Teenage Wasteland

This week was weird food week for me.
Jacob and I were grabbing coffee downtown on Tuesday night, and on the walk back to my car, we spotted a random assortment of vegetables laying on the sidewalk. Of course I stopped to take a picture. They lay there in the dark, an oddly phallic assortment of forgotten food.
I thought little of it.

I went home, parked on 17th and as I was walking back toward my house, I saw an entire bag of English muffins sitting there by the sidewalk.
So I took a picture.

I realized later that it was dumb to take two pictures of weird food coincidences, but then today, it finally hit me.
I was driving up Colorado Blvd to grab a salad from the grocery store when I saw tubs of Blue Bell (brand new to Colorado) ice cream melting all over the median. Thank god it's not summer and the tubs won't start to stink immediately, but someone is still going to have to come and clean them up.
And who leaves food like that?

I got back to the office and took the plastic off of my salad. And then took more plastic off of the toppings. And then unwrapped the plastic fork and removed the plastic off of the plastic carton of salad dressing included in the plastic package.
See where I'm going with this?

Plastic. Food.

Maybe now that I'm working in a confined space (read: an office), I find myself often eating perishables in disposable cartons. Or eating non-perishables in disposable cartons.
I have a set of lovely reusable food containers. (Ah, Costco, where would we be without you?) I bring yogurt in them. I have stained them orange with spaghetti sauce residue. I have microwaved them and washed them and refrigerated them, and they come home with me daily.
I'm satisfied to use them, because I know they are about as sustainable as plasticware gets. I'll reuse them until either I lose them (which is bound to happen at some point) or until they become broken and old. But they're sturdily made and chances are high that my $30 investment (that's a high estimate) will be well worth it for both me and the environment.

But waste.
Food gets wasted.
It happens.
But it happens too often.
Mike and I are constantly battling the fresh food problem. We want fresh food. We buy fresh food. We watch that fresh food become less and less fresh until it's no longer fresh food. We throw it out.
The cycle begins anew.

I remember being sixteen and having a seriously depressed thought about a spoon at Dairy Queen. (Oh god, that's embarrassing.) When you drop a spoon on the floor, it gets thrown away. It'll never touch anyone's lips. It's now been rendered useless. And that bothered me. It was created to be a spoon, to bring ice cream joy to the lips of greedy consumers. But now it never would. It will spend the rest of its days (weeks, months, years, centuries, millenia) languishing in a landfill, wrapped in plastic, surrounded by paper cups and napkins, and other plastic spoons, rotting slowly back into the Earth.

But they won't rot, really. Not within a decent timeframe.

This is why it is of the utmost importance that people start recognizing their own consumption and thinking about it. (Thoughts are where all real change starts.) Don't recycle because it's cool, recycle because of that poor red spoon. Recycle because you can and should. Recycle.

And stop wasting food.
I'm guilty of it, too. We all are.
Stop leaving half empty beer cans. Drink up.
Stop letting your spinach rot.
Stop buying the 5lb carton of strawberries at Costco (I'm so guilty of this...I do it every time) because it's cheaper than 2lbs at the grocery store.

I'm not going to the use the hungry-child-in-Africa excuse because it's not really that valid as far as your own personal food consumption goes. Sending someone your spinach isn't going to work. Eating something extra even though you don't want to will just make you fat. It's a no-win situation. They're still hungry and now you're dealing with the onset of adult diabetes.

So much for saving the world.

Only buy what you need. And sometimes, even though it may be laden with preservatives that might mummify your insides, it might be better to buy it canned, or frozen, or not at all if you know you're not going to use it right away.

Just a small public service announcement and personal reminder.

I get really upset when I hear the debate about public education in this country.

One day, I would really like to be able to send my kids to public schools. At the moment, I wouldn't. I know I'm biased based on my private school education, but the public school system needs an overhaul.

Class size? Salary? Supplies?
Screw it all. Our country doesn't do enough with what we've got. We spend so much time trying to cut necessary human services so we can waste money on bombs.

Let's have teachers who have enough support that they're not burning out after two years!
Let's have people who are passionate about what they do in charge of the public school system rather than having administrators run it all like a business (some of them have never set foot in a classroom in a teaching capacity!)

Let's get everyone involed. Screw state mandated test scores. Screw performance based funding.

Let's start over. Let's re-do the system. And let's make sure that our kids are getting the best education possible; it's the only way that the US has any sort of future.

The QR code for my Tumblr account.

If you have a barcode scanner on your smartphone, scan this link and my blog should pop up.
I downloaded and use Zxing - which is free on the Android market. There are also 50 free apps on iPhone.
Pretty cool, huh?

And so the gallbladder goes...

I've nearly caught my breath, but only momentarily, of course.

My mom has been in the hospital since Sunday morning, when she went to the ER with severe stomach pain. Turns out it was gallstones.

So there was a thing yesterday and then the surgery to remove the gallbladder today, and now she is resting comfortably and we can breathe again. I sat in the room with Grandma Mary today, away from work on my lunch break, jumping everytime I heard something that sounded like a bed rolling down the hall. It wasn't, and just as I was getting so anxious I thought I'd burst, she came back in, looking a million times better than she did on Sunday.

And I was so happy to have her back.

I'm so selfish, I know, but I'm not ready to lose her yet. (Not that I'll ever be, but, you know...) I wore her rings yesterday and today; it's odd that small comforts like that really do help.

When I first realized what it might feel like to not have her there anymore, I was younger, maybe still an emo-ish teenager, and I was reading some article in some magazine I would only buy once. It was about picking up the phone to call your mother and realizing that she'd never answer. Or deleting her number because it was stupid to have it in your phone becuase you'll never be able to call it again anyway. Upon reading that, a surge pulled through me and then away, leaving an empty sucking feeling at the pit of my stomach. And from then on I realized how precious our time is.

And so I gave her the "you're-running-out-of-spare-parts" lecture and I hope the heavens understood my true meaning.

But thank god, more than ever, for good health insurance, and for family.

Am I heartbroken or am I just weak?

Rough week, exhaustion, uutter despair. Calamity, apathy, angst-ridden.

Worst part about it all?

Nothing's wrong.

Except that overnight, plane tickets to Chicago went up $120 round trip. So that sucks.

But other than that, I guess I'm fine.

Wishing to run away again, as usual.

I am in the midst of a trepidatious Monday. I'm unnverved, unsettled, and somehow craving something firmly rooted.

It must be time for the next great adventure. We're thinking of road-tripping to that music festival and then flying to Boston/Provincetown to see Jacob in the summer. I want Chicago, too. I want to see the people I love, the city I crave.

All of that will quell those feelings momentarily, until I can't breathe anymore and I need to be moving. I always want to be moving. I love the thrill of nowhere, living from that suitcase, throwing things willy nilly into the backseat and speeding away, off to anywhere.

Maybe I need to learn to sandboard, to ski, to do those things that will give me motion without taking me too far. I'll get my damn iPod fixed and I'll run in the park every day, until the long forgotten muscles become taut and sinewy. I'll run and run toward freedom, only to find myself back at my door, fumbling for the right key, reminding myself that tomorrow I'll take off the key that doesn't work.

My spirit isn't dead, it's still very much alive, it's still here.
I want to go to Tibet.
I want to learn how to meditate. I want to sit with people wiser than me and let them show me how to find calm.
I want to dive in deep ocean. I want the waves to crash against me in the night. I want to stare up at the sun and stare out into the sea and realize I'm so small.

At least if I still want these things, my soul must be still stirring inside me. That's a positive sign, I believe.

500th Post

This is the 500th post.

The first sentence written here (back in January of 2007 - my freshman year of college) was, "Ah, solitude at last." or something like it.
And since then there have been many sentences and many posts, and in the coming days I'll repost a few of them - or something like it.

And because I know which post is my mom's favorite, I'm going to put it here, instead of writing something momentous.

http://angelfallenhere.blogspot.com/2007/12/dear-mom.html

Happy Friday, world.

The almighty Internet

This week has been especially professionally fulfilling for me.
I realize that it's weird to say, but there have been small accomplishments that really boost my confidence as far as potential goes.
You've been reading my blog long enough (maybe) to realize that I'm terrified of being stuck in that mediocrity that I feel I live in, but I'm also terrified to realize how capable I actually am. (I know what you're thinking. She's so melodramatic; not this again. But deal with it.)

That being said, today I updated the company website for the very first time. By myself (mostly, there was a bit of input from my colleague Heather). I added links to images on our Partners page. And then I put them up live on the website unaided.
That was the scariest part, I think; messing around with our actual, real website. Not just saving and testing HTML code internally.
But I did it. And now I'm comfortable enough that I could do it again.

And for me, that's a small step toward something.

My article in the Cape Chameleon

Here are the scans of the article which appeared in December in the Cape Chameleon, published in Cape Town. Feel free to click on the images. Once they're open in a new window, you can click on them again and they should magnify to a somewhat readable level.

enjoy!

The gleam, or somethin like it.

One of my dear friends is finding herself mired in the same existential crisis facing most of younger twenty-somethings. I guess if I had to title it, I'd call it "The Future Questions: A Beautiful Crisis by Katie Barry." We're here, but we're still not sure if we want to be. Visions of airplanes and different cities float through our minds, Chicago calls me daily, wishing I'd pick up my phone and beg it to take me back.
We're here, and we're happy, but we keep waiting for something else.

I find myself stumbling back to South Africa in my mind, at nights, or when I'm driving, or when I see anything that might remind me of the place I temporarily called home. It's a smell, a conversation, an NPR report. It's the jerk from behind my belly button pulling me back.

And yet I know there's nothing left there. We all spoke, in the last days, about going back, but the conclusion was that it could never be recreated, it could never be the same. And it won't be.

But I miss the cultural conversations, not just South African, but everything. I miss snippets of German flying between my ears (and most certainly out of them again, sans comprehension), I miss black tea (regular tea, don't call it black, they'll think you're being racist), I miss samoosas on Saturday nights and badly fried chips, I miss take aways and the miserable walk to the laundry and Long St by night. I miss stumbling home and fumbling with the gates (oh the gates!) and I miss the sun and the mountains and the city....but what is it that I'm really doing?

We bronze our memories, immortalizing them to gleam in the light, and we forget that they'll never be like that - that they never were like that to begin with.

I've been struggling with that lately. The gleam. I've bronzed a lot of memories, made them comfortable and safe, glossed over rough edges. But to return to those nights, to those infinite moments, would be miserable, I think. I watch everyone around me strive for their pasts, stretched equally in their search for their futures, and they're forgetting that none of those things are so imporant as these quiet moments in which we listen to the hum of the central air, in which we roll down the windows in January for a glimpse of promised spring, in which we fully absorb what we are, who we are...currently.

We can gloss these moments over later. But for now, I want them to saturate my skin and make me whole; I want them to chase me and engulf me and I want to come up gasping for air as though I've jumped off that bridge again and forgotten how to breathe.

We're poor and we're happy and we just don't know it yet, because we're so worried about the rest of it all. It's coming, we can't stop it, might as well dance around while we can. Your miserable future self will someday look back at your miserable present self and wish for this again. Fight the gleam, you're in it.

Fear and chicken salad.

We're 5 posts away from 500 - which is pretty exciting. "A Mile High and Then Some..." is celebrating it's fourth year on this planet and I'm celebrating the fact that I still have topics of conversation.

But today, it's chicken salad. And fear. But the fear part comes in a little bit later.

I love chicken salad. The only problem is that when it's bad, it's horrible. While there have been instances of mediocre chicken salad in the history of the product, it usually tends to fall on opposite ends of the spectrum. I'm currently fork-deep in some from King Soopers, and it's mediocre. It needs more lemon juice, more pepper, more salt, less red onion. Good balance of celery and grape, perhaps a pinch more tarragon.
I'm currently salivating at the thought of Costco's chicken salad. They have the best rotisserie chicken, hands down, and their chicken noodle soup (made from that chicken) is divine. And super cheap. One of these days, I'm going to have to get some.
I worry that people are forgetting how to cook home cooked things. Not fine dining, that will exist forever in some form or another. But things like baked goods, meatloaf, casseroles - all the hallmarks of suburbia, of the housewife, the busy mother who manages to get dinner on the table every night by 6. I want to learn how to cook. I want to be able to bring flavor into dishes without having to get the ingredients from a box.
But I guess lots of people my age can cook.
And I guess it won't be that hard.

But on to fear. Suddenly, I don't have much to say about it.

I've moved my desk back into the conference room so I can shut the door when I'm on the phone. Which is supposed to be pretty consistently. It's not as easy as it sounds. I do enjoy the cave-like atmosphere.

Grumbling, as usual

Another wild weekend leads to another busy week.

However, I have purchased bookshelves.
Two of them.

And hopefully tonight I will have them in my room and I will feel like I live there.

Also, I have some bones to pick with both Google (Blogger) and Tumblr.
Google won't accept the fact that I want to make my Gmail address my primary on this account. They refuse to let the two merge together although I no longer actively use my Loyola e-mail address. Actually, it might not even be mine forever.
And then what?
What happens when the next kbarry3@luc.edu wants to get her own blog?
What happens when I've completely forgotten that I was kbarry3@luc.edu?

And Tumblr. I adore my new layout but it's impossible for people to comment. Ironically, that's the blog where I'd like to have comments. My family reads this blog but doesn't comment (even though it's super easy to do) but my friends are unable to do so on my Tumblr.

Ugh, technology does have its limits.
How about making it all a little bit more intuitive?
(I'm talking to you too Constant Contact!)

Food Inc.

I'm not good with food.
It's not that I don't like it - I like most everything except fish and spicy things, and even that is starting to change. I now crave shrimp sometimes, and I'll happily eat mussels in pasta. I ate half a scallop on a date once. South Africa really got me into spicy. I can eat medium salsa without complaint and now put jalepenos on things.

Everyone makes fun of me. I don't eat meals (often). I much prefer to just eat throughout the day. If I had my way, I'd be constantly eating but not that much. And not that much variety.

Today, I was nearly late for work because at 8:25 this morning I decided to make a pan of spinach. Why? I don't know. Why not?
But it has made for a delicious lunch. I put some olives on it at first and then decided to make a wrap. Lacking some sort of sauce, I put cream cheese in the wrap (it's one of those health ones that tastes like sawdust and hell but you're still going to eat it anyway) and then put in warm spinach, olives, cheddar cheese and turkey. Cover that in pepper and you've got a meal.

But that's weird. The other night, I realized that salt and vinegar chips can be dipped into mustard potato salad with great success. (I'm serious, try it.)

That and my one entree, mustard chicken. Oh man, delicious. Spicy mustard (the deli kind) and then honey on the chiekn and you do some baking and some stabbing and some dipping- it tastes like the best memory of chicken nuggets from childhood minus all the fried bits.

I can also make a mean chicken salad.
Or spinach bacon salad.
Or BLTs.
Or bacon oatmeal.
Or bacon mac-and-cheese.

Starting to see the theme?

I'm a much better baker than I am a cook, although I don't know that that's saying too much about my baking skills. Or my cooking skills.

Ryan made me dinner last night: lamb things, proscuitto wrapped vegetables, and asparagus, yum! He kept saying he was worried he'd have too many leftovers becuase I wouldn't eat it anyway, but I think he was surprised when I asked for seconds.
But all of that was to his severe detriment becuase now he's going to have provide meals on that level at least twice a month.

Some stuff I threw into a text box

Not having an internet connection at home is really starting to stunt my creativity - well, sort of. I spend my 8 hours a day at work thinking about what I want to write, but once I get in front of a computer, it's all gone. This week, though, internet! Yay!

I've been limping through a cold this week. I'm not sick enough to miss work or stay home, but I'm coughing and miserable. The cat is quite bothered when I interrupt his sleep with my coughing; he lifts his head up and looks at me, bending his ears back in annoyance. Then he'll turn, knead my blankets (or sometimes me) with his claws, and then settle back in, tucking his paws under him.

Carlos has settled in really well. He hardly leaves me alone. I wake up with him next to me, or on me, or at my feet. He's adorable, furry, perfect.

We're really loving the new apartment - it's so big! I can hear the traffic on 17th constantly; it rocks me to sleep, reminds me of Chicago. The neighborhood is great. It's crazy and wonderful - this morning I saw a woman with a mullet walking across the street while talking on her bluetooth ear piece. Love this. Love my life.

Cape Town Down

I'm slowly losing South Africa.
Today, I got an e-mail telling me that I'm no longer the mayor of Wynberg Train Station.
I loved sitting there, waiting for the train, sticking my pale legs out so they might catch some afternoon sun, watching, always watching.
And the train going toward Cape Town would come and suddenly the train station would become a blur of activity and when the train pulled away, the platform was empty except the thick line of people streaming out into Wynberg.
Minutes later, my train would come. I'd stand, deciding whether or not I should move one way or the other to get a better spot on the train. You always had to stand toward Cape Town when you were riding the MetroRail - that's the first class spot - that's where you're less likely to get robbed.
Clutching my backpack (with computer in it), I'd stand, holding onto the warm metal pole, lurching as the train started moving, trying not to make too much eye contact with anyone. You sit, and you watch, and you wait.
Steurhof slid by. Priscilla worked at a hospital off that stop.
Heathfield, Retreat.
I always got up too fast after the train left Retreat station. Then everyone would stare at me because I was the white girl standing. I think it made me look lost.
In the beginning, before I had affected the causal swing the locals did, I would stand straight, stiff, staring ahead. Later, I'd wait until the train had nearly pulled into the station before standing, shouldering my bag and stepping off the train to go jump off the tracks.
I always loved the shocked way they'd look - especially days when I was in something like my business dress. I'd daintily put my hand on the concrete, bending my knees slightly, and then I'd jump, gingergly step across the tracks and continue home. I don't think they ever got over that one.

I miss the bricks, I miss the train, I miss the graffiti.
South Africa, don't ever leave me.

New to you, but not really

Oh, my college friends are lovely people, but their blogging platforms are just so inconvenient.

They've all started blogging on Tumblr, and to make things easy, I decided to start using mine again as well. My one loyal Tumblr fan, Grandma Mary, will be excited by this news, as the Tumblr has just been overhauled to include a new layout and some fancy poetry (but I think it's poetry I already posted here a long time ago).

Anyway, since you have a bunch of iPads and some spare time (hubris forced me to make that comment, I swear...I'm not assuming you have spare time at all, really, because no one does), save this address http://katiebarry.tumblr.com/ and then go to it periodically.

I'm hoping to integrate a more personal look at my life here and then thoughts, links, my rantings about feminist news there.
Or whatever.

In theory, there will be a link to this post over there so you'll be able to tell when I've been updating.

Blah blah blah, anyway, I'm just super jazzed on the layout. It's not something I'd normally pick.

Slutty doesn't equal Feminist!

No, no, no, no, NO!
Duke student makes PowerPoint and then the world goes wild and some people hail her as a feminist, which is utter bullshit.
If you've got some time today, read those two articles.

Perhaps you've seen the longer article on my Facebook page; Madeline posted it there earlier this week. It's about how a female student at Duke made a PowerPoint presentation about her sexual encounters throughout college and is now being hailed as some sort of feminist.
In actuality, there was nothing inherently feminist about her behavior.
Yes, she had a lot of casual sex. That in itself does not define feminism at all. She was used by these men, none of whom seemed to have any respect for her.

Respect is the key to this sexual equality idea. Without respect, there can be no sexual equality. Even if someone is under the impression that they've somehow been sexually liberated by their attempts to chronicle their college days and rate the men they've had sex with, they're not equal. This was a sad attempt at taking back power, power that Karen Owen never had. Why no power? No respect.

Karen Owen, the girl who made the PowerPoint, was not engaged in equal sexual activity. She was used by men and then tossed aside. One guy wouldn't even open the door for her to give her back her earrings, instead telling her that he'd leave them outside his door. Instead of being wildly offended, hurt, disappoined, even, she just gave him a lower score on her list.

And self-respect?
None, apparently, as evidenced by her PowerPoint presentation. She might be blind, but it's so obvious. Her own words have sold her as nothing more than a drunk girl desperate for love but looking in all the wrong places. I don't go to bars so that I can stand in corners and take shots and wait for men to prey on me. I go to enjoy myself, regardless of whether or not there are going to be men there.

There are a ton of definitions for "feminist," but Karen Owen fits none of them and I'm ashamed that women everywhere are proud of her, praising her actions. One woman quoted in the first article says that she wishes she could have been as brave as Karen when she was younger.

Brave?
I hesitated to use this word earlier, but I'm so annoyed that I'm just going to have to call her "slutty." No part of her experiences could have been positive for women. One nights stands with thirteen men? It's not the number that bothers me, it's the fact that she seems so okay with the way that she was treated. It's one thing to be actively engaged in a female-positive sex life (which can include multiple partners) so long as proper consideration and consent are given.

And the article goes on to blame alcohol for the way that women are acting. Ha, women? Alcohol? Maybe we are abusing alcohol at 4 times the rate we used to (men's abuse has remained stagnant) but that's all part of equality and we've got to accept it. I don't think that our drinking is making us more sexually pliable by any means.
We're trying to level with men. But we're not succeeding, certainly not if we continue to let ourselves be used the way that Karen Owen was.

I'm out of time and will have to edit this later, but here's what I put on Facebook:


Wow - read the article and the PowerPoint. I'm incredibly annoyed by both.


No part of me thinks that her sexual behavior should be linked in any way with feminism or equality. She's no Tucker Max (don't get me started on him). She's just som...e dumb girl looking for love in all the places.

She's no feminist, no poster child for sexual liberation. No one should be championing her cause, putting her up on a pedestal of bravery. There's nothing wrong with being half sex kitten, half soccer mom, but there is a problem when there's no respect behind all that and Karen Owen obviously doesn't have a strong-willed bone in her body.

It should be noted that when you are intoxicated, you can't legally consent to sex.

And the whole rough sex bit - everyone has rough sex. Rough sex done right won't leave marks. Yeah, dominance has its place but that place is not in public. It's not at a college bar and it's most definitely not in the bedrooms of these athletes. Clumsy attempts at masculinity should not be allowed to give rough sex/dominance-submission play a bad name.

If I engaged in sexual activity (I was going to write "fucked" but my grandma will read it) with a man who wouldn't even open the door to let me have my earrings back, I'd be beyond furious and I'd reevaluate who I was banging. But Karen Owen doesn't even seem to think that's a huge problem. Yeah, it results in a lower score, but it should have resulted in a swift kick to the nuts as well. (Yeah, I just advocated for violence, whatever. You can send Tucker Max after me if you want.)

She's obviously intelligent enough to go to Duke (I wouldn't go to Duke if they paid me) so she should have been intelligent enough to make better decisions - that being said, better decisions are sometimes not fucking everything that moves and demanding respect from dudes you bang. The whole home-from-the-bar-and-straight-into-bed move is done, it's played out.

Grow up, Karen Owen, and keep you sexual exploits to yourself. It's one thing to be sexually liberated with a pinch of slutty, but it's downright embarrassing to have no self-respect. Maybe discretion comes with maturity.

Parenting: Strictly Speaking

I was browsing the New York Times over lunch today when I came across a debate about parenting styles. Amy Chua, a Yale professor, published an article talking about a very strict, regimented parenting style that was effective, which has spurred debate.

I know that I come from a generation that is constantly needing hand-holding and guidance, because we were raised in a very everything-you-do-is-wonderful-and-so-are-you sort of environment. We're incapable of self motivation and are nervous and shy about approaching authority figures. We have a sick sense of entitlement, but that entitlement isn't deserved.

But at the same time, some of us flourish in that free-space. My creativity and self-awareness stems from having the opportunitites to grow on my own and being given the space to test and define limits and boundaries.
I may have tattoos (read the text below), but they weren't gotten because of the need to be rebellious or the need to expose myself as an individual. Thanks to my parents (Mom, mostly), I already knew who I was as an individual and I already knew how to get myself in enough trouble without having to go too far.
In high school, during those few rough years where boundaries blurred with angst and self-esteem was below low, my mom was consistent with her actions, supportive when she needed to be and mean when that was required, but she was never unfair.
She never took away something necessary (like a ride to school) because of something I'd done to upset her (like talk back or fail to clean my room). She did take away my car when I snuck out, but even then, I was allowed to drive it to work. I was able to keep work and school away from punishments, something Dad never figured out how to do.
You can take away earning power and expect your children to grow up as successful, independent adults capable of entering the work force.
It was up to me to flex my independence within the set boundaries, and in doing so, I was able to "live dangerously" (every teenager's real desire) without actually putting myself in harm's way.
That, my friends, is expert parenting.
I graduated from a private college in four years and have entered the moderately corporate world with no arrests on my record and no major slip-ups to report.


When Parents Feel Out of Control


Updated January 14, 2011, 02:01 PM



Karen Karbo, a novelist and memoirist, is the author of "The Gospel According to Coco Chanel: Life Lessons from the World’s Most Elegant Woman."



When my daughter was born in 1992, the late great Portland cartoonist John Callahan made her birth announcement. It was a drawing of her father and me peering into her carriage and exclaiming, “Maybe she’ll be a doctor, a lawyer, or Japanese!” We liked how it poked fun of our parental expectations, which were so ridiculously high they included our kid's possible transformation into a different (stereotypically driven and successful) nationality.



It's true that we, as parents, have erred in downplaying how competitive life is, and how difficult it is to truly excel..It’s hard to accept that by bringing a child into the world we’re creating a hostage to fortune. We live in impossibly difficult times. I don’t think I need to make a list. Amy Chua’s child-rearing manifesto speaks directly to this fear. It claims, in essence, that if we follow her draconian regimen -- refuse sleepovers, enforce hours of violin practice that makes elite Romanian gymnasts look like nose-picking slackers -- we, too, will manufacture happy, secure summa cum laudes who never rebel, suffer an existential crisis, or spend their allowance on an unfortunate tattoo. It presumes that we can prevent our kids from hurt, harm and disappointment. It’s a fantasy of control and protection in times that seem out of control and scary.



That said, a pragmatic philosophy offers some much-needed correctives to a culture of parenting where our children’s every random scribble and shoe box diorama is lauded as pure genius, where trophies are awarded simply for showing up. We have erred in downplaying how competitive life is, and how difficult it is to truly excel. One of the toughest lessons I tried to impart to my daughter is that you need to work as hard as you possibly can to achieve excellence, and sometimes even then you fall short.



Our daughter has not shown any interest in becoming a doctor or a lawyer, but she’s attending a college she loves where she gets good grades and has made good friends. Recently, she said, “I’m so happy. Even the worst day is the best day.” That’s about as good as it gets in my book. But then again, since I was the mom who hosted the aforementioned ruinous sleepovers, my standards are pretty low.

No clotting here

Pharmacist Refuses to Fill Anti-Bleeding Drug

This article discusses an incident in Idaho where a pharmacist denied a woman her prescription because it wasn't clear if she'd had an abortion or not. (The drug in question stops bleeding after childbirth or medical abortions.) The pharmacist apparently called to specifically asked if the drug was need for post-abortion care and due to privacy laws, wasn't able to find out the answer. Apparently, the pharmacist refused to fill the prescription and then refusecd to direct the prescription elsewhere.
Disciplinary action has been taken, but I sincerely hope that they fired that pharmacist.

Seriously?
Anti-bleeding? Becuase bleeding, no matter the cause, is usually a bad sign. Sometimes it leads to death. Whatever the motive behind the denial, I think it's irresponsible. Don't become a pharmacist if you can't dish out what's prescribed, be it anti-bleeding, antivirals, whatever.

I'd also be curious to find out the gender of the pharmacist.

Home

Apartment hunting is hard.
Basically, we need: a two bedroom that allows cats.
What we want, however, is a different story: two bathrooms, dishwasher, washer/dryer, parking.
But, living in that very first apartment taught me a lot about "necessities." You can actually live without most of them. In fact, sometimes it's easier. Although, I will say that having a washer/dryer would really make my life a lot better.

We have our first showing today.
Located at First and Logan, this 550 square foot (yes, I did say 550) charmer is two bedrooms and comes with everything (EVERYTHING - cable, internet, heat, trash...etc.) included except electricity for $950 per month. It has parking, though.
But seriously? 550 sq feet?

Tomorrow, I have a noon appointment to view a Capital Hill 2 bedroom that's 800 square feet (more my size) and $965 for two people with gas/electricity/cable/internet extra. And no parking.

I'm also looking at a place off of 11th in Lowry - SPACIOUS (double the size of the first one) 2 bed/2 bath (a bathtub, oh my) with walk-in closets, a patio, washer/dryer, and parking. But, this place is kind of far away from everything and is $950 per month with nothing included.

So....we'll see how this goes.

The options have begun to lay themselves out and I think it'll be interesting to see where we end up. Right now, I'm very excited about the 10th Ave Cap Hill apt. But we'll see.

Stitches, or why I have an ugly middle finger

Pineapple can, late evening, end of December. It was one of those no-can-opener-necessary sort of deals, and I am obviously way too much of a moron to open cans without a can opener, and so I spent a night gushing blood and then the next day getting lectured and then being sewn back together.

I've never had stitches before, I hope I don't ever have to have them again. They hurt. A lot. They're inconvenient and messy, but super cool to look at.

So now, I have three of the four out of my finger. One has to stay because if it was removed, there would have been more blood, which is not the intended outcome. So it will live in me until it can come out. I imagine that in the next few days I'll be able to pop it right out.

Ew.

But I took this picture on my cell phone. Great resolution, right??

Work and a working marriage.

I'm going to address two things today, the first being occupation-related and the second being women related.
Of course.

I've been put to work, officially. I'm now sitting in my office (a converted conference room with a clear view of the front whole bit of the office) making quality assurance calls to existing customers. But I have my own computer, my own email address, my own phone with a direct line, and my own space. I'm quite pleased with it all.
I got gas station coffee on the way to work this morning. It's been a constant reminder all day that perhaps the nightlife doesn't mix as well as might be anticipated with the working life. That alarm is a harsh reminder of the real world.
My first few calls were a bit rough, but I was practicing on all of the people in the office. They were making up ridiculous problems and laughing as I verbally stumbled around them, but in the end, all has gone smoothly.

But on to real things, really.

Yesterday, I came across this article and thought it well worth commenting on.

 Women Really Want to Marry a Rich Man
Wow.
I had a discussion with a few people about it yesterday, but I'm under the impression personally that the reason many successful women might want to marry a rich man is because of the implications of intelligence and motivation, desirable qualities in a partner. If a woman sees herself as intelligent and successful, she will obviously want to find herself an intellectual equal. Generally, you have to smart to get rich. (This is not to say that there aren't smart people who aren't rich, it's just that few people can maintain a successful career trajectory without some semblance of intelligence.)
I want to marry a rich man, that's not a lie. I don't want to struggle financially as we navigate our lives, but if he's only rich in monetary value and not in character, then the marriage would never survive.
However, I see that there are possible advantages to having one person working in the house, be it the male or the female. Marriage often results in children, and if one parent's salary seems to only cover external household labor expenses (childcare, cleaning, general upkeep, etc), then it might make sense that that parent would stay home to do those things rather than contracting them out to other people.
Conversely, I believe that if one parent is constantly at home doing family labor and the other is out in the corporate world (or some other type of business setting), the marriage might also suffer as a lack of commonality between the two. With less to talk about and less in common, the two people might begin to pursue other interests or activities separately rather than being able to maintain a working dialogue stemming from a single experience set.

I guess in the long run, what I really want is to marry a smart man.
Idiocy is such a dealbreaker.

Employment

This is my first blog from work!
(I don't know if there will be many to come, but perhaps, so we'll mark the occasion just in case.)

I've been getting settled in the past couple of days, and so while things are still new, I've got some time on my hands. It does remind me of African time, though.
My capacity as telemarketer will lead me into unknown territory but I do believe I shall manage. There are a bunch of trade shows coming up, so after those, I'll be busy attempting to manage the prospective clients.
But for now, I am content to be employed.

Soon will come the apartment; the hunt has already started.
And after that will come the second job, to make all those loose ends meet.

One day, I'll be salaried somewhere, reminiscing about those days post-college, when I was dirt poor and loving my life. I often wonder if that nostalgia will happen, although I certainly hope that my life only increases in wonder as I age.

But it begins slowly, without fear, and for that, I am also grateful. It will blend into a routine and soon enough, it will be the daily grind. The commute, the coffee, the dry-clean only clothing piling up somewhere. All of that, and hopefully a lot more.
I hope to learn a lot while I'm here about office structure, information systems, law software, and everything else I can take. It's going to be a grand adventure.

Sometimes there's just too much to say. 

I'll attempt to do a moderately sane recap of the past few weeks and then we can progress smoothly into the new year. 

Tonight is my last night of cat-and-apartment sitting. I have really enjoyed both being downtown and also being with Carlos. He slips into bed with me at night and curls up next to my shoulders, usually wrapping his paws around my arms or nestling his head against my hand. We've resumed our routine, and for that I am glad. 

I was furious at John one night after he insinuated that Carlos missed Jacob, but he's since recanted enough to appease me and agreed that Carlos is a different cat for Jacob than he is for me. Alas, one major difference is the counter-jumping. In Chicago, there was never a kitchen issue for me. He didn't jump on the counters, or walk across the stove, and I most certainly never found him atop the refrigerator. 

However, John was telling me that one night, he saw Carlos on the counter at Jacobs, licking a stick of butter. When he heard about it, Jacob's reaction was, "Wow, I wondered why that stick of butter was going so quickly." No wonder my cat is so fat - he's sharing butter. 

Also, he snores. 

I've really enjoyed being so very close to the heart of Denver - if it was warmer, I'd be able to walk to anything. New Year's Eve, I had dinner with Emily and Madeline here and then we walked down to the bars and then walked back at the close of the evening. 

It was much like last year. We were at the Ginn Mill for awhile then declared it boring, but were unfortunate enough to end up at the Sports Column, where I realized that classy is all relative. Madeline and I spent a good hour trying to evade a horrible, close-talker of a man with horrible close-talking hair who claimed to be both Nordic and then Puerto Rican. I dissed his Spanish and then told him I was South African. That got into the whole "what makes an African American" argument, which we promptly won. 

Then the Nordic invasion of Britain started. Oh dear god, never cross Madeline Hosanna in a bar with history. Also, thank god for the first set of Irish the summer before our senior year of college. The Battle of Hastings. 1066. I'll never forget the date. 

Post midnight we ended up back at the Ginn Mill. Happily, we all found interesting men to talk to and the night progressed amicably. After the bars closed, we found another of our friends and took the whole party back. Coffee and bagels rounded out the morning. 

A delightful evening. 

Carlos

Waking up with cat wrapped around my arms is really lovely.
I've figured out that his allegiance lies with whoever is feeding him - so of course, I gave him exactly what he wanted.  I think perhaps he's figured out that I'm his adopted mother, although I'm not entirely sure. We're working on it.

This, and that. Among other things.

(What follow is purely emotional venting - you know I'm big on feelings and on that whole experience, so forgive me for detailing it all so intensely. If you're not familiar with this particular family dynamic, there's no point in attempting to further your knowledge with this post - so look elsewhere for your daily entertainment. You certainly won't find it here, at least not today.)

It's about to get a little heavy, though. Don't say you weren't warned.

I'm not big on Christmas.
I used to like it, I think, but as the years have passed, I've become more and more of a Scrooge about the whole ordeal.
Because it really is an ordeal to me.

I love Christmas lights, Christmas trees, the flutter you feel when you've found the exact right gift for someone you love. I love driving in the dark on those bitterly cold nights looking at lights. I love seeing our Christmas tree weighted down under the ornaments; I love remembering how much they all mean to me.

There's the sparkling ice cream cone to commemorate my years of Dairy Queen servitude, the pink car I got when I was 16, the mugs tilted on their sides showing a family of mice baking cookies (my personal favorite ornament), Mike's fishing stuff, the Broncos ones, the crystal ones, the doves, the homemade ones, the glass ones...everything. Some are dated, some aren't, some get more love than others, but each year my Mom wraps them all individually and puts them back in the boxes they came from and then we haul them down the stairs where they'll wait patiently for the next year.

I don't like remembering. I don't like Christmas.
It brings back really bad memories.

I automatically tense up when the holidays approach - I feel them coming as the weight gradually settles around my shoulders and I prepare to grit my teeth and get on with it. I know I'm old enough to have grown out of these stupid little moods, but there are times when I can't quite manage to keep it all together. I try, really, but somehow, something always slips through my defenses and nags at me until it has all come undone.

This year was no exception. It was all going well enough. For the second year in a row, I was watching Danny's dog Emma, who comes with a free house to stay in for a few days. I was taking advantage of a quiet bathtub and an adorable dog and an empty house.
We'd made plans to go to one Grandma's house on Christmas Eve (as usual) and then more plans to see the other side of the family the next day.
I felt that something was off, so when I finished Christmas Eve dinner and checked the text messages, I immediately knew something was wrong.

"Merry Christmas!! hey we now have plans tomorrow, but would love to cu guys soon. What's tom's #?"
6:13 pm.

My heart sank. I'd even spoken with Mom about this exact scenario. I'd seen it coming, but foolishly believed it wouldn't happen.
How foolish I was. You can't trust anyone, of course. There's no point in convincing yourself it's possible.
I spent the rest of the night holding in tears. Mom saw this, the eventual breakdown was sliding toward us, and ushered me home to go look after the dog. She saw the pain shooting through me, the hurt feelings. I rarely get my feelings hurt. I try to be tough enough, but every now and then....Christmas, and I was off-guard.

I love the family elements of Christmas - and I was beginning to think that pulling off family time wasn't going to be so difficult. It never is with Mom's family. I've come to realize over the years that they are the most family I have, really. They're never to busy to see us, they go out of their way to do things together, they help each other.

Like this:

Uncle Mike, my mom's brother-in-law, took a few days off to drive me to college my freshman year. Even though all the boys claimed they were just in it for the Cubs tickets (which I'm sure wasn't a huge lie), they were sweet enough to make the drive and then leave me. They still tease me about how much of a mess I was when they left. I can see Uncle Mike now, imitating my voice, crying, as they left. "Don't leave me, I'll go to DU, I swear! Take me with you!" I'm eternally grateful for their help, and I sincerely hope they weren't too scarred by my hysteria.
I'm the only girl grandchild on that side - you can imagine how they react to me. They understand more than they let on - they all had sisters - but that doesn't mean they don't take every opportunity to tease me. Christmas Eve, Uncle Mike was sitting telling me that my shoes made my ankles look skinny. Implicit in that remark was that they were fat enough to need to look skinny. He paused, then said, "What are they called? Cankles?" A lightning fast surge of fury shot through me, followed by a comfortable warmth and then a smile.
It was well-played, I have to admit. All the boys were laughing to themselves while I protested mildly about cankles.
That's the kind of family that you want around you.

Christmas Eve, my brother Mike came home with me. I was on the verge of tears and furious. We walked the dog and he let me vent at him. Then he sat with me and we watched tv for a couple of hours late into the night - long enough that a calm had come over me. I'm grateful that he did that for me - he knew exactly what I needed without even asking.

Christmas Day was fine. We saw Dad's new apartment. He cried, but that wasn't unexpected. We dug through his garage and found retro Broncos sweaters from the '80s, which we immediately claimed.
I rocked one of them for the game yesterday. Not a bad look, I must say.

It was Boxing Day when the phone rang and Dad's mom was on the other line. I could hear the guilt creeping through her voice, I know that's why she called me. I wasn't in the mood to play nice, so I told her exactly what I was (am) feeling.

That it's bullshit to call and cancel on us at 7 pm on Christmas Eve, that we're not stupid enough to think that "other plans" aren't just the regular plan minus us.
"Maybe they'll make it up to you," she said softly. I snorted into the phone. "Not likely," I told her. "They never do."

And so it was. I stated my case, told her how this always happens just because her side of the family doesn't want to see Dad, told her that Mike and I are independent adults who are capable of father-free actions, that we're sick of feeling left out like that.

(If it's not because they don't want to see Dad, then I have no idea what it could possibly be. I've spent so much time trying to be the niece and granddaughter they want me to be and I've finally given that up. I've tried to show them that I'm not off doing drugs - as Dad used to tell them - and that my life is on track. Hello, does my Bachelor's degree from a Catholic university mean nothing to them?
I can only think of once, maybe. We were little - I was fifteen. They found a lighter in their house and assumed it was mine. [It wasn't.] I never explained that to them, but if that's what it is, it's been way overblown. That was 8 years ago. I babysat their kids a week ago, so it can hardly be the lighter thing, right? I'm responsible, respectful, polite. I answer the kids' questions in a very PC way that no one should be able to find fault with. I'm a pro-babysitter, remember? It's my job to assist in child raising, not de-rail it.)

"You always have Christmas Eve with your Mom's family," she said. That fact has nothing to do with it. I wasn't invited to any Christmas Eve thing on Dad's side, so how can that be played as a card?
She was crying, and soon, so was I.
"It's really shitty to cry on Christmas Eve," I told her. "It's shitty to feel left out by your own family. Rejected like that."
"My hands are tied," she said. I disagree.
"Do you want to see them?" she asked.
"Why would I want to see people who have no interest in seeing me?" I asked, before I had to hang up because I was crying so much.

The divorce didn't have to put us in the middle like that. It's stupid that ten years later, we're still paying for the mistakes of our parents. It didn't have to come down to one side of the family against the other, but it's looking like we've got a clear winner.
And no, Dad, this one's not about money. It's about family and yours obviously doesn't think that we belong.

Again, that Christmas refrain: Bad memories and a sour taste.

The "Hamventure"

We were sitting in Starbucks, sipping coffee and catching when, out of nowhere, I shouted, "Oh my god! It's Monday! We have to get a ham!"

I pushed back my seat, tossed my coffee cup in the trash, and barreled out the front door with a very confused Madeline trailing behind me.
We put the address into the GPS and somehow ended up at 29th and Havana, which is in the middle of the Stapleton development in Aurora.

"Turn left on Beeler," the GPS announced.

"Is there a Beeler?" Maddie asked.

"Beeler?....Beeler?"

We found it and turned and ended up having to make a long drive back to Havana and Yale. It included a desperate phone call to the Honey Baked Ham people asking them their cross streets.

As it turns out, the GPS had decided to remove the "South" direction and instead had routed us north.
It turned out to be a delicious adventure indeed, with free smoked turkey samples and a ham sandwich along the way.

Grandma was quite pleased with the outcome, although I was sure she was worried that I'd entirely neglected my duties. (I hadn't, obviously.)


However, this whole "hamventure" leads me to believe that I'm still not entirely confident in my re-adoption of my mental Denver map. I have been getting lost in dumb places for dumb reasons. The other night, I was trying to get on 6th heading west from Santa Fe, and for some reason, completely missed 8th and ended up having to do the Kalamath loop. It was a mess. I was a mess.
Those little things really throw me.

But alas, given enough time, the city will be mine again.

The hunt has begun

I love my family.

Today, we fought about Michael Vick (who should not be allowed to play professional sports), the Eagles, and the Giants (which Manning is the hot one - Eli, obviously). We ate chicken (which I made to Mike's dismay yet which later became moderate approval. "It wasn't so bad," he said. "I thought it was going to kill me."), Mike made a Starbucks run (sweetly bringing back a latte for Mom and I), and things were generally copacetic.

We are currently in the middle of a heated (yet hilarious) non-argument about our future housing.

The situation is thus:

It all comes back to that damned cat. Seriously, single mothers have it rough.

I'm desperate for my own place.
Having lived alone, having loved that apartment in Chicago so intensely, and having tasted the sweet freedom of "my apartment," I'm loathe to linger here longer than I must.
However, the financial situation remains dire to say the least.
Complicating the whole situation is Cat/Carlos, who remains in the capable hands of my friend Jacob, yet who cannot live there forever.

My deadline is February 1.
The other day I found a too-good-to-be-true apartment downtown and emailed the guy out of curiosity only to find out that it was indeed too-good-to-be-true. Credit check prior to viewing? Ha, I think not, internet scam man.

I'm itching. I think it's the cat. (That was a cute little allergy pun just for Mom.)
I love that Jacob loves Cat, but he's mine, and I want him. I'm jealous that Jacob gets to live with him and I seriously think that five months of cat-care is long enough. Jacob wants his life back and I want my cat.

Mom is pestering us with questions about how we'll sort out things like food and blah, blah, blah, and Mike is silent. We've lived together for years, we'll sort it out.
He only pipes up whenever I say I wouldn't mind sharing a bathroom with him. He complains of girly products and clothes, I complain equally of sweaty gym socks and eau-de-man.

And thus nothing is settled and as usual, I'm the only one remotely agitated (not seriously, but a smidgeon). Mom's smirking that very pleased smirk while she crochets and Mike might be comatose on the couch.

And thus, the family dynamic remains strong: the evil matriarch, the quiet, reserved son, and the headstrong, stubborn, resilient (and might I add stunning) daughter.

It (which Mom has termed "our fireside chats") goes a little something like this:

"On some issues, I stand as evil mother and it doesn't bother me a bit. I notice that no one on the couch is agreeing with you..."

The couch stirs. "I'm staying out of it."

"See, that means he agrees with me."

"Mike, do you agree with her?"

"No. I don't agree with anyone."

It's never boring here, but I have the sneaking suspicion that none of us would have it any other way.

December Rundown - Employment Update

When I'm looking through my blog posts, I find that I rarely have large gaps of time when I don't have much to say, but even so, I can always tell when I'm simply writing to fill space and time, as if I feel obligated to write but have nothing to say.

This is one of those times.

I'm alone, I'm broke, I live at my mom's house, and I'm currently ten pounds above what I normally weigh. But I'm absolutely content. I'm so alright with everything that's going on at the moment. I'm positive, optimistic, radiant with promise.

It's strange and yet not unwelcome.

I've got a job, sort of. I'll be starting after the first of the year and I'll be doing cold calling and quality control for a software company that does law software.
It's $10 per hour and 40 hours per week, which is fine with me considering I'm currently making $0 per hour all hours of the week.

I've applied at Verizon.
I've applied at MSCD (UCD was going to be too much of a hassle - something about restrictions for non-degree students, etc.) to just take random math and business classes to see if that's what I really want to do with my life.
I have a brand new (gorgeous) resume.


By the way, I adore you.
Just so you know.

Before I start: good luck to Uncle Mike, who is undergoing his first ever (and hopefully last ever) knee replacement surgery.
I hope that the healing process is swift, nearly painless, and positive for him and his family.

The last two weeks haven't been the most productive, but they've certainly been interesting.
I think everything is going to be alright, but then again, there's no other option, is there?

I went dancing on Friday night. Big deal, you're thinking. And you're right, except for one small thing. I danced entirely un-self-consciously. I danced and I was and I didn't care who was looking. That was a beautiful thing for me.

What flu?

I would like to take this opportunity to thank John Watterson for the flu-like symptoms I'm currently experiencing.
He's at home sick today after being ambushed by fever yesterday afternoon at work.
I woke up with the stuffy nose and sore throat combo that is guaranteed to sideline me for the weekend.
However, there is a lot of living I've still got to do, so hopefully an afternoon spent curled up with soup and television will be able to get me ready for an evening of hipster bar hopping with Emily.

Cross those fingers, world.

I still own a Wii, maybe I should be playing that instead.

It's 6:30.
I've been awake since three forty.

It might be jet lag - I've been off since I got home - not hungry, not sleeping, always tired.

It might be everything.

I want to go to Chicago in January for a nice weekend away. I want to see everyone.

I need to stop writing little posts of nothing, I know that. But the other day, I was in the shower thinking (seriously that's where the best thinking gets done) and I was wondering if I come across as too whiny or self-absorbed in my blogs.
Of course, self-absorption is a necessary blog-evil, but I wonder if I accurately portray my perceptions of things and my world views.
I feel the need to share things - it's how I process. I don't care if no one reads this, it's therapeutic to type it out while I'm not consciously thinking about anything. Then I look down and everything is right in front of me.

But anyway, I'm restructuring my five year plan and trying to make everything fall into place. But I think the problem there is "make." You can't make anything fall into place. Everything falls in, you can nudge and push and rearrange, but at the end of the day, certain things are out of your hands.

Life is one of those funny things that will leave you behind if you just don't go along with it sometimes.

So for now I'm nudging, trying to find my way in this new, permanent Denver. I'm looking forward to reading - it's something I have really missed the last few years. I'm looking forward to a job and an apartment. I'm looking forward to settling into a routine.

I'm free floating now and I'm not entirely sure I like it but at the same time, I'm happy to be the free spirit that I am and I'm hoping to nurture that sense of independent adventure.

I want to hike and climb and go sandboarding and learn how to snowboard. I want to get back in the good graces of the Denver Public Library so that I can be allowed to sit downtown and spend an entire afternoon reading. I want to import wine from South Africa. I want to sit in dark bars and have long conversations. I want to work so that I can afford my own space and afford to leave it so I can travel the world. I want to see everything. But mostly I want to see beaches. All of them.

I'm excited. This free floating is tinged with fear but also glowing with promise. And that's the best part. The free fall can't last forever. It will have to end. And when it does, the solidity that emerges will be exact. Exactly what I'm looking for. (That's the mythical happily ever after that would really be adorable. Adorable is the wrong word, but you know what I mean.)

But - to the two things I love more than anything (I told Mom that and she questioned my love for her - I reminded her that I said things and not mothers.)
Also, I saw Cat. He's fat, furry, and absolutely happy, which makes me so happy. He's friendly and even though I can't tell if he remembers me, he's letting me snuggle him and I'm alright with that.
I am back in Simon. Highways beware, I'm back. That's beautiful freedom.

Cat!

It's Thanksgiving. This year, I am so grateful for everything, but for some reason, I'm really grateful for Cat/Carlos. So just to remind you how much I love him, I'm posting a picture blog devoted entirely to cat. 

Adopted February 10, 2010. 

cat on his leash. I'm not sure he'll ever get good at the "walking" part. 

cat loves laundry baskets. I've never understood why. He loves to sleep in my clean laundry. 

sleeping

post surgery

second picture ever taken - his first night on Newgard Ave in Chicago

loves to climb stuff

grumpy cat

(this is my favorite picture ever)

(the first picture I ever took of him - he was still getting used to the idea of being my cat son)

Cat loves feather boas. 

he also loves cat naps in his spot on my bed

I'm finally ready to go home.

I want to know what I've learned about myself.
I'm excited to spend some time reconciling my experiences and adventures.

Give me time.

Post-election

The election!

I'm ashamed that I didn't vote.
I didn't think it would be a problem, but as soon as I got here, I realized that absentee voting from Chicago is a bit different than absentee voting from South Africa.
And my mother, the law-abiding citizen that she is, refused to fill in my ballot for me and send it in.

So I didn't vote.
That makes two elections that I've missed since I've been a registered voter.
I swear that it will never happen again. You simply can't not vote.
You want to bitch about laws and policy and elected officials? I won't listen if you haven't voted.

Shame on me.

Alas, Hickenlooper is governor and this is a pleasing thing.

Instead of blogging today, I'm reposting a New York Times article written by Senator Evan Bayh.

OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR

Where Do Democrats Go Next?

DEMOCRATS can recover from the disappointments of this election and set the stage for success in 2012. But to do so we must learn from Tuesday’s results.

Many of our problems were foreseeable. A public unhappy about the economy will take it out on the party in power, even if the problems began under previous management. What’s more, when one party controls everything — the House, the Senate, the White House — disgruntled voters have only one target for their ire. And the president’s party almost always loses seats in midterm elections.

Nonetheless, recurring patterns of history, broad economic forces and the laws of politics don’t entirely account for the Democrats’ predicament. To a degree we are authors of our own misfortune, and we must chart a better path forward.

It is clear that Democrats over-interpreted our mandate. Talk of a “political realignment” and a “new progressive era” proved wishful thinking. Exit polls in 2008 showed that 22 percent of voters identified themselves as liberals, 32 percent as conservatives and 44 percent as moderates. An electorate that is 76 percent moderate to conservative was not crying out for a move to the left.

We also overreached by focusing on health care rather than job creation during a severe recession. It was a noble aspiration, but $1 trillion in new spending and a major entitlement expansion are best attempted when the Treasury is flush and the economy strong, hardly our situation today.

And we were too deferential to our most zealous supporters. During election season, Congress sought to placate those on the extreme left and motivate the base — but that meant that our final efforts before the election focused on trying to allow gays in the military, change our immigration system and repeal the George W. Bush-era tax cuts. These are legitimate issues but unlikely to resonate with moderate swing voters in a season of economic discontent.

With these lessons in mind, Democrats can begin to rebuild. Where to start?

First, we have more than a communications problem — the public heard us but disagreed with our approach. Democrats need not reassess our goals for America, but we need to seriously rethink how to reach them.

Second, don’t blame the voters. They aren’t stupid or addled by fear. They are skeptical about government efficacy, worried about the deficit and angry that Democrats placed other priorities above their main concern: economic growth.

So, in the near term, every policy must be viewed through a single prism: does it help the economy grow?

A good place to start would be tax reform. Get rates down to make American businesses globally competitive. Reward savings and investment. Simplify the code to reduce compliance costs and broaden the base. In 1986, this approach attracted bipartisan support and fostered growth.

The stereotype of Democrats as wild-eyed spenders and taxers has been resurrected. To regain our political footing, we must prove to moderates that Democrats can make tough choices. Democrats should ban earmarks until the budget is balanced. The amount saved would be modest — but with ordinary Americans sacrificing so much, the symbolic power of politicians cutting their own perks is huge.

Democrats should support a freeze on federal hiring and pay increases. Government isn’t a privileged class and cannot be immune to the times.

The most important area for spending restraint is entitlement reform. Democrats should offer changes to the system that would save hundreds of billions of dollars while preserving the safety net for our neediest. For instance, we could introduce “progressive indexation,” which would provide lower cost-of-living increases for more affluent Social Security recipients, or devise a more accurate measure of inflation’s effects on all recipients’ income.

Democrats should also improve legislation already enacted. Health care reform, financial regulation and other initiatives were first attempts at solving complex problems, not holy writ. The administration’s grant of sensible exemptions to the health care bill, permitting some employers to offer only basic coverage, is an example of common-sense, results-oriented fine-tuning.

If President Obama and Congressional Democrats were to take these and other moderate steps on tax reform, deficit reduction and energy security, they would confront Republicans with a quandary: cooperate to make America more prosperous and financially stable, running the risk that the president would likely receive the credit, or obstruct what voters perceive as sensible solutions.

Having seen so many moderates go down to defeat in this year’s primaries, few Republicans in Congress will be likely to collaborate. And as the Republicans — including the party’s 2012 presidential candidates — genuflect before the Tea Party and other elements of the newly empowered right wing, President Obama can seize the center.

I’m betting the president and his advisers understand much of this. If so, assuming the economy recovers, President Obama can win re-election; Democrats can set the stage for historic achievements in a second term. The extremes of both parties will be disappointed. But the vast center yearning for progress will applaud, and the country will benefit.

Friday, friday, fright day.

I want to fall in love and fly away.

I also can't wait until I can hold Cat Carlos again.
I hope he remembers me.
Maybe he doesn't.

I also want to go fast down I-25.

I want to hold my drink up in silent salutation to a stranger.

I want to sit outside and drink hot coffee.

I want to write.

I want everything to fall into place.

That last statement may have been a lie.

Ever since I wrote about the possibility of not being able to be tied down, I haven't heard from John. I wonder if it was something I said, or didn't say.
Either way, I hope he's happy.

But I need to amend that post.
There are people who I would love. Who I would gladly stay with, if only they could hold my attention. There's always a point at which I become immensely disinterested and if I could find someone who never hit that point with me, I'd be madly and truly and deeply in love.

But let's get to that later. I keep speaking in generalities and I'm afraid that people are internalizing them and trying to paste them on to situations where they might not fit.

I'm exhausted and hungry and am excited to drink beer tonight!
(when am I ever not excited to drink beer?)

Blathering on about love, as usual.

What is true love?

Before you stop reading, annoyed that so many of my posts center on the concept of true love or even love itself, don't.
I'm going to wildly reverse my earlier conclusions. Maybe.

We're going to think about what it might be like to live in the modern world and therefore, experience the idea of modern love.

The other night I was listening to a Dan Savage podcast while I was trying to fall asleep. For those of you who don't know him, he's an advice columnist who focuses on sex and relationship issues. I don't always agree with him, but I enjoy a lot of the things he has to say. And I was thinking.

I'm usually in an odd romantic situation. If you're reading this, you most likely know me pretty well (I was going to write "intimately," but thought it might be mildly inappropriate in this context. ha.). You most likely understand my relationship history, even if it's the concise and thoroughly edited version.
I have boyfriends, mostly.
But then I have other things, as well. Sometimes boys on the side. Sometimes the briefest yet most intense affairs (I call them affairs although they don't fit the strict definition of affair, usually). Sometimes casual flirtations. Sometimes deep friendships.

You can't quite understand what I might be hinting at, but I'm not entirely sure yet either.

Anyway. Here I am, in Cape Town, dating a really nice boy named James. It's intensely sweet. He's very caring and of course he thinks I'm divine. I'm whole heartedly attempting to maintain the distance necessary to keep John happy, but selfishly, I hear Hunter's words in my head: "Until you're married, the most important person in your life is yourself."
I feel those words. I live those words.
At home, I still have John, the guy I was dating before I left, although our relationship is up in the air at the moment. We made a deal that we were going to be apart while I was in Cape Town and that we are going to see if things work out when I get back home in December. It was a nice romance, of course, intense in the ways that only I seem to be able to develop.

But is it for real?

Is anything for real?

I was/am very happy with John, but I'm not entirely sure that we had reached the point where I was able to commit. Like, really seriously commit. And I couldn't have been expected to. It was one month of dating. It felt very comfortable, I won't lie. But I don't know if it was everything I wanted. And I don't know if it's what I'm going to what.
Knowing I'm going back to it is a double-edged sword. It's nice to know I'll have someone I enjoy spending time with but it's also pressure to be in a relationship I don't know if I want.
It's not him, it's the freedom.
Single Katie really enjoyed 2010. She really came into her own, I think.

I don't know if anyone can be everything I want.
And I don't know that I can be anyone's everything, either.

And that's what I'm talking about today.
I'm worried that I might be:  either a serial monogamist (someone who likes to date one person at a time, but not for very long) or just someone who can't be with one person.

I have the most wonderful relationships. I really like putting all of my focus onto one certain person, but in the end, I always end up dissatisfied. The ones who keep my attention (currently there's only one who's still got me enthralled against my better judgement, through absolutely no fault of his own or mine, either) seem to have a certain something about them. It used to be a sense of mystery and intrigue, an element of danger, sprinkled with the bits of intelligence I found so endearing, and it still is that. But now it's something else.
It's intelligence mixed with the same elements of danger and mystery but I also need a sense of stability, of ingenuity, of employability, of....dare I say it, maturity.
But let's define maturity another day because I have some thoughts on that as well.

That's the shift. The need to pick mates based on conversation skills rather than adventure skills.

And while I still have hope that some day someone is going to possess everything I need. In theory, I'd like someone to fit all the facets of my life.
But in reality, I know that chances are I'm not going to find that person. Because my requirements are a bit hard to meet. I need someone who is a broad human being, someone who wants to be in sweats and spend the day curled up on the couch watching the Food Network, someone who wants to learn how to ballroom dance, someone who wants to go skinnydipping and then go talk politics in a bar. Someone who wants to travel. (That's a big plus on the list of things I love. I want to go everywhere and learn everything.) Someone who likes to read and drink and is socially liberal leaning but a little bit moderate financially. Someone who can teach me something, who makes me strive to be the best person I can be, someone who calls me on my bullshit and supports me and listens. I want to be respected, though. Thoroughly respected.

This man isn't real.

My favorite times spent with Hunter were the times we'd make dinner together. I'll never forget being in the kitchen with him. I'd wash dishes - we always a pile a mile high - while he cooked breakfast - we had breakfast for dinner quite often - and music played in the background.

I want someone to cook dinner with.

James is a chef. The other night, he surprised me with dinner. He hasn't packed my lunch for work in about a week, I need to change that. I think it's nice. That little bit of extra thought makes my day a lot better.

This is not a tug of war between two men. This is not an America vs. South Africa smack down.
This is me thinking about what I really want that actually doesn't take into account either of the men currently playing the starring roles in my own romantic comedy.

I don't know what is going to happen when I get back to Denver. I'm not thinking about that right now. All I'm focusing on is me in the present.

This is my youth.
I'm going to put myself first and I'm not going to consider it a selfish act.
I emailed Madeline the other day and through our conversation, told her that I'm often unable to end things properly when they need to be ended, instead, I let them stew until they boil over. I need to learn that as soon as I know it's over, it needs to be over.
I need to learn that I'm not letting anyone down easy by leading them on and I'm certainly not helping myself.

I have a knack for finding nice men in dark bars, consider this my saving grace. It's served me well the past few years and I'm hoping it will continue to serve me well in the future.
I'm off running, following the directions that my heart gives me, hoping they make sense in the end.
So here's to red wine and indecision, to youth, to reckless love we never thought we'd find, to breakfasts in bed and late night conversations, to candlelit dinners and tearstained pillowcases, to glances from across the room, to jealousy and anger giving way to sweeter sleep, to war and peace and everything in between.
Here's to triumph and happiness and the rest of my life, come what may.

Will I ever be good at creating a successful relationship?

Should I spend my life as a serial monogamist, rather than being someone who is entirely committed to one human being?

Could I devote myself to one human being?

Hmm.....

Breakfast at Tiffanys

I was going to blog about "Breakfast at Tiffany's" but then I started doing research into criticism of it and I just couldn't be bothered to put sentences together.
I wasn't enthralled.
I was captivated, though, but only sort of.

Anyway, new blog layout today. I'm not entirely sure that I'm sold on it, but I already connected all of my Analytics to it and such so I'm not going to mess with it for a few weeks.
Or until I get some better images.

Either way, the one on www.katiebarryincapetown.blogspot.com was taken on a bridge to nowhere. We went for a walk in Tokai and ended up climbing up to a bridge that was built in the 1970s but that doesn't go anywhere. So I stood out over the M3 and snap.

The new one for here is a lily picture taken in San Francisco at the conservatory. It's not the best of my lily photos, it fits now.

Alas.

It really does take a lot to piss me off, but there's a girl here who wears on my nerves. Seriously. There will be further explanation when its safe to divulge, but oh my goodness, she irks me.

Happy Monday, world.

Good Intentions

“You’ve always got one foot out the door,” she said.

She was right.

I’ve got nothing but good intentions

But somewhere along they line

I always seem to lose them.
I dig in empty pockets, feeling only lint and cotton.

And then it all goes to hell, always.

Can’t give it up when I should,

I put it off, waiting for divine interventions that don’t exist.

It’s usually too late for help anyway,

Half drunk on the pure adrenaline of new, I let go.

Push off and fly, a fire suddenly ignited.

I’m afraid to look back.
I don’t want to see your face.
I don’t want to watch you watch me let you go.

It’s the same ending every time.

And even now, I tell myself,

“It won’t happen again.”

This time will be different.

I’m another kind of addict,

The kind that gets away with it.

No scars, no marks, just scattered bits of hearts

and sharp shards of pretty memories lying around.

They hit me now and then.

You and me, or he and I,

His shirt, his song, his smile,

They’re all a part of me,

That nasty fabric I’ve woven for myself.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions

But this isn’t hell.

This is here.