotte and Miranda discuss that their motherhood and how sometimes you do need a break from the children. It anachronistically refers to 1971 as first-wave feminism, but it would have actually been more like second-wave at that time. I enjoyed watching the women struggle as mothers. Miranda struggled a lot in the series after the birth of her child. She was unprepared to be a mother and encountered a steep learning curve. She has to fight to keep her friendships, she has to fight to learn how to raise her son. She turns to Magda, her cleaning lady, for help. Charlotte struggles with conception, turning finally to adoption. She is happiest with her non-traditional family and is forced to give up her perfectionist ideals in order to embrace motherhood.
And then there's the religion problem. I've been avoiding it. I don't want to talk about it. But I'm going to address it from my own point of view. I'm prefacing this like that because I believe that everyone gets tangled in their opinions and then everyone gets called a racist and we've got problems stemming from our own inability to define anything or to thoroughly understand the topics at hand.
Before this segment begins, we're going to have to discuss the lens from which the audience is viewing the movie. Mostly white, American, probably Christian (I'm basing this off of what I know my blog readership to be. I am in no way negating the experiences of any other person, however, I can only draw on the experiences of a white, middle-class, raised-Catholic person, because that it what I am.) And that's where the problems are.
As white, middle-class viewers, we come to the movie with certain preconceived notions. We need to be aware of our own limitations before we can thoroughly critique the limitations of any certain work.
I see where the writer wanted to talk about Muslim women. I see how he wanted to draw parallels between the girls from New York and the secret women's book club in Abu Dhabi. I see how he wanted to show the similar spirits of both sets of women. I see this. But he failed miserably.
The Muslim women in the movie are poorly placed. They get very little screen time and are shown as caricatures of a collision between two cultures: Muslim women who desperately seek to become Americanized. I have a hard time believing that this is the case. Our own American lens, however, makes it seem as though "they" (any othered subset) would want to welcome our own Western culture.
One woman has decorated her outfit with color around the sleeves. Another eats french fries under her veil. At one point, the Muslim book club sheds their outer garb to reveal the spring collection of Louis Vuitton.
This attempt at subversive independence is poorly placed in the film. The author opens a door where there never should have been one, or if some opening, a window, intending to merely peek inside at the issue of religion, but instead fails to walk through this now gaping hole that is the issue of religion and culture, leaving the audience unfulfilled and angry. This wasn't supposed to be a racist movie. But it was.
The Middle East is probably the worst setting the author could have chosen, and I'd be interested to see why he chose it. Now? Of all times?
To quote the New York Times article linked at the bottom, "The gravest of these sins in my unscientific survey are behavioral: the women act like ugly Americans and debase every aspect of Muslim culture they come in contact with. Also: they’re women. And middle aged. Girlish. Have had bad work done. Or maybe not enough."
The characters, specifically Miranda, are aware of the disrespect that they (mostly Samantha) are showing to the predominantly Muslim culture that is surrounding them. They talk about it. The author attempts to parallel the wearing of the veils with the silencing of women while simultaneously showing Carrie as having tape over her mouth in a book review. The hastily reached conclusion? He's afraid of her because she's a women, not because her book may not have been the most insightful. His attempt to silence her comes from the fact that he's a man.
The NYTimes shows the bind that women find themselves in. To age gracefully? Not allowed. To embrace plastic surgery? Not allowed. To age? Not allowed. To be immature? Not allowed. To be women? Not allowed.
Hello first wave feminism.
Aren't we past that?
But we aren't and that plays into why I'm still going to defend this movie. I'm not defending racism. I'm defending a film. I do agree that there were things that could have (should have) been done very differently.

I'm sure the author meant for his commentary on Islam as well as the rights of women to be taken much as his comments on gay marriage went over, which was well. But his carefully crafted gay marriage scene was a celebration of all the sparkle of the gay community. It showed Big's heterosexual fear and attempts to push this from merely a wedding to a "gay wedding," which is actually was. There were swans. There was an all-male choir. Why is no one up in arms about that? Why is no one called John Preston homophobic? Because he shares their views and slight discomfort, but outward acceptance and appreciation of the community.

The United States, whether we like it or not, is a Christian nation. We can't wrap our minds around other cultures, let alone other religions. We're afraid of things we don't understand. We want to crusade against anything "other," anything different. We can't fathom why certain things are the way they are and we get upset about the rights of other women in other places. But we still have a lot to work for as women in the United States.
We're not free. Critics of Sex and the City come down on it for not having enough diversity, not having this, that, etc. Creation and maintenance of  the family is the focus of many women in our culture. Little girls grow up dreaming about their wedding day. Carrie makes it to that point in the first movie but eventually marries in a small ceremony at City Hall.  Sex and the City has the balls to show Carrie and her husband addressing the fact that they have no children and don't plan to. The movie doesn't cop out with Carrie getting pregnant. She's setting her own terms for her marriage and her life.
The idea of housework and child-rearing not being considered work is something that women deal with on a daily basis. The "third shift" is the housework, something that many women who work full time still  have to do once they get home because of antiquated notions about feminine roles. Miranda quits her job as a lawyer in the film but hates being a full-time stay at home mom. Being a full-time mother just isn't her thing and she regrets leaving her job. She finds another job where she is appreciated yet still able to make it to her son's school events. She is defined by her career. Charlotte, however, is a full-time mother and she is fulfilled and exhilarated by her job (most of the time). She derives meaning from her work in the maintenance of the family, but part of her conclusion in the film was that she, too, needs time to herself away from the children.
There's oppression right around the corner. Muslim women nothing. American women nothing. No single piece, no single article, no single film, book, or scrap of media is going to speak for all women of any culture, religion, race, etc. Oppression comes in all forms, religious and otherwise.
You cannot encapsulate the struggles of women or any culture into a two hour movie about girl power and friendship. The author tried and failed miserably. I'm forgiving Sex and the City its grave mistake of being set in Abu Dhabi. That was a dumb plot device that never should have been constructed. It set off a chain of hatred that someone should have seen coming.
I loved the movie. It wasn't about materialism (there were no grand shopping sprees, no ridiculous spending); it was about love and marriage and life and choices. And in the end, female friendship wins and everyone is allowed to be in the sort of relationship of their choosing. That, my friends, is exactly what I paid to see.

Here's another little piece that I enjoyed:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/23/magazine/23lives-t.html?scp=3&sq=sex%20and%20the%20city%20extra&st=cse

or another:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/06/movies/06dargis.html?hp

Lake Shore Drive, as always

Lake Shore drive at four thirty in the morning is dark, starting the slow progression toward daylight. As I drove, the fog rolled in and there was me, seeing very little ahead of me, and the fog, closing in around me, and the lights, leading the way home.
There was no sleep last night and I chased the moment and left, easing toward the center of the city and then home again. I parked, the fog lifting as I drew away from the lake. I walked home, down a tired, quiet block, the sky lightening above me and the moon still bright. I love the way the wrought iron gates of my building look in that grayish pre-dawn light. The black is somehow made more black by the gray light, and the green of the new summer foliage is greener and darker and more beautiful. The cobwebs hang between the iron bars and flutter slightly in the wind.
As the day progressed, the fog burned away and the sun came out, heating the earth. It's sunny out now; I'm sure people are at the beach loving the sunlight. I'm at home, tired.
Perhaps tomorrow will be my day to get things done?

I'll miss this place.

Memorial Day Weekend: Rest

Oh the beach! What a lovely beautiful expansive stretch of land.
Laying on a towel in the sun, eyes closed, listening to music or the waves or the kids: that is bliss.
Blue sky, blue water, pale beach, my brilliantly white skin glistening (so much sunscreen!), the sounds, the books. I smeared the ink in the textbook with my oily fingers, then proceeded to also smear an article in Esquire, then proceeded to cover myself in sand.
I'm one hundred percent alright with that.
I'm one hundred percent more relaxed. The gorgeous man laying behind us helped a bit.
I'm hoping to get a little bit of color this summer. I'm against tanning, but I'm not against a healthy glow. I love the way freckles dot my nose. I'm using SPF 55 anti-aging sunblock for my face and a little less to my body. (By a little less, I mean a lot...I'm building a base here.)
Happiness. Bliss.
I could spend days near the ocean, near big lakes, near rushing rivers, and be perfectly happy.

Then I came home and made chicken salad.
My god, I think I make pretty good chicken salad considering I sort of just make it up as I go. (I think I pretty much know what goes in it....chicken, celery, grapes, (light) mayo, spices, lemon juice, etc.) But it's chilling in the freezer right now (faster), and then I'm going to eat it. Madeline has never had chicken salad. I'm shocked.

We're going to go out to celebrate the surprise birthday party of one of my friends tonight, so that should be interesting.

I'm against commercials that play on your worst fears, like that On-Star commercial about not being able to call for help. Lame. Fear tactics are a bad way to sell a product. Maybe.
We'll know more as I continue marketing, but that's just a thought.

Blog Block Post #1

I've been having blog block lately. I have thoughts and then lose them.

We saw Sex and the City 2 tonight. I'm a longtime fan of the series and while not wildly excited to see the movie, I was interested. And so we saw it. It's adorable; the two and a half hours pass quickly. I found myself enjoying the storyline and although I have qualms about the racial undertones of the movie, I was willing to forgive them in order to suspend my disbelief and live in Carrie's fairytale world for awhile.
I didn't like the constant referring to the women's ordeals; I thought it wasn't addressed properly or thoroughly enough. I can see where the writer may have tried to bring it up, touch on it, without being racist, but I feel as though his intentions went awry somewhere along the line.
The movie was lovely. SatC always puts me in thought bubbles or sets of strange emotions, but tonight, it settled me. I love Charlotte's wardrobe; the look is timeless and beautiful.


I keep sitting down and waiting for thoughts to spill out like they have in the past, and it's just not happening.

I spent the past couple of days helping Maddie move out of her house. We drove down to Champaign so that she could store some of her things and then we looked at apartments. She found one that she liked while we were there, so that was lucky.
I've got about a month left in Chicago. And then after that, July shall be spent in odd transit, being held between two places and really living in neither. August will come quickly enough and then the future. Hopefully Mike's passport stuff can happen ASAP and then we can go to South Africa; if not, I shall be going it alone. I desperately need to do something. I need to find myself all over again. I need to regain my inner strength and develop some desperately needed self-confidence. After that, I shall return and begin building the life I'd very much like to lead.
blah blah blah, I'm just typing.

The Hawks won the hockey game tonight.

Hopefully I'll make it to the beach tomorrow and do some much needed relaxation and fiction reading.

Lost (not pertaining to any sort of mystical island, however)

I often wonder if Virginia Woolf and I would have gotten along splendidly.
Then I thank G/god that I never knew her.

I am remarkable at existing, I've discovered. In the times when I have very little to hope for (besides everything the future brings), the times that I find myself alone, I also find myself content, to a certain extent. And whenever I feel overwhelmed by the solitude, I think of that semester spent in Denver, the semester when I was very nearly alone (you're never quite alone, but you know what I mean). I was satisfied. I took long bike rides. I happen to enjoy long bike rides. My leg muscles enjoyed them as well.
And then I think about calling some of my friends. Friends exhaust me. I hate the upkeep, I really do. And thus, I'm terrified that I will spend the rest of my life alone.
I'm a horrible decision maker, if you haven't noticed.

I think once I get to Denver, it might be time to trade the mountain bike in for a road bike or one that is a combination of the two. Oh just get a better mountain bike and then actually go riding down mountains with it. People here judge the mountain bike when they see it.

I didn't get down to fight my parking ticket today, so I'm going to do it before I babysit tomorrow. \

I found out that they're officially official today.

Commentary on the population of my marketing class: tons of kids with curly hair, for some reason.
The professor is nearly seventy five years old but I have a feeling I'm going to like him even though the class looks as though it's going to be an endless exercise in patience and utter boredom. I stayed after class on Monday to talk to him about the economy because I'm the only sort-of-super-senior in the class and he was interested about my job prospects. So that's a good start.
He drones on and on, but I feel as though he's got a lot to say. So I'm listening.
Bad start, however: new edition of the book. $150. Great. The library doesn't have it, so I shelled out the money for it. But on the bright side, I'll either make probably half of it back selling it at the end of the semester or I'll be able to keep it to use it for grad school.
I need to find a math tutor in Denver for August on the off chance I take the GMAT before I depart for S. Africa. I'd like to start the application process and then hopefully start school during the fall semester of 2011. But who knows? I don't know where I want to go, but I'm assuming I'd like to stay in Denver. The University of Colorado at Denver program is looking better and better everyday. Cheap, as far as grad school goes.

Strange life

This is a mid-post edit to say that I've started writing like Hemingway in that I like to link sentences together with "and" and then just ramble. So sorry. Please think of it as an homage to a great writer (debatable) and don't think I'm someone who's taken very little time to write lately.
However:
I walked again today, choosing a route that would take me down the main streets that head north to south to the immediate west of the lake. It's strange to know that you're so close to one of the largest bodies of water in the world and yet you can't see it, can't feel it, don't really know it's there. If it weren't for all of the apartment building advertising lakeside living, you'd never know you were int he vicinity of a lake.
The city was hot today. It smelled like trash and water and people and hot concrete and exhaust and laundry and cooking food and everything I love.
I walked and there was chaos erupting around me and I went through it and away.
Elderly people ran across the sidewalk out of shadows to flag down a bus that didn't stop, driving past them up the road.
An old man holding a big cigarette of some sort walked past me at an intersection, obviously annoyed by my presence in his walking lane. He wore the white Reeboks so popular in his generation and those headphones that aren't attached to anything, but instead must be a radio of some sort. He smoked, he walked, he passed me and then I passed him, wading through the crowd of smoke and then I was gone and he was behind.
I walked and I walked and the sun shone down on me and the city moved around me and I moved in it. (This is where the above mid-post edit came into being.)
I've been alone lately and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I think I like it, but I'm not motivated, so I think I'm still just absorbing the alone time. I'm like that. Sometimes the decompression takes me a lot longer than I think it will. Sometimes I just need to do nothing (this includes not cleaning) to right myself in the world. Today I made some chicken salad with cranberries and apples and then did some dishes. I looked into applying at a temp agency in Chicago and then promptly got scared. Not quite the productive day I was hoping to have, but one I can live with.
I'm going to ask Madeline tonight how the process works to hopefully alleviate some of my fear. It's the fear. I just need to get over it. I need to get a nice business outfit, go on a few interviews, and find an office job doing ANYTHING. And then I'll feel comfortable and be more confident with my work ability.
Dairy Queen was a great job but it was also wildly detrimental to my professional development. I never had to interview, Todd hired me on the spot right after I turned in my application. The "interview" he gave me was basically asking me where I went to school and when I could start. I will never forget how terrified I was my first day on the job but I also got really comfortable really quick. My assimilation into the job was complete. Five years later, I still sort of worked there and now I"m finding myself without a lot of interview experience.
I often return to the interview I had my sophomore year of college at a place called Kim's Cupcakes in downtown Chicago. I didn't get the job. I often wonder what I did wrong, and I'm sure it was many things. But if I couldn't even get that job (selling over-priced cupcakes to rich people), how am I ever going to be able to get a legitimate professional position?
People always ask me what kind of job I want. I have no idea. I don't know job titles. I don't know positions that I qualify for. I don't know this or that or anything. And then I get scared. And the fear prevents me from taking a deep breath and realizing I'm just as qualified as anybody for anything. (not really, but you know what I mean, hopefully)
Tomorrow, I'm gathering up all of my gumption and marching down to the City of Chicago offices and demanding that they release me from the bonds of my ticket. I've been negligent and they've been assholes, and while that won't be my principal argument, it will weigh heavily on my mind as I shove my registration in their faces and make them read the plain English stamped on the back. "30 day grace period" will echo through the room and the heavy sound of justice being handed down will ring throughout the room, shocking everyone there. I'll walk out triumphantly, wearing a smile of patience and the city employees will remain behind, shaking their heads apologetically, as though my inconvenience was of their creation.
In reality, it won't be like that.
It will involve me practicing deep breathing techniques. It will involve me trying not to yell. It will involve dissolution of the ticket, though, no matter how hard I have to work for it.

While I was home, the neighbor drove by while I was vacuuming Simon and asked me what I was doing [with my life]. As has become my custom, I lifted my shoulders in the universal, "I have no clue" gesture and responded that I was taking some time off. "Not going to law school?" he asked. I keep forgetting that I spent a good portion of my life with the intentions of being a lawyer. (And by good portion I mean like a decade and a half...I'm flashing back to my third grade Halloween costume right now...Mom's graduation robes and a gavel) "I have too much of a soul for that," I said. He laughed and then agreed with me.
Wealthy is as wealthy does, and I might be too nice for all of that.
But part of me wants to take the LSAT and see how I do, just for kicks. Maybe I will. It'll be practice for the GMAT.

Also, Mike and I have decided South Africa. And for Mom, who will be wildly worried the entire time we're there, I read an ad about Verizon now having service over there. So we can hook up our cell phones. Yes!! (not about the cell phones)
Yes!
Yes!
I'm going to South Africa!

After the heat of the day had passed, I grabbed my iPod and left the apartment. I walked down past the campus, past the entrance to Lake Shore Drive and then onto the lake path. I walked and I walked and I walked and then I turned and went back up Broadway. I passed the bank that used to belong to the family of a Senate candidate. I passed the pub that only has three things on its menu. I passed all the windows, all the people and I realized I was in love. 

The city is beautiful. 

Sunburned, of course. Spray sunscreen is not a great idea in the Windy City.

It's hot here tonight. Cat and I are settled in the living room, fans on and windows hoping, hoping for the air to cool down soon. Too hot to think.

Watching "Hoarders" on A&E. I always say, "I might need this someday," and Maddie teases me about becoming a hoarder, however, I believe that I do understand that there is a place for everything. It's sad to hear the answers that these people have, and it's sad to see their families reacting. This man is collecting beer when he doesn't even drink. He's got a garage full of beer, a house full of matchbooks and other baseball memorabilia.

Too hot to think.

Remind me to post about fate, death and then the living again. But before I forget, I need to tell you how wonderful it was today to lay on the beach, in the sun, listening to the waves and the birds and the children. Happiness is sunshine and a warm summer day.

Going to apply at some temp agencies this week just to see if I can get some extra work (and therefore money) during the next month. I start school tomorrow. One class.