10) Facebook told me I write like Chuck Palahniuk. Then I gave another writing sample and it told me I write like David Foster Wallace. Then I tried again and it told me Cory Doctorow. So I have decided I am too manic in my writing style to ever amount to anything. Then I plopped on the couch to mope and eat ice cream and watch a "Say Yes to the Dress" marathon.
9) I have been making a concerted effort to exercise every day (see reasons above) and this seems to take up a lot of my usual writing time in the evening between work and dinner. It ain't easy getting less fat.
8) Summer in Chicago. I mean COME ON! Who expects me to stay in all hunched over my computer? I need to be riding my bike and drinking 'ritas on a patio and playing volleyball on the lake until the winter starts to set in, y'all.
7) I was too busy going to IKEA seven HUNDRED times in the last two weeks. (Bad desk legs were bought. Receipts were lost. DON'T ASK.)
6) I was too busy basking in the glow of my impending nuptials.
5) I was busy feeding my goldfish Guppy who should have been dead like a year ago but refuses to give up
4) I read all the other blogs out there and realized I could never compete with http://blog-of-stupid.blogspot.com/. Good night!
3) I felt really bloated
2) I did not remember how to spell "and"
1) My dog ate it.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Wanna experience the closest thing to being me today?
I just thought I would share what my commute was like today. It was like this.
Luckily my bike and I were in sync the whole time and we managed to stay the course.
That is all.
Luckily my bike and I were in sync the whole time and we managed to stay the course.
That is all.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Guys I have been so lazy about writing ever since I got back from vacation in St Louis! I don't know what is wrong with me. All I want to do is laze in the sun with good friends and drink beers and/or margaritas. I think that means I have an acute case of "Summer-itis." And I am not sure how to cure myself...or if I even want to be cured, honestly.
I started writing little pieces for an online community called Examiner.com and I was doing really good for about a month. They claim to pay for your writing and make you open a paypal account and everything, but all I see is like 5 cents in there most days. And sometimes it goes up or down a few cents, which I find hilarious and I can't quite figure out how to get more money out of it yet. What I do know is that my lack of writing in the last two weeks has brought the account down to like -1 cent, if that is even possible. This is not good, folks. I can't owe some random web employer of mine 1 cent. That is ludicrous. I joined this site because I wanted to force myself to write articles and share info with people on a regular basis. Also to get my writing chops up in a venue other than this little corner of mine. And now all I have to show for it is -1 cent in a paypal account. I am doing it all wrong.
Well hopefully I will get back into the groove with my writing and be more disciplined about doing it regularly after calling myself out here and writing about it publicly. This whole self-motivation thing has always been tricky for me, and I was proud of myself thus far. Until this week, when it all fell apart due to my general apathy and numerous social obligations.
Can you blame a girl for being popular? Damn.
I kid, I kid. But now I have to go. A friend of mine is headed over here to grill up some Grouper that was left at yesterday's BBQ extravaganza. (Yep. Someone came with Grouper. And left it in the fridge without cooking it up. Who does that? Everyone else brought effing brats, like a normal person.) Score for us.
I will leave you with this, because why not blow your effing mind for a sec? Happy Sunday, y'all.
I started writing little pieces for an online community called Examiner.com and I was doing really good for about a month. They claim to pay for your writing and make you open a paypal account and everything, but all I see is like 5 cents in there most days. And sometimes it goes up or down a few cents, which I find hilarious and I can't quite figure out how to get more money out of it yet. What I do know is that my lack of writing in the last two weeks has brought the account down to like -1 cent, if that is even possible. This is not good, folks. I can't owe some random web employer of mine 1 cent. That is ludicrous. I joined this site because I wanted to force myself to write articles and share info with people on a regular basis. Also to get my writing chops up in a venue other than this little corner of mine. And now all I have to show for it is -1 cent in a paypal account. I am doing it all wrong.
Well hopefully I will get back into the groove with my writing and be more disciplined about doing it regularly after calling myself out here and writing about it publicly. This whole self-motivation thing has always been tricky for me, and I was proud of myself thus far. Until this week, when it all fell apart due to my general apathy and numerous social obligations.
Can you blame a girl for being popular? Damn.
I kid, I kid. But now I have to go. A friend of mine is headed over here to grill up some Grouper that was left at yesterday's BBQ extravaganza. (Yep. Someone came with Grouper. And left it in the fridge without cooking it up. Who does that? Everyone else brought effing brats, like a normal person.) Score for us.
I will leave you with this, because why not blow your effing mind for a sec? Happy Sunday, y'all.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Road Trip
The man and I got out of town this past weekend and headed to St Louis, Missouri for a little change of atmosphere. We just sort of swapped one city for another city, you might say. And you would be correct. However, no city really truly compares to Chicago, in my opinion, so the swap was a bit uneven. But that is what I think happens with any city you visit after living in Chicago for long enough--there are just so many amazing aspects of the Second City, it is hard for any other city to compete. Obviously from that last statement it is clear that Chicago won my heart long ago and I don't think I will ever stop loving it, even long after I am-gulp-gone someday (because let's be honest, it is bound to happen sometime. I'll never afford the property taxes here and we all know it).
But back to St Louis--the other town in this story.
First of all, I want to make it clear that I did not have a bad time. Quite the opposite in fact. We had many options for fun and adventure, as well as a plethora of food and drink choices. We took in a Cardinals game. We climbed up and down the amazing City Museum (which I highly recommend because it was honestly the craziest thing I have ever seen. EVER). We bar hopped and had some of the greatest Spanish tapas dishes ever. We ate some of the best sushi I have ever had at the Drunken Fish. We took pictures of ourselves with the famous Arch and then rode up to the top for akind of lame really lovely view of the entire city. It was a great time and I felt that the city had much to offer in terms of interesting neighborhoods and surprisingly cool venues.
It was just that the people were so weird. And the customer service in general was so bad. Everywhere we went, I swear. Now I hate making generalizations as much as the next person, but the city really revealed this particular element of itself as our trip went along. It became sort of a running joke with us, which was helpful because that kept it from becoming super annoying and kept us sane through some of the really weird situations.
For instance:
They ran out of hot dogs at the ball game. We had to walk to 3 different places till we finally found a stand that still had hot dogs. And we took the last two. This was only in the 7th inning, folks. Who the hell does not have hot dogs at a freaking baseball game? Seriously? Are we in America? Did you not expect a shit-ton of people to attend this event and request the most typical food item that could be found there? Wow.
We could not get the hotel we stayed at to do a damn thing that hotels typically do for guests. Nothing. The customer service was not even bad. It was nonexistent. I have never experienced anything like that before. And coming from working in hospitality oh so many moons ago, I know how a normal hotel is run and what they can do. Like when the remote control was missing in our room and I called down to ask for an extra one and the front desk said they just did not have any. Complete bullshit. There is always an extra remote in housekeeping, or in another unused room somewhere (even when they are full, there is always an extra room somewhere. Always). Or when we asked for housekeeping to come clean after they seemed to ignore us for a few days, and we came back to find only our bed made and our old towels taken away. No replacement towels. No fresh cups. No new soaps or anything.
No one at the hotel knew how much the bus fare was for a bus that stopped right outside the hotel. No one had a schedule for said bus route. Any beer on the menu at the "bar" (more like a sterile-looking counter in the lobby) was not available. Why did we even get a menu for said beer? God (and the rude bartender) only knows. When we asked if we could order off the menu at breakfast time in the "cafe," we were informed that nothing on that menu was available either, and that the old cheesecake in the glass case was all they had. These are just a few of the highlights. There were plenty of other little annoyances that were pretty wacko while we were there.
The shocking thing to me was just the lack of alternatives offered, you know? Like okay, if you don't have that beer, or that one, what do you have? Or even better--okay, if the tram to the Arch broke after we waited in line for an hour for a ticket, what do you suggest we do? Wait it out? Try another fun activity nearby? It is okay that things don't always run smoothly or you are out of something we wanted. Just apologize and offer some ideas of how we can get something else. Like normal freaking customer service people. It was the apathy and sense of indifference that was so shocking to me. I have never seen so much of it in one vacation in one location.
Eventually, we became accustomed to having to go to the internet to get the answers we needed from the hotel. Eventually, we figured out the bus system ourselves. Eventually, we went to the cafe down the street to eat breakfast that was not cheesecake. Eventually, we found a hot dog. We managed to navigate the city ourselves using a little improvisation, a little ingenuity, and a whole lot of "I think this route will get us to an area we will enjoy." And ultimately, we did just fine.
So St. Louis, it was real, and it was fun. And it was even real fun. But next time? Give me my damn remote control so I can watch bad TV on my vacation without having to get up from the bed. (I also happen to think this is a metaphor that sort of encompasses the feeling of the entire trip. Think about it.)
But back to St Louis--the other town in this story.
First of all, I want to make it clear that I did not have a bad time. Quite the opposite in fact. We had many options for fun and adventure, as well as a plethora of food and drink choices. We took in a Cardinals game. We climbed up and down the amazing City Museum (which I highly recommend because it was honestly the craziest thing I have ever seen. EVER). We bar hopped and had some of the greatest Spanish tapas dishes ever. We ate some of the best sushi I have ever had at the Drunken Fish. We took pictures of ourselves with the famous Arch and then rode up to the top for a
It was just that the people were so weird. And the customer service in general was so bad. Everywhere we went, I swear. Now I hate making generalizations as much as the next person, but the city really revealed this particular element of itself as our trip went along. It became sort of a running joke with us, which was helpful because that kept it from becoming super annoying and kept us sane through some of the really weird situations.
For instance:
They ran out of hot dogs at the ball game. We had to walk to 3 different places till we finally found a stand that still had hot dogs. And we took the last two. This was only in the 7th inning, folks. Who the hell does not have hot dogs at a freaking baseball game? Seriously? Are we in America? Did you not expect a shit-ton of people to attend this event and request the most typical food item that could be found there? Wow.
We could not get the hotel we stayed at to do a damn thing that hotels typically do for guests. Nothing. The customer service was not even bad. It was nonexistent. I have never experienced anything like that before. And coming from working in hospitality oh so many moons ago, I know how a normal hotel is run and what they can do. Like when the remote control was missing in our room and I called down to ask for an extra one and the front desk said they just did not have any. Complete bullshit. There is always an extra remote in housekeeping, or in another unused room somewhere (even when they are full, there is always an extra room somewhere. Always). Or when we asked for housekeeping to come clean after they seemed to ignore us for a few days, and we came back to find only our bed made and our old towels taken away. No replacement towels. No fresh cups. No new soaps or anything.
No one at the hotel knew how much the bus fare was for a bus that stopped right outside the hotel. No one had a schedule for said bus route. Any beer on the menu at the "bar" (more like a sterile-looking counter in the lobby) was not available. Why did we even get a menu for said beer? God (and the rude bartender) only knows. When we asked if we could order off the menu at breakfast time in the "cafe," we were informed that nothing on that menu was available either, and that the old cheesecake in the glass case was all they had. These are just a few of the highlights. There were plenty of other little annoyances that were pretty wacko while we were there.
The shocking thing to me was just the lack of alternatives offered, you know? Like okay, if you don't have that beer, or that one, what do you have? Or even better--okay, if the tram to the Arch broke after we waited in line for an hour for a ticket, what do you suggest we do? Wait it out? Try another fun activity nearby? It is okay that things don't always run smoothly or you are out of something we wanted. Just apologize and offer some ideas of how we can get something else. Like normal freaking customer service people. It was the apathy and sense of indifference that was so shocking to me. I have never seen so much of it in one vacation in one location.
Eventually, we became accustomed to having to go to the internet to get the answers we needed from the hotel. Eventually, we figured out the bus system ourselves. Eventually, we went to the cafe down the street to eat breakfast that was not cheesecake. Eventually, we found a hot dog. We managed to navigate the city ourselves using a little improvisation, a little ingenuity, and a whole lot of "I think this route will get us to an area we will enjoy." And ultimately, we did just fine.
So St. Louis, it was real, and it was fun. And it was even real fun. But next time? Give me my damn remote control so I can watch bad TV on my vacation without having to get up from the bed. (I also happen to think this is a metaphor that sort of encompasses the feeling of the entire trip. Think about it.)
Thursday, July 15, 2010
We Don't Have to Move! Huzzah!
A while back I wrote about some big changes coming around the bend. Well we just got word that one of those things will not be happening, and I am sure from my gleeful title of this post, you can deduce which one it is.
Yes, folks. We don't have to move in a few months from our beloved cave-like apartment. Adam talked to our landlord a few days ago and he suggested we sign a lease for another year! We were worried that since the landlord is trying to sell the building, we would either be kicked out or forced to go month-to-month until someone bought it and then kicked out. And all this right before Adam heads to Grad school. And of course, right before our wedding. But no, the landlord sees us for what we are--a commodity for people who would like to buy the building we live in and rent the bottom while living up top. What a great selling point if the buyer has no need to look for renters. There will already be two stable, easy-going people happy to stay in the crusty downstairs apartment for one more year. Win-win for all.
Now the only thing we have to work on is finding a way to get our landlord to let us have a kitty. After much discussion and debate, I have finally convinced my ever-compromising and loving fiance to give in and allow a feline into our lives. It took a while, and consisted of a lot of whining and even a little batting of the ole' eyelashes, but all my bugging him paid off and he agreed at last that having a low-maintenance furry companion would be fun and it would also keep me company when he is at school and work all day/night for the next 3 years. The problem is, we have a "no pets" clause in the lease...for now. I am optimistic that we can convince our landlord to make an exception. I mean, come on. We are the greatest tenants a landlord could ask for! We are responsible, polite, and don't trash the place. What more could you want in a renter?
And besides--when we were first looking at the apartment before we rented it, the landlord was showing us around and mentioned the "no pets" thing...right before opening a bedroom door and bumping into a huge cage with a rabbit inside.
He seemed only mildly surprised, not angry, and mumbled, "Well I guess we allow rabbits now. So only rabbits, I suppose." We all laughed awkwardly and moved on.
So this experience has totally convinced me that with the right tone and finesse, we can definitely win him over to our side. Plus, he is selling the joint anyway, so what does he care? We have a legitimate shot at this, guys. I can feel it. Though I do have a track record of being a little too optimistic at times. But this is different! (I think)
Overall, us not having to move during such a stressful time is way more important than getting a cat. So I could put up with one more year of being pet-less.
I can also put up with the apartment I lovingly call "the cave" due to it being on the ground floor with very little light unless you open all the front windows and allow all of my neighborhood to view whatever we are watching on TV along with us. I can put up with it's darkness and all the cracks in the doors that make winter unbelievably cold. I can put up with the shower that has a layer of black grime from many years of neglect from long before we came along, and refuses to look clean. I can also put up with the rattling heater and air conditioner attached to the upstairs apartment that happens to be located right next to our bedroom for some reason. And I can put up with the weird bugs I find from time to time. All this is what we like to call character. And it certainly beats moving. (Don't most things in life beat moving? I mean really.)
Yes, folks. We don't have to move in a few months from our beloved cave-like apartment. Adam talked to our landlord a few days ago and he suggested we sign a lease for another year! We were worried that since the landlord is trying to sell the building, we would either be kicked out or forced to go month-to-month until someone bought it and then kicked out. And all this right before Adam heads to Grad school. And of course, right before our wedding. But no, the landlord sees us for what we are--a commodity for people who would like to buy the building we live in and rent the bottom while living up top. What a great selling point if the buyer has no need to look for renters. There will already be two stable, easy-going people happy to stay in the crusty downstairs apartment for one more year. Win-win for all.
Now the only thing we have to work on is finding a way to get our landlord to let us have a kitty. After much discussion and debate, I have finally convinced my ever-compromising and loving fiance to give in and allow a feline into our lives. It took a while, and consisted of a lot of whining and even a little batting of the ole' eyelashes, but all my bugging him paid off and he agreed at last that having a low-maintenance furry companion would be fun and it would also keep me company when he is at school and work all day/night for the next 3 years. The problem is, we have a "no pets" clause in the lease...for now. I am optimistic that we can convince our landlord to make an exception. I mean, come on. We are the greatest tenants a landlord could ask for! We are responsible, polite, and don't trash the place. What more could you want in a renter?
And besides--when we were first looking at the apartment before we rented it, the landlord was showing us around and mentioned the "no pets" thing...right before opening a bedroom door and bumping into a huge cage with a rabbit inside.
He seemed only mildly surprised, not angry, and mumbled, "Well I guess we allow rabbits now. So only rabbits, I suppose." We all laughed awkwardly and moved on.
So this experience has totally convinced me that with the right tone and finesse, we can definitely win him over to our side. Plus, he is selling the joint anyway, so what does he care? We have a legitimate shot at this, guys. I can feel it. Though I do have a track record of being a little too optimistic at times. But this is different! (I think)
Overall, us not having to move during such a stressful time is way more important than getting a cat. So I could put up with one more year of being pet-less.
I can also put up with the apartment I lovingly call "the cave" due to it being on the ground floor with very little light unless you open all the front windows and allow all of my neighborhood to view whatever we are watching on TV along with us. I can put up with it's darkness and all the cracks in the doors that make winter unbelievably cold. I can put up with the shower that has a layer of black grime from many years of neglect from long before we came along, and refuses to look clean. I can also put up with the rattling heater and air conditioner attached to the upstairs apartment that happens to be located right next to our bedroom for some reason. And I can put up with the weird bugs I find from time to time. All this is what we like to call character. And it certainly beats moving. (Don't most things in life beat moving? I mean really.)
Friday, July 09, 2010
Having a Great Day
Having a great day in the summertime is such an amazing feeling. Think about it. There is a spring in your step, the sun is shining bright and warm on your skin, and a stupid perma-grin stretches your face muscles to their maximum capacity. All in all, you have that burning fire of triumph or pleasure running through your veins with no way to stop it.
There could be a number of reasons your day suddenly went from zero to hero. Maybe you stumbled upon an awesome pair of shoes on sale. Maybe your best friend called and made you laugh so hard you started that habit of snorting while laughing again. Or maybe you just had a great meeting with someone who has the potential to enrich your life in some way--a new friend, a job interview, a cute boy on the train...whatever the reason, that feeling of shouting to the sky "today is great! Get this one in the books as fan-freaking-tastic!" has come over you. Relish it. Bathe in its electricity. Take a pause, take a breath, and be present with it right in the moment. Examine it for all its complexity and appreciate it.
There could be a number of reasons your day suddenly went from zero to hero. Maybe you stumbled upon an awesome pair of shoes on sale. Maybe your best friend called and made you laugh so hard you started that habit of snorting while laughing again. Or maybe you just had a great meeting with someone who has the potential to enrich your life in some way--a new friend, a job interview, a cute boy on the train...whatever the reason, that feeling of shouting to the sky "today is great! Get this one in the books as fan-freaking-tastic!" has come over you. Relish it. Bathe in its electricity. Take a pause, take a breath, and be present with it right in the moment. Examine it for all its complexity and appreciate it.
Because let's be honest. These moments are sometimes few and far between. Life can be a tough place to live. Sounds silly but it is true. Work and love and family and financials can sometimes be a real bummer. Death happens. Pain happens. Chances are missed and opportunities pass you by. That is the reality of many of our days.
But then there are these days. The days where everything seems right in the world. Where you find yourself standing on the brink of what could be something really great (which in my opinion is sometimes a more fabulous feeling than the actual great thing itself--am I right?) Possibility days, I'll call them. These are the times that will help pick you back up and yank you through the bad times and keep hope alive in your heart. Even if it's just a pair of sale-priced sexy red pumps, the moment of excitement and possibility is real and powerful. May we all cherish it.
I am having a day like that today, for a simple reason that is not important. What is important is the fact that I am allowing myself to be ecstatic and ride the wave of emotion I am feeling. It feels good to feel good about this life. I rode my bike down the beautiful, tree-lined streets of my amazing Chicago neighborhood, and the breeze kept me cool as I went. I got home to my cozy cave of an apartment and I threw open all the windows to let the summer air flow through the rooms. I am about to make some delicious lunch for myself and relax on a gorgeous Friday afternoon (these great days often happen on Fridays for me--something about the feeling of possibility associated with a Friday, I guess, when you are on the brink of the weekend). All is well and I am happy and excited about what comes next for me.
The funny thing is, this is such a different feeling from how I felt just a few days ago. I was deep in Funkytown (not the fun 70's kind). But sometimes funks happen, and it is important to also allow yourself time to wallow in the funk--though not too long or it can be counterproductive.
May we all have the grace and strength to recognize that these intense swings of mood are all a part of the beast and beauty of life. Embrace them all. (But especially the great days. Those you want to hug a little tighter.)
Monday, July 05, 2010
Top 6 Reasons A Lake is Better than the Ocean
As a California transplant suddenly finding herself quite literally in the middle of America, I have often credited the massive girth of Lake Michigan as one reason I don't feel insanely homesick for my homeland. I cannot see the end of this particular Great Lake (the greatest of all the lakes, I might add), for it's massive size makes the opposite shoreline impossible to view. This is great for me because it tricks my mind into believing I am not as land-locked as I actually am. It gives the illusion that I am on a coast of some kind, and that comforts me.
Over the years here in Chicago, I have grown to love and appreciate Lake Michigan's beach front for all it has to offer me. Its sandy beaches are my court when I play beach volleyball in the summer time. Its long and winding bike path is my main road to different city events going on downtown. Its murky waters provide relief on a hot and humid summer day. And sometimes, I will be honest, it is just a convenient place to pee. For all these reasons and more, I love Lake Michigan with all the gusto I have had for the Pacific Ocean all these years. As a replacement for my first body-of-water-love, it has done all right by me.
Without further ado, here is a list of reasons why a lake is better than the ocean:
6) No sharks!
I never have a Jaws moment while swimming in the lake. In the ocean, every now and then, I would suffer a small panic attack and picture a shark coming my way. I can't help it, I am a child of the 80's. Jaws was as real and American as apple pie to me.
5) The water is not salty.
Salt water starts to irritate my skin after a while of swimming in it. And boy does it burn if it gets in your nose.
4) No seaweed.
If I had a nickel for every time I accidentally stepped on one of those weird bubbly parts of seaweed and shrieked when it popped below my feet, well...I would not be all that rich but I still remember doing that a lot as a child running around the Pacific coast. Also I remember loads and loads of seaweed washing up on the shore in huge hairy clumps that looked like a giant lost his wig. These clumps would inevitably attract a strong following of sea flies, and would look like weird writhing hills all over the sand, until you walked up and the flies all made a group exodus right at your face. Sick.
3) The water actually gets warmer in the summer
I lived in Newport Beach, CA for a year. I swam in the ocean zero times in that year. Why? Because the Pacific never seems to get warmer in the summer. My body could not take freezing cold water tempature, and so I was only able to view the beautiful surf and maybe put a toe in, but certainly not swim in it. All those surfers in California? 9 times out of 10 they are wearing wet suits. For good reason. The idea of people just diving right into the ocean in Southern California in their bikinis or swim trunks is quite the urban myth. Deal with it. But the lake? I can jump right into those warm waters and splash around like the best of them. Bliss.
2) Tiny Waves
As someone who has been knocked down endlessly by wave after wave in the ocean, the mild little lapping of waves on the lake is a welcome change. I am in the power position now, water! Take that!
1) No Tide!
The best thing about the lake verses the ocean is that there are no tide changes. When you go out to the lake shore, you know exactly what you are getting into. The water hits at more or less the same spot every day. But at the ocean, as the day progresses, your sweet little beach set up might have to get moved again and again as the waves start moving on up on you. Falling asleep close to the waves at the beach? Risky and annoying. Falling asleep near the waves on the lake shore? Safe and heavenly.
Add to these reasons the fact that Chicago has a sweet city skyline to view behind you as you lounge at the lake, and I think these are some very compelling things that make the lake way more awesome than the ocean.
Of course I could just be coming up with things to make me miss the ocean a little less. Either way, it works.
Over the years here in Chicago, I have grown to love and appreciate Lake Michigan's beach front for all it has to offer me. Its sandy beaches are my court when I play beach volleyball in the summer time. Its long and winding bike path is my main road to different city events going on downtown. Its murky waters provide relief on a hot and humid summer day. And sometimes, I will be honest, it is just a convenient place to pee. For all these reasons and more, I love Lake Michigan with all the gusto I have had for the Pacific Ocean all these years. As a replacement for my first body-of-water-love, it has done all right by me.
Without further ado, here is a list of reasons why a lake is better than the ocean:
6) No sharks!
I never have a Jaws moment while swimming in the lake. In the ocean, every now and then, I would suffer a small panic attack and picture a shark coming my way. I can't help it, I am a child of the 80's. Jaws was as real and American as apple pie to me.
5) The water is not salty.
Salt water starts to irritate my skin after a while of swimming in it. And boy does it burn if it gets in your nose.
4) No seaweed.
If I had a nickel for every time I accidentally stepped on one of those weird bubbly parts of seaweed and shrieked when it popped below my feet, well...I would not be all that rich but I still remember doing that a lot as a child running around the Pacific coast. Also I remember loads and loads of seaweed washing up on the shore in huge hairy clumps that looked like a giant lost his wig. These clumps would inevitably attract a strong following of sea flies, and would look like weird writhing hills all over the sand, until you walked up and the flies all made a group exodus right at your face. Sick.
3) The water actually gets warmer in the summer
I lived in Newport Beach, CA for a year. I swam in the ocean zero times in that year. Why? Because the Pacific never seems to get warmer in the summer. My body could not take freezing cold water tempature, and so I was only able to view the beautiful surf and maybe put a toe in, but certainly not swim in it. All those surfers in California? 9 times out of 10 they are wearing wet suits. For good reason. The idea of people just diving right into the ocean in Southern California in their bikinis or swim trunks is quite the urban myth. Deal with it. But the lake? I can jump right into those warm waters and splash around like the best of them. Bliss.
2) Tiny Waves
As someone who has been knocked down endlessly by wave after wave in the ocean, the mild little lapping of waves on the lake is a welcome change. I am in the power position now, water! Take that!
1) No Tide!
The best thing about the lake verses the ocean is that there are no tide changes. When you go out to the lake shore, you know exactly what you are getting into. The water hits at more or less the same spot every day. But at the ocean, as the day progresses, your sweet little beach set up might have to get moved again and again as the waves start moving on up on you. Falling asleep close to the waves at the beach? Risky and annoying. Falling asleep near the waves on the lake shore? Safe and heavenly.
Add to these reasons the fact that Chicago has a sweet city skyline to view behind you as you lounge at the lake, and I think these are some very compelling things that make the lake way more awesome than the ocean.
Of course I could just be coming up with things to make me miss the ocean a little less. Either way, it works.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Tour de Fat!
This weekend to celebrate a pal's birthday, we headed out to the New Belgium Brewery-sponsored Tour de Fat festival in Chicago. Basically you get up very early in the morning to dress up as silly as possible and be a part of a very large bike parade at around 930am. After that, you come back to a park and drink lots of New Belgium beers and are entertained by games and performances of all kinds. It was really quite a blast. The beers were $5 a pop and they had many delicious varieties on tap, including their staple, Fat Tire, and a summer ale called Skinny Dip. All the beers were ice cold and really hit the spot on a hot day like yesterday.
I was dressed like a pirate:
I fit in just fine with all the other zany costumes. We ended up getting there very late and just had enough time to register and throw on a sticker, then suddenly the whole mob of bikes started toward us. Turns out, we were in the FRONT of the parade! So we quickly turned around and led the pack of bikers around the town, and it was quite exhilarating to be in the front of such a fun parade! We were well taken care of by police escorts who blocked traffic for us everywhere we went. It was safe and fun and family friendly. People on the streets seemed happy to see us and stopped to wave and cheer us on!
After the parade, we settled in to relax in the sun and drink the tasty New Belgium selections. There were lots of tents with people selling T-shirts and other fun things. The always enjoyable band Mucca Pazza was on hand to play some summer tunes for a rowdy and happy audience.
We ventured over to the Pit, which was a circular area gated off with all sorts of bicycles made of unlikely materials inside. You could don a helmet and take a spin on any of the artistic creations (if you could manage to figure out how to ride through the muddy grass!). There were tiny bikes and big bikes and bikes built for two or three. There were tires made of tennis shoes and tires that were huge and thick and almost impossible to ride. One of the creations was a three person bike that just curved and connected and went around and around in circles. Riding that one after a few beers proved to be quite the adventure in dizziness!
This bike was my favorite:
All in all, a fantastic way to spend a Saturday morning. We came, we biked, we conquered. I would highly recommend the Tour de Fat to anyone who likes bikes and beer. Well worth the suggested $5 donation and full of the kind of summer fun Chicago is famous for. This day will be marked in my book as one of the most fun summer days I have had in a while. Hooray for New Belgium for putting on a wonderful summer celebration!
I was dressed like a pirate:
I fit in just fine with all the other zany costumes. We ended up getting there very late and just had enough time to register and throw on a sticker, then suddenly the whole mob of bikes started toward us. Turns out, we were in the FRONT of the parade! So we quickly turned around and led the pack of bikers around the town, and it was quite exhilarating to be in the front of such a fun parade! We were well taken care of by police escorts who blocked traffic for us everywhere we went. It was safe and fun and family friendly. People on the streets seemed happy to see us and stopped to wave and cheer us on!
After the parade, we settled in to relax in the sun and drink the tasty New Belgium selections. There were lots of tents with people selling T-shirts and other fun things. The always enjoyable band Mucca Pazza was on hand to play some summer tunes for a rowdy and happy audience.
We ventured over to the Pit, which was a circular area gated off with all sorts of bicycles made of unlikely materials inside. You could don a helmet and take a spin on any of the artistic creations (if you could manage to figure out how to ride through the muddy grass!). There were tiny bikes and big bikes and bikes built for two or three. There were tires made of tennis shoes and tires that were huge and thick and almost impossible to ride. One of the creations was a three person bike that just curved and connected and went around and around in circles. Riding that one after a few beers proved to be quite the adventure in dizziness!
This bike was my favorite:
All in all, a fantastic way to spend a Saturday morning. We came, we biked, we conquered. I would highly recommend the Tour de Fat to anyone who likes bikes and beer. Well worth the suggested $5 donation and full of the kind of summer fun Chicago is famous for. This day will be marked in my book as one of the most fun summer days I have had in a while. Hooray for New Belgium for putting on a wonderful summer celebration!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The Long Con
I have been on craigslist.com a lot lately, and I recently saw a posting looking for candidates for a focus group about alcohol. Being the fan of imbibing that I am, I dropped them an email asking to take part in it. The exact details are hazy at this point—it has been a while since I first made contact. All I know is, the price was right for the few hours of work they needed.
A few days later I received this email from what I thought was the company:
Dear Applicant
We got your application for the post we advertised, kindly go through the rest of the email as it contains more information on our company and the position.
We are a dynamic organization involved in helping companies achieve market leadership and Improving connections between professional services firms and their client organization. Our company is currently conducting a survey on Western Union Outlets to help measure and improve the services they provide to customers. This is as a result of complaints from Western Union repeat customers about the service quality of mostWestern Union outlets.
The survey involves you visiting a Western Union Outlet in your area to patronize the services they render as a customer, then give us feedback on your overall customer experience by filling a simple questionnaire.
Each survey takes a maximum of 1hr to complete and you will be paid $250 for every survey completed, No Sales Involved and this will not inconvenience your present job.
If you are interested in participating, please send us a reply with your information in the following order
Full Name
Mailing Address
Cell Phone Number
Email address
Current occupation
Age
We'll get back to you after receiving this information to confirm your participation in the survey.
Thank you.
Your faithfully,
Michelle Baileys
QP Financial Services Inc
We got your application for the post we advertised, kindly go through the rest of the email as it contains more information on our company and the position.
We are a dynamic organization involved in helping companies achieve market leadership and Improving connections between professional services firms and their client organization. Our company is currently conducting a survey on Western Union Outlets to help measure and improve the services they provide to customers. This is as a result of complaints from Western Union repeat customers about the service quality of most
The survey involves you visiting a Western Union Outlet in your area to patronize the services they render as a customer, then give us feedback on your overall customer experience by filling a simple questionnaire.
Each survey takes a maximum of 1hr to complete and you will be paid $250 for every survey completed, No Sales Involved and this will not inconvenience your present job.
If you are interested in participating, please send us a reply with your information in the following order
Full Name
Mailing Address
Cell Phone Number
Email address
Current occupation
Age
We'll get back to you after receiving this information to confirm your participation in the survey.
Thank you.
Your faithfully,
Michelle Baileys
QP Financial Services Inc
Sounds mildly legit, right? And if you happened to be sending out lots of emails for various little gigs here and there in order to make an extra buck or two because you are saving up for your awesome impending nuptials, then perhaps you too, in a moment of poor judgment, would send back your information like I did.
I should have been clued in when Western Union was mentioned. Who the hell uses Western Union anymore, except immigrants sending money back to their families in other countries or scammers that try to steal your money with stupid cons like this one? Ugh. So anyway…
A few days later I get this lovely email, and my inner bullshit meter FINALLY starts to kick in:
Good Morning,
This is to confirm you have been selected as 1 of our 5 Western Union Survey/Evaluation agent in your area.You will be evaluating
Please note that you will be required to visit one
We need to know we can trust you with funds that will be used in carrying out the actual survey ,hence we will need you to send us the Name and Mailing Address where you will like the funds sent .
Respond to this email ASAP to show acceptance and willingness to carry out the survey for the company
Thank you and we wait to hear from you today.
Your sincerely,
Michelle Baileys
Market Research Analyst
QP Financial Services Inc.
Funds to be used? Western Union ? Something stinks like puppy breath. Plus, my sharp editor's eye notices that the email comes from a one Michelle Bailey and yet these emails are all signed by Michelle Baileys. A small discrepancy but sloppy enough to turn up the volume on my inner alarm. I am suddenly pretty sure I am in the middle of an internet scam. And I have already given these people a lot of my information. Luckily, they did not request anything too personal and I would not have shared that info anyway, but who knows what they can find on me with just a name and address. It gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it. So of course I start sending emails like this one:
Michelle,
Thank you for your email. I would like to participate in the survey. However as many people are, I am a bit skeptical of moving forward without actual person to person contact. The internet can be a very fraudulent place so I am just being cautious to protect myself. Is there any way I can get a link to your organization or a phone number I can call to confirm with you personally that this is a legitimate opportunity for me? I hope you understand my desire to make sure I am not being scammed. A QP Financial Services internet search turned up a financial services and continuing education site that had nothing to do with focus groups such as this, so my guard went up a bit.
I appreciate your understanding, and look forward to hearing from you soon.
No answers. At this point I am positive that my suspicions are correct. I start sending emails like this:
Michelle,
I have become aware of your scam and if I receive anything in the mail I will forward it immediately to the FBI. I researched more about this and found others who have experienced this scam, and this is what they did as well.
Please take me off your list.
And this:
PLEASE DO NOT SEND ANYTHING TO ME. THANK YOU.
After that it was pretty quiet. And then the bitch has the nerve to send this to me:
Dear Survey Participant
We are sorry for the delay in correspondence with you. Funds for the survey as just being released by our sponsors and should arrive at the address you provided to us within the week.
Instructions on how to go about about conducting the survey will be sent to you on Thursday. Thank you.
We are sorry for the delay in correspondence with you. Funds for the survey as just being released by our sponsors and should arrive at the address you provided to us within the week.
Instructions on how to go about about conducting the survey will be sent to you on Thursday. Thank you.
I wanted to tear my hair out. I was not only annoyed at their idiocy, but also my own. How could I—ME!—someone I would consider to be very well educated and downright savvy, have gotten myself into this mess? Why did I fall for it just like all those other poor saps? I guess when you are really hoping some cool opportunity falls into your lap, you will buy into all kinds of things—until it is very obvious that they are too good to be true. I was just slower than usual at realizing the whole “too good to be true” part.
Anyway my final email basically threatened FBI contact yet again (because why the hell not?) and demanded they cease all contact with me. That was the first week of June.
It is now the end of June, and guess what I found waiting for me when I got home today? A huge envelope, sent express mail and shoddily addressed to me from one Michelle Baileys. I kid you not.
Before even opening it, I immediately called the FBI. It was all I could think to do, and hadn't I already threatened to anyway? I had to back myself up somehow. I assume the woman who answered had to cover the phone with her hand while she laughed at my naivety, but then she stopped giggling long enough tell me to contact the Consumer Fraud department at the Attorney General’s office. I was then directed to ic3.gov to file an official complaint. That is it. That is all you can do. She made sure to stress three times that I was not to cash the check that was probably inside the envelope (really? You think?) and our conversation was over. I decided to open the envelope and get a look at the contents, and was amused to find a very obviously fake check made out to me for $2500.00. Also amusing? The fact that the check was all that was in there. No note, no instructions, no fake survey to complete for Western Union . It was like the scammers gave up and just sent the check anyway, just in case I ended up being a poor, struggling victim of a tough economy who would cash the check out of desperation even though I had made it very clear I was on to them. It was a crap shoot, but they were willing to spend the money for express mail on a whim. Hilarious. And a bit sad.
The whole thing is so ridiculous that I still can’t quite believe this happened. I figured writing about it would help me process it all, and sharing it with others will help spread the word about this particular style of scamming.
Word to the wise—even those fun sounding focus groups can end up being a stupid way to get you involved in one of those dumb scams you think only morons would buy into. You never know when you might become one of those morons yourself. Or maybe that’s just me.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The People Inside The Oil Can
I read a riveting article today on cnn.com about the people who survived the oil rig explosion back in April. It was a long piece--about twelve pages when reading on a handy dandy Blackberry smartphone. Yet the story was well worth the read.
I am sure I will get some flack from readers who have no sympathy for the people who choose to risk their lives to suck Mother Earth dry of her finite vital resources. I am not a fan either, for sure. BP is on my shit list just like they are on everyone else's (except the people they make money for, of course). I heard a theory a few years back that still gives me shivers when I think about it--that perhaps oil is sort of like the Earth's blood, so to speak, and it is found deep inside the "veins" of the planet and is necessary to keep stasis. What we do is like draining the Earth of its blood and sickening it, much like a person drained of blood would be. We need blood flowing through us to sustain our life--why wouldn't the Earth also need this flow to keep living? It is an interesting idea I think of when I hear about our dependency on oil and how we keep poking around deeper and deeper for it. Eventually, we could bleed Earth dry. So anyway, in short, I am not making some big statement about oil, per se.
I just had to express my emotional reaction to the article. I found it quite moving and sad to read the story of how the actual explosion occurred and the lives that were lost as a result. The writers really tried to re-create the drama of the moment and the very real terror these men felt as they realized the gravity of the situation. These guys could have been anyone's friend or loved one, just working the job that was available to them in their particular location or for their area of expertise. Maybe their family has always worked in the oil industry. Maybe they had to take the job because it paid well and their family could be more comfortable. We all take jobs for many reasons, and I am sure they all had good ones. But there they were, on that fateful day, some losing their lives as a result of the disaster.
What really struck me about the story is not only the painful loss of some good men working hard for their families, but also the fact that the oil well had apparently been sketchy from the start and everyone knew it. It had given them a lot of trouble since day one of drilling. Yet they were instructed to plug along, and since they were already behind from other issues that arose, plug along faster and cheaper, if possible. Which sounds normal, purely from a business standpoint. Yet this business is not like Google or Target. This business is dangerous and should be treated appropriately. You cannot rush something so delicate. The nature of the oil business calls for caution and protection of all involved. It seems this would have been written into the business plan from the start, preventing a corporate big-wig from feeling that he has the right to demand a faster process. But that is what appears to have happened, if you believe the initial stories coming out.
Anyway I guess I just wanted to share some thoughts about this unfortunate event. I won't post the gut-wrenching pictures of animals covered in oil that I see all over the internet, or spend hours writing angrily about BP and corporate responsibility. I wanted simply to share a quality piece of dramatized journalism, reflect on a few ideas, and hopefully bring a different perspective to anyone who was curious about the explosion.
I am sure I will get some flack from readers who have no sympathy for the people who choose to risk their lives to suck Mother Earth dry of her finite vital resources. I am not a fan either, for sure. BP is on my shit list just like they are on everyone else's (except the people they make money for, of course). I heard a theory a few years back that still gives me shivers when I think about it--that perhaps oil is sort of like the Earth's blood, so to speak, and it is found deep inside the "veins" of the planet and is necessary to keep stasis. What we do is like draining the Earth of its blood and sickening it, much like a person drained of blood would be. We need blood flowing through us to sustain our life--why wouldn't the Earth also need this flow to keep living? It is an interesting idea I think of when I hear about our dependency on oil and how we keep poking around deeper and deeper for it. Eventually, we could bleed Earth dry. So anyway, in short, I am not making some big statement about oil, per se.
I just had to express my emotional reaction to the article. I found it quite moving and sad to read the story of how the actual explosion occurred and the lives that were lost as a result. The writers really tried to re-create the drama of the moment and the very real terror these men felt as they realized the gravity of the situation. These guys could have been anyone's friend or loved one, just working the job that was available to them in their particular location or for their area of expertise. Maybe their family has always worked in the oil industry. Maybe they had to take the job because it paid well and their family could be more comfortable. We all take jobs for many reasons, and I am sure they all had good ones. But there they were, on that fateful day, some losing their lives as a result of the disaster.
What really struck me about the story is not only the painful loss of some good men working hard for their families, but also the fact that the oil well had apparently been sketchy from the start and everyone knew it. It had given them a lot of trouble since day one of drilling. Yet they were instructed to plug along, and since they were already behind from other issues that arose, plug along faster and cheaper, if possible. Which sounds normal, purely from a business standpoint. Yet this business is not like Google or Target. This business is dangerous and should be treated appropriately. You cannot rush something so delicate. The nature of the oil business calls for caution and protection of all involved. It seems this would have been written into the business plan from the start, preventing a corporate big-wig from feeling that he has the right to demand a faster process. But that is what appears to have happened, if you believe the initial stories coming out.
Anyway I guess I just wanted to share some thoughts about this unfortunate event. I won't post the gut-wrenching pictures of animals covered in oil that I see all over the internet, or spend hours writing angrily about BP and corporate responsibility. I wanted simply to share a quality piece of dramatized journalism, reflect on a few ideas, and hopefully bring a different perspective to anyone who was curious about the explosion.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Depressed? Try cookies.
Well it has been a long, gloomy June here in Chicago. It basically rains every other day. It's been a pretty consistent pattern of the following:
One great day that is warm and sunny
The next day will be almost too hot and the air will feel humid and heavy and uncomfortable, then it will break out into a big thunderstorm
Next will be a day of raining on and off all day
Finally we will get another single comfortably warm and sunny day. And the cycle repeats like that again and again all through the month of June
Well I am awfully sick of it.
My mood has taken a cue from the weather and plummeted into sadness with a hint of irritation with the world. Try as I might, I have not been able to shake the feeling that everything sucks. It's silly, I know. Cognitively I know this. But try telling that to the emotionally sensitive little girl taking up residency in my soul. She seems to think that nothing is going our way and that we are huge, ugly, untalented and unable to get what we want. Unfortunately, she is pretty convincing these days. I am totally falling for her take on the world. And I can't seem to stop it.
It does not help that I have been sick, which means I have had plenty of time to think about how lame everything is while I lay on the couch watching network TV. No wonder I am depressed! If I stumble upon one more reality show where stupid idiots are featured and seem to be doing just fine in their freaky little lives, I think my self-esteem or what is left of it will shrivel up and die. These people managed to get other people to watch them do really dumb stuff and make money doing it. How is that happening while I can't even land a job that will allow me some growth potential? It all makes no sense. The little girl in me agrees and feeds that mentality with her little voice telling me I can't catch a break.
So here I am going along all bitter-faced and sad. I am short-fused and curt to everyone I encounter. I am on the verge of tears at every bump in the road I experience. I am disenchanted with life. I am annoyed with friends and loved ones because no one can pull me out of this funk but myself. It has been like this for a few weeks now.
Well I am awfully sick of it.
So tonight I decided to try to write a little (which always makes me feel better) and bake some freakin' cookies. I baked the shit out of those stinkin' cookies. And you know what? They were delicious. I stuffed my stupid sad face full of chocolate chip cookies. I let myself eat way more of them than I should have, and now my stomach feels mildly bloated in that sugary-overload kind of way. And it is great. GREAT, I tell you!
I actually feel better already. Sometimes, if you have the emotionally sensitive little girl bitching and moaning inside, you just have to shut her the hell up by eating some cookies. It helps. I swear.
One great day that is warm and sunny
The next day will be almost too hot and the air will feel humid and heavy and uncomfortable, then it will break out into a big thunderstorm
Next will be a day of raining on and off all day
Finally we will get another single comfortably warm and sunny day. And the cycle repeats like that again and again all through the month of June
Well I am awfully sick of it.
My mood has taken a cue from the weather and plummeted into sadness with a hint of irritation with the world. Try as I might, I have not been able to shake the feeling that everything sucks. It's silly, I know. Cognitively I know this. But try telling that to the emotionally sensitive little girl taking up residency in my soul. She seems to think that nothing is going our way and that we are huge, ugly, untalented and unable to get what we want. Unfortunately, she is pretty convincing these days. I am totally falling for her take on the world. And I can't seem to stop it.
It does not help that I have been sick, which means I have had plenty of time to think about how lame everything is while I lay on the couch watching network TV. No wonder I am depressed! If I stumble upon one more reality show where stupid idiots are featured and seem to be doing just fine in their freaky little lives, I think my self-esteem or what is left of it will shrivel up and die. These people managed to get other people to watch them do really dumb stuff and make money doing it. How is that happening while I can't even land a job that will allow me some growth potential? It all makes no sense. The little girl in me agrees and feeds that mentality with her little voice telling me I can't catch a break.
So here I am going along all bitter-faced and sad. I am short-fused and curt to everyone I encounter. I am on the verge of tears at every bump in the road I experience. I am disenchanted with life. I am annoyed with friends and loved ones because no one can pull me out of this funk but myself. It has been like this for a few weeks now.
Well I am awfully sick of it.
So tonight I decided to try to write a little (which always makes me feel better) and bake some freakin' cookies. I baked the shit out of those stinkin' cookies. And you know what? They were delicious. I stuffed my stupid sad face full of chocolate chip cookies. I let myself eat way more of them than I should have, and now my stomach feels mildly bloated in that sugary-overload kind of way. And it is great. GREAT, I tell you!
I actually feel better already. Sometimes, if you have the emotionally sensitive little girl bitching and moaning inside, you just have to shut her the hell up by eating some cookies. It helps. I swear.
Friday, June 11, 2010
A Salmon Surrounded by Hawks
I will preface this post with a quick word about how lovely it is that Chicago's beloved Blackhawks hockey team earned themselves the infamous Stanley Cup this week. They completely deserved it (especially that guy who lost 7 teeth in one game) and I have nothing but respect and pride for the team. I was there at the bar Wednesday night just like everyone else in the city, drinking heavily and watching in anticipation until Patrick Kane found a way to slip that puck right past the goalie for the final winning point. It was great and exciting and hugging strangers was fun.
Today was the official Blackhawks celebration downtown. A parade was scheduled, as was a rally at the end of said parade. I happened to have been called in to an important meeting at 930am. Location? Basically a block from ground zero where all the after-parade festivities would be taking place. Little did I realized how very screwed this would make me later.
I arrived early just in case of delays from the events of the day, and I was able to snake through the already huge crowd and get to the building by walking about a block and a half out of my way to find a place that had not been barricaded off for the parade already. I easily maneuvered to the entrance of the building, and was pleased to find it was not as crowded as I thought it would be. This was at 9am. At that point, I noticed that people were covering the awning out front with a HUGE Blackhawks sign. I should have realized then that I was a goner.
The meeting got out around 11am. Right smack in the middle of parade time. I figured there would at least be space for people to walk along behind the spectators. I thought wrong.
There is no stopping hockey fans, my friends. They will stand, hang, climb, or scramble to anywhere they see an open space to view these heroes of theirs. And I understand that. I just figured I would at least be able to move, albeit slowly, to where I needed to go. Nope. I was stuck in any direction I tried to go. I was surrounded by drunk super-fans with no way out. In the most humid day of summer thus far. Wearing a freaking suit coat. And wearing flip-flops, just asking for my toes to be stepped on. It was awful. I did manage to enjoy myself for about 5 minutes when the parade came by and I was close enough to see the team members celebrating in their double decker buses. Also, I marveled at the amount of confetti in the air. I had never seen so many tiny colors floating through the air. It was actually quite stunning.
I eventually found a way to swim upstream amidst what I later learned was 2 million people. But not until I had tried several different routes that led to dead ends or just too many people to fight through, and I had sweat through my suit coat and tank-top underneath. The sun beat down on me oppressively and I am pretty sure my face is fried from not wearing sunscreen (I did not expect to be outside for that long after my meeting. Silly me).
Eventually I found my way to an L train stop, but because of the massive amount of people there for the Hawks celebration, I had to wait for 6 trains to go by in order to actually be able to board one. And by board I mean cram my way on by contorting my body into an "s" shape and shoving my elbow into the breast of the woman next to me. It was a real treat, let me tell you.
Finally I made it home, a mere 2 and a half hours after I started on my journey. Normally, this commute would take a half hour during the evening rush after work. Today, it was epic. I am proud, though. This little salmon found her way upstream despite adversity. Let this be a metaphor for all of us--perseverance will get us where we want to go...eventually. And wherever you are going--don't wear flip flops.
Today was the official Blackhawks celebration downtown. A parade was scheduled, as was a rally at the end of said parade. I happened to have been called in to an important meeting at 930am. Location? Basically a block from ground zero where all the after-parade festivities would be taking place. Little did I realized how very screwed this would make me later.
I arrived early just in case of delays from the events of the day, and I was able to snake through the already huge crowd and get to the building by walking about a block and a half out of my way to find a place that had not been barricaded off for the parade already. I easily maneuvered to the entrance of the building, and was pleased to find it was not as crowded as I thought it would be. This was at 9am. At that point, I noticed that people were covering the awning out front with a HUGE Blackhawks sign. I should have realized then that I was a goner.
The meeting got out around 11am. Right smack in the middle of parade time. I figured there would at least be space for people to walk along behind the spectators. I thought wrong.
There is no stopping hockey fans, my friends. They will stand, hang, climb, or scramble to anywhere they see an open space to view these heroes of theirs. And I understand that. I just figured I would at least be able to move, albeit slowly, to where I needed to go. Nope. I was stuck in any direction I tried to go. I was surrounded by drunk super-fans with no way out. In the most humid day of summer thus far. Wearing a freaking suit coat. And wearing flip-flops, just asking for my toes to be stepped on. It was awful. I did manage to enjoy myself for about 5 minutes when the parade came by and I was close enough to see the team members celebrating in their double decker buses. Also, I marveled at the amount of confetti in the air. I had never seen so many tiny colors floating through the air. It was actually quite stunning.
I eventually found a way to swim upstream amidst what I later learned was 2 million people. But not until I had tried several different routes that led to dead ends or just too many people to fight through, and I had sweat through my suit coat and tank-top underneath. The sun beat down on me oppressively and I am pretty sure my face is fried from not wearing sunscreen (I did not expect to be outside for that long after my meeting. Silly me).
Eventually I found my way to an L train stop, but because of the massive amount of people there for the Hawks celebration, I had to wait for 6 trains to go by in order to actually be able to board one. And by board I mean cram my way on by contorting my body into an "s" shape and shoving my elbow into the breast of the woman next to me. It was a real treat, let me tell you.
Finally I made it home, a mere 2 and a half hours after I started on my journey. Normally, this commute would take a half hour during the evening rush after work. Today, it was epic. I am proud, though. This little salmon found her way upstream despite adversity. Let this be a metaphor for all of us--perseverance will get us where we want to go...eventually. And wherever you are going--don't wear flip flops.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Yesterday was an exciting day. Not only was it gorgeous out (until it poured in the afternoon, which Chicago loves to do randomly) but even better than that, Adam and I got to head out to Wisconsin
I am not sure if I ever wrote about this in past posts, but Adam had the great idea to surprise me and propose after we decided to skydive together for our 4 year anniversary. He knows me very well and I told him from day one that if he ever proposed, he better do it in some cool crazy way because that will make me say yes for sure. Well he heeded my advice and last July we went to Skydive Midwest to jump out of an airplane. He jumped out first and had it all planned out to surprise me with the ring when I landed. Everything went perfectly and I was totally clueless and it made for probably the most romantic and wonderful moment of my life thus far. There is much more to the story but I won't bore you will details only he and I can appreciate. However, I do need to mention that Skydive Midwest happened to be holding a fundraiser for their Tandem For Troops program the same day we were jumping. So our waiting time was filled with cheap hotdogs, rock music and numerous games to keep us occupied.
There was also a raffle going on, and Adam is a fan of donating to a good cause via raffle ticket. He is very lucky, you see. This particular day, he was luckier than usual because he won like 3 prizes (not to mention a brand new fiancée!) They kept calling his name and it was pretty hilarious. Finally they pulled a ticket for the grand prize--a FREE flight lesson at the tiny airport they used for flying jumpers out--Aeris Aviation. Of course, the name they called was Adam's. So we walked away newly engaged, newly experienced at skydiving, and with prizes to boot. It was a heck of a day.
Back to the present. It has been almost a year since we got engaged (wow time flies!) and Adam's flight lesson was just about to expire so we decided to hop in the car and drive back out to where the magic happened so that he could reap the rewards of his raffle luck.
Our instructor, Monty, was an absolute joy to hang out with and we had a blast with him. Our little plane was cute and fun and Adam got to learn the ins and outs of being an aircraft pilot. I myself sat excitedly in the back of the tiny Cessna, enjoying the ride and secretly hoping we did not crash. But I had nothing to worry about—Adam was like an old pro, according to Monty. We took off easily and soon Adam was steering us through a cornflower blue sky. We were just below the clouds for the most part, and every now and then we got bumped around by them, which was fun and terrifying all at once (my personal favorite of all feelings).
Here are some pictures of what it was like:
We ended up flying over Lake Geneva and various other little Wisconsin lakes and farms. Pretty freaking cool. At then end, Adam helped land us easily and we were done with that adventure. We lingered around a bit to reminisce about last July when he got down on one knee. We watched the skydivers jumping into the great white clouds above us and I remembered what it was like to taste those clouds, how it felt to free fall and feel like they were choking me as I flew through them at an intense speed. What a rush!
This time around Adam and I were in the air together in a different way. But we still needed the trust between us to be strong like it was when we skydived. This time, Adam had our lives in his hands and he steered us along just fine. At the end of the lesson, Monty commented that we were a very cool couple and that that helps when he is teaching someone to fly. He said we seemed fearless, which was so important not only in flying an airplane, but also in life. I laughed and said that I was secretly a little nervous but was good at pretending I wasn’t. Then I added that Adam makes me feel safe and helps me stay fearless.
And I realized suddenly what a true statement that is. When you think about it, isn’t that what everyone hopes to find in a partner?
Adam may be luckier than me when it comes to winning raffles. But I think I got pretty lucky too when he decided to spend the rest of his life with me.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Bike stream of consciousness
When I'm on my bike the world is mine and I go and go and go and everything wizzes by in a blur of colors and the wind feels warm on my face and my helmet feels tight and makes my hairline sweat and I pump my legs hard to go faster and then I ease up to turn and I signal to the guy in the car that I am turning by lifting my left arm and pointing to the left because that is where I want to go and I make eye contact and he nods and me and I nod at him and he slows to a stop and I speed up and turn left and I give a little wave to let him know my appreciation and he smiles and I smile and I go on down the street which is now a quiet tree-lined one with lots of shade and my sunglasses catch the glint of the sunlight streaming through and I stare to the left and I stare to the right trying to look into everyone's houses because I like imagining what their lives are like and how they live and what they do everyday and I see people stoop-sitting and I see people hosing off the sides of their homes and I see kids laughing and riding tricycles and I see hopscotch and chalk drawings on the sidewalks and I look out for bunnies that run wild in the streets and the occasional squirrel that decides to risk it all and cross my path and I lift my butt up when I hit a speed bump and my bag strapped to the rack makes a loud clanking noise and I worry for one second about breaking a spoke and then my brain moves on to the sound of the breeze in the trees and how green all the plants are and I approach a stop sign and I slow down and try to gesture to the car waiting for me that he can go ahead but he refuses because he thinks I will just blow through the stop like other bikers and I really want him to go first but I don't have time for his wishy-washiness so I just blow through it and prove his theory all along and then I am so close to being home and I realize how very sweaty I am and decide the song on my ipod is all wrong for this moment and I press skip so I can find a good one and then I get stuck at the Belmont and Leavitt stop light like I always do and I finally find a song I like that fits my mood and it's that one by that band that everyone likes and I feel so generic listening to it but there is a reason it is so popular so I let it go and it makes me smile and makes me happy and that is all that matters and work is over and the sun is shining and I am pedaling faster and faster and then I turn right down a one way street to get to my alley but it's only for a little while and when a car comes toward me I feel secretly guilty and wish I had a chance to explain that I usually follow rules but it's just way faster this way and I avoid eye contact and cruise to the alley and turn down it and I watch the squirrels scurry out of the hole bitten through our garbage can and scatter when I stop my bike and I hop off and take off my helmet and let my head breathe and I open the gate and lead my bike into the yard and into the garage and I leave her there to rest until tomorrow morning when I will come again to partake of her kind assistance to get where I want to go once more.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
It had to happen eventually...
I knew one day I would have to pontificate about my thoughts on a particular subject that I have not mentioned in all 5 years (give or take) that I have had this blog. But now, since it is almost over, I feel the need (after about 1/3 of a bottle of wine) to express to you my feelings about something very dear to me.
LOST.
Yes friends. That show that everyone either loves (if they watch it) or hates to hear about (if they do not watch it). I am not going to try to theorize or anything (which reminds me--I have to remember to write down my personal guess as to which theory will unfold during the season finale before Sunday, per my watching-buddies' request. Yikes! Don't forget! And yes I am that nerdy), I just want to explore my intense feelings for this mind-blowing piece of American Entertainment.
When my fiance brought home the netflix of episode 1, season 1, I was mildly annoyed. I had been hearing about this show for like 2 seasons and I just did not get it (was not enlightened yet, as I will call it now). He watched it alone due to my indifference. He promptly told me I needed to watch it. That I would effing love it (or something to that effect). I decided to give it a shot.
The first episode was so intense I think I almost threw up. I have never been so moved by a television show before. Listen, I want to be straight right off the bat here--I DO NOT get "into" TV shows. During the 6 years I was in college, I think I saw a hand-full of episodes of TV shows. I never had or wanted cable TV, I was constantly reading at coffee shops or in school. No need for mindless devotion to my weekly "show" or whatever. So I had no concept of what is it to actually care about a plot line, let alone a whole TV show. This was something different. And it terrified me.
Adam and I, along with our close friend Jon, plowed through season 1 and 2, maybe even 3. I know at least 2 New Year's Days off were spent, in their entirety, watching episode after episode in our pajamas. We only broke the cycle to go get greasy take out food and bring it back so we could continue getting our fix. I remember distinctly, after 12 straight hours of LOST viewing, rolling around on the couch, saying "It's like my crack, man. I can't get enough!" And I meant it.
Maybe it was the mystery of it all. I am, by nature, an extremely curious person. I want to know everything about everything and everyone. I ask a lot of questions. I analyze till I am blue in the face. But with LOST, I got to know nothing. Oh sure, treats were thrown at me, but ultimately, I was constantly in a state of panic and analysis about what everything meant. It was glorious.
So as I mentioned before, I have not been an avid television watcher since probably 8th grade. Even now, I watch a minimal amount of TV. LOST accounts for about 45% of my viewing time, I would say. As a result of this being typical for me, I have never really gotten attached to a show before. This is all new to me. I used to laugh at my sister or my aunt, who would tape their favorite shows and not answer their phones because "my show is on.." I thought it was absurd. Now?
I get it.
I totally get it.
LOST is MY SHOW. I care. I watch. I sit through stupid commercials. I read up online about it. I formulate theories. I LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF THIS SHOW. Yeah man. All caps. You heard me.
I treat the show like it is a separate entity. It's so weird. Never have I had this sort of attachment to a freaking television show. And it is now coming to an end. This weekend, Sunday to be exact, LOST will air the series finale. We have all known this day is coming since around circa 2007. But to have it actually be right around the corner is really surreal to me.
I mean, now that I finally gave in to my obsession with the show, it is time to say goodbye. I have invested a good 4-5 years of time, energy, and mind-power to this show and all its many facets. As Boyz to Men once said, "It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday." It's true. LOST is like my homey I must tip my 40oz to.
I am not sure how I will react. I am pretty sure I will cry, since I already cry every time someone even breaks a finger nail in that show. But in terms of how I will fill the void the finale will leave in my life? Who knows. I will probably just go back to watching less TV. Which is a good thing, overall.
The thing about LOST is...it is a show about people who make sense. You got to see why they are the way they are, then see them act differently, or in line with themselves, depending on the situation. And isn't that how it really is in real life? People are lonely, looking for something, have daddy issues, can't get over something. It is all universal to us all. And they act out accordingly. Or overcome their tendencies. Seeing that is hard. But exquisitely beautiful.
I guess if I had to try to put it into words...as LOST comes to an end, I realize I did fall for this show. I loved hard, fiercely, and with such a devotion that would never waiver. And I must remember, as I am a bawling baby on the couch during the finale this Sunday...
It is better to have loved and LOST than to have never loved at all.
LOST.
Yes friends. That show that everyone either loves (if they watch it) or hates to hear about (if they do not watch it). I am not going to try to theorize or anything (which reminds me--I have to remember to write down my personal guess as to which theory will unfold during the season finale before Sunday, per my watching-buddies' request. Yikes! Don't forget! And yes I am that nerdy), I just want to explore my intense feelings for this mind-blowing piece of American Entertainment.
When my fiance brought home the netflix of episode 1, season 1, I was mildly annoyed. I had been hearing about this show for like 2 seasons and I just did not get it (was not enlightened yet, as I will call it now). He watched it alone due to my indifference. He promptly told me I needed to watch it. That I would effing love it (or something to that effect). I decided to give it a shot.
The first episode was so intense I think I almost threw up. I have never been so moved by a television show before. Listen, I want to be straight right off the bat here--I DO NOT get "into" TV shows. During the 6 years I was in college, I think I saw a hand-full of episodes of TV shows. I never had or wanted cable TV, I was constantly reading at coffee shops or in school. No need for mindless devotion to my weekly "show" or whatever. So I had no concept of what is it to actually care about a plot line, let alone a whole TV show. This was something different. And it terrified me.
Adam and I, along with our close friend Jon, plowed through season 1 and 2, maybe even 3. I know at least 2 New Year's Days off were spent, in their entirety, watching episode after episode in our pajamas. We only broke the cycle to go get greasy take out food and bring it back so we could continue getting our fix. I remember distinctly, after 12 straight hours of LOST viewing, rolling around on the couch, saying "It's like my crack, man. I can't get enough!" And I meant it.
Maybe it was the mystery of it all. I am, by nature, an extremely curious person. I want to know everything about everything and everyone. I ask a lot of questions. I analyze till I am blue in the face. But with LOST, I got to know nothing. Oh sure, treats were thrown at me, but ultimately, I was constantly in a state of panic and analysis about what everything meant. It was glorious.
So as I mentioned before, I have not been an avid television watcher since probably 8th grade. Even now, I watch a minimal amount of TV. LOST accounts for about 45% of my viewing time, I would say. As a result of this being typical for me, I have never really gotten attached to a show before. This is all new to me. I used to laugh at my sister or my aunt, who would tape their favorite shows and not answer their phones because "my show is on.." I thought it was absurd. Now?
I get it.
I totally get it.
LOST is MY SHOW. I care. I watch. I sit through stupid commercials. I read up online about it. I formulate theories. I LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF THIS SHOW. Yeah man. All caps. You heard me.
I treat the show like it is a separate entity. It's so weird. Never have I had this sort of attachment to a freaking television show. And it is now coming to an end. This weekend, Sunday to be exact, LOST will air the series finale. We have all known this day is coming since around circa 2007. But to have it actually be right around the corner is really surreal to me.
I mean, now that I finally gave in to my obsession with the show, it is time to say goodbye. I have invested a good 4-5 years of time, energy, and mind-power to this show and all its many facets. As Boyz to Men once said, "It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday." It's true. LOST is like my homey I must tip my 40oz to.
I am not sure how I will react. I am pretty sure I will cry, since I already cry every time someone even breaks a finger nail in that show. But in terms of how I will fill the void the finale will leave in my life? Who knows. I will probably just go back to watching less TV. Which is a good thing, overall.
The thing about LOST is...it is a show about people who make sense. You got to see why they are the way they are, then see them act differently, or in line with themselves, depending on the situation. And isn't that how it really is in real life? People are lonely, looking for something, have daddy issues, can't get over something. It is all universal to us all. And they act out accordingly. Or overcome their tendencies. Seeing that is hard. But exquisitely beautiful.
I guess if I had to try to put it into words...as LOST comes to an end, I realize I did fall for this show. I loved hard, fiercely, and with such a devotion that would never waiver. And I must remember, as I am a bawling baby on the couch during the finale this Sunday...
It is better to have loved and LOST than to have never loved at all.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The big -1
Yesterday, it was officially one year exactly until my wedding. We celebrated by going to a friend's birthday gathering and drinking copious amounts of margaritas. It was nice to be out and the weather was great for once and we rode bikes in a group back to our neighborhood and it was just like summer nights I remember from years past. The city was buzzing with people spilling out of various bars and restaurants, the night air was warmish, and spirits were high. It is nights like this that I am reminded how lucky I am to be here, right now, at this particular time in my life. Knowing that things will be changing pretty significantly in the next year or so, I feel the need to embrace each moment like last night and hold it close. Snuggle it, even.
Here are some big changes coming round the bend:
I will be a married woman (I guess I call myself woman now) in exactly 364 days.
My fiance will be going back to school soon. Which means less time to spend together. Also less time to plan for our wedding.
Our best friend (my fiance's best friend of 10 years and now by proxy and because I love him, one of my best friends as well) is leaving Chicago to go to grad school at Harvard! (Yes he is very smart.) Which means a very big hole in our hearts after this summer.
Possibly we will be forced to move out of our lovely apartment if our landlord can find a buyer this summer.
There are other changes hopefully coming as well that will remain private for now. All in all, as a wise man named Bob once said, "times, they are a-changin'."
I know change is good, and I fully get that cognitively. However I tend to be the type of girl who understands things mentally yet still has very strong emotional responses to it all. That is why my mother always said I was "sensitive." A nice way of noting my emotionality...i.e. I cry. A lot. I am sure I will be just fine until all the changes start happening one by one. And then I will lose it here and there and be a blubbering mess for a day or two until the emotion has been drained out through the tears. It is fine. I can deal with it. It is a good thing that at 30 years old I finally know myself enough to realize how I might react and then prepare for it appropriately. So this will be the summer of lasts and firsts. Bring on the kleenex.
Here are some big changes coming round the bend:
I will be a married woman (I guess I call myself woman now) in exactly 364 days.
My fiance will be going back to school soon. Which means less time to spend together. Also less time to plan for our wedding.
Our best friend (my fiance's best friend of 10 years and now by proxy and because I love him, one of my best friends as well) is leaving Chicago to go to grad school at Harvard! (Yes he is very smart.) Which means a very big hole in our hearts after this summer.
Possibly we will be forced to move out of our lovely apartment if our landlord can find a buyer this summer.
There are other changes hopefully coming as well that will remain private for now. All in all, as a wise man named Bob once said, "times, they are a-changin'."
I know change is good, and I fully get that cognitively. However I tend to be the type of girl who understands things mentally yet still has very strong emotional responses to it all. That is why my mother always said I was "sensitive." A nice way of noting my emotionality...i.e. I cry. A lot. I am sure I will be just fine until all the changes start happening one by one. And then I will lose it here and there and be a blubbering mess for a day or two until the emotion has been drained out through the tears. It is fine. I can deal with it. It is a good thing that at 30 years old I finally know myself enough to realize how I might react and then prepare for it appropriately. So this will be the summer of lasts and firsts. Bring on the kleenex.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Hair Despair
Well I just realized that this will be my 102nd blog post. Boy howdy, that seems like a lot! When you think about how long I have had this little corner it does not seem that surprising I guess. But it is a little exciting. For me. And that is all that matters, when you really break it down. So HOORAY for me. And a big squishy thank you to you for reading all this silly drivel I like to share.
ANYWAY....
On to more important topics. Like my new haircut. Yeah I said it. My new haircut will be the subject of my 102nd blog post. Riveting, truly. But this is not just about my haircut. It is about every haircut I have ever had. It is about how awful one person can actually be at doing her own hair.
Our story begins circa 1987 or so. About the time I entered the 3rd grade. My mother had never done more with my limp, stringy locks than put them in a simple ponytail or if she was feeling really adventurous...two of them. I am pretty sure she is the one who passed on to me the "lack-of-skill-at-girly-things" gene that stops me from having a fashion sense, being able to wear high heels for more than an hour at a time, applying makeup properly, and of course--styling my own hair. (She also passed on her kindness, compassion, strength and ingenuity. So I made out like a bandit nonetheless.)
Around this time--3rd grade or so--young children begin to actually notice their differences and celebrate them...as cruelly as possible. So I think my mother had the best intentions when she dragged me into a salon to get my rat's nest of a mop combed out and see what we could do with it. I am sure she did not want to give those kids a reason to tease me any more then they were already planning to. My knotted greasy mess of hair certainly would not help the situation. She decided to go with what everyone at the time was doing (hey, it was the 80s after all). She got me a perm.
Now, the perm was super cute when leaving the salon. It made my fine, flat hair kinky and full, gave me the volume women dream of, and seemed relatively easy to manage--just spray and scrunch and go! However, the perm completely fell out of my hair within weeks and I was back to straight and flat once again. My mother was determined to get the perm to take. She must have taken me back to that salon every few months for at least a year. Same thing always happened--perm took hours to create, then took only hours to disappear. It was pretty amazing.
Eventually my mother grew tired of attempting to force my hair to be something it wasn't. I think it was at that point that we both just sort of gave up. I played sports and tended to keep my hair in tight ponytails anyway, or there was that great side ponytail phase everyone was into that suited me just fine through the late 80s and early 90s. It was all good. Except that I looked like a real tool through most of my formative years. But then again--who doesn't? Right? Riiiiight?
Fast forward to my later college years. I stumbled upon an amazing BFF who was not only fabulous and fun as hell, but he was also really good at hair! I could not believe my luck! If he was not cutting and dying my hair, he was experimenting and styling it so that I would look like a normal, dare I say pretty girl, all dolled up and looking good all the time. It was great! Remembering those days right now, I can honestly say with confidence that those were some of the best-looking days of my life thus far. Wow. I think I almost shed a tear. Why did I ever move away from that man?
Fast forward again, say...7 years. I am now 30 years old. I have not had my BFF stylist around in 7 years and it shows. I wander from stylist to stylist, hoping someone will finally understand my hair and help me figure out how to make it look nice on my own. Oh sure, there have been some who came close. There are always those who gave me what we both thought was the perfect cut . But once I left the salon, once my hair's fate rested in my fumbling hands...well, you know how that ends. You see, the stylist has that gene. That thing inside most women that tells them innately how to braid hair or use a curl brush properly. Me? I do not have it. AT ALL. And so I leave the salon feeling like a million bucks, go out that night and get tons of compliments, feel awesome about my hair future, and then BAM. I wake up in the morning and it's just me and the hair. On our own. Battling the war we have been fighting for years. And it gets ugly, let me assure you. With no stylist to tame it, my hair becomes a beast and refuses to do what I saw it do the day before. It is like the sad clown at the circus being left alone in the lion cage with only a squirty-flower on his lapel to assist him.
So here I am today, about 6 days into a new haircut. The first day, of course, I absolutely loved it. The shape was great, the layers made sense, I went with sweepy side bangs again (against my better judgement) and they actually looked damn cute! I was impressed. The stylist was my 4th or 5th since living in Chicago, and I was happy because she took notes and spent time listening to my hair woes. She even showed me some different ways to work with my hair and gently urge it to do what I wanted. I felt armed with new knowledge and a new sense of determination to make my hair my bitch (so to speak). And of course, the next morning, I practiced all her tricks and I took extra time to style it and I used the stupid product she convinced me to buy that was supposed to help me make this happen. But nothing changed. I am still a certifiable hair-idiot.
This makes me very sad. It does. Because I know hair is a very important part of the image you present to the world. It can make a pretty girl uglier or a plain girl stunning. It can compliment your outfit or confuse the hell out of people. It is sometimes all someone has to go on to recognize you in a crowd. So it better be an extension of you, if possible.
For me, this is just not possible...yet. I am still hoping that one day the right cut or the right length or the right products will come along and help me make up for my missing hair gene. I will figure out how to style my own hair in a way that is pleasing and looks like I meant to look good that day. People will comment on it and tell me I have never looked better. And it won't be because of the stylist's work. It will be because of me.
ANYWAY....
On to more important topics. Like my new haircut. Yeah I said it. My new haircut will be the subject of my 102nd blog post. Riveting, truly. But this is not just about my haircut. It is about every haircut I have ever had. It is about how awful one person can actually be at doing her own hair.
Our story begins circa 1987 or so. About the time I entered the 3rd grade. My mother had never done more with my limp, stringy locks than put them in a simple ponytail or if she was feeling really adventurous...two of them. I am pretty sure she is the one who passed on to me the "lack-of-skill-at-girly-things" gene that stops me from having a fashion sense, being able to wear high heels for more than an hour at a time, applying makeup properly, and of course--styling my own hair. (She also passed on her kindness, compassion, strength and ingenuity. So I made out like a bandit nonetheless.)
Around this time--3rd grade or so--young children begin to actually notice their differences and celebrate them...as cruelly as possible. So I think my mother had the best intentions when she dragged me into a salon to get my rat's nest of a mop combed out and see what we could do with it. I am sure she did not want to give those kids a reason to tease me any more then they were already planning to. My knotted greasy mess of hair certainly would not help the situation. She decided to go with what everyone at the time was doing (hey, it was the 80s after all). She got me a perm.
Now, the perm was super cute when leaving the salon. It made my fine, flat hair kinky and full, gave me the volume women dream of, and seemed relatively easy to manage--just spray and scrunch and go! However, the perm completely fell out of my hair within weeks and I was back to straight and flat once again. My mother was determined to get the perm to take. She must have taken me back to that salon every few months for at least a year. Same thing always happened--perm took hours to create, then took only hours to disappear. It was pretty amazing.
Eventually my mother grew tired of attempting to force my hair to be something it wasn't. I think it was at that point that we both just sort of gave up. I played sports and tended to keep my hair in tight ponytails anyway, or there was that great side ponytail phase everyone was into that suited me just fine through the late 80s and early 90s. It was all good. Except that I looked like a real tool through most of my formative years. But then again--who doesn't? Right? Riiiiight?
Fast forward to my later college years. I stumbled upon an amazing BFF who was not only fabulous and fun as hell, but he was also really good at hair! I could not believe my luck! If he was not cutting and dying my hair, he was experimenting and styling it so that I would look like a normal, dare I say pretty girl, all dolled up and looking good all the time. It was great! Remembering those days right now, I can honestly say with confidence that those were some of the best-looking days of my life thus far. Wow. I think I almost shed a tear. Why did I ever move away from that man?
Fast forward again, say...7 years. I am now 30 years old. I have not had my BFF stylist around in 7 years and it shows. I wander from stylist to stylist, hoping someone will finally understand my hair and help me figure out how to make it look nice on my own. Oh sure, there have been some who came close. There are always those who gave me what we both thought was the perfect cut . But once I left the salon, once my hair's fate rested in my fumbling hands...well, you know how that ends. You see, the stylist has that gene. That thing inside most women that tells them innately how to braid hair or use a curl brush properly. Me? I do not have it. AT ALL. And so I leave the salon feeling like a million bucks, go out that night and get tons of compliments, feel awesome about my hair future, and then BAM. I wake up in the morning and it's just me and the hair. On our own. Battling the war we have been fighting for years. And it gets ugly, let me assure you. With no stylist to tame it, my hair becomes a beast and refuses to do what I saw it do the day before. It is like the sad clown at the circus being left alone in the lion cage with only a squirty-flower on his lapel to assist him.
So here I am today, about 6 days into a new haircut. The first day, of course, I absolutely loved it. The shape was great, the layers made sense, I went with sweepy side bangs again (against my better judgement) and they actually looked damn cute! I was impressed. The stylist was my 4th or 5th since living in Chicago, and I was happy because she took notes and spent time listening to my hair woes. She even showed me some different ways to work with my hair and gently urge it to do what I wanted. I felt armed with new knowledge and a new sense of determination to make my hair my bitch (so to speak). And of course, the next morning, I practiced all her tricks and I took extra time to style it and I used the stupid product she convinced me to buy that was supposed to help me make this happen. But nothing changed. I am still a certifiable hair-idiot.
This makes me very sad. It does. Because I know hair is a very important part of the image you present to the world. It can make a pretty girl uglier or a plain girl stunning. It can compliment your outfit or confuse the hell out of people. It is sometimes all someone has to go on to recognize you in a crowd. So it better be an extension of you, if possible.
For me, this is just not possible...yet. I am still hoping that one day the right cut or the right length or the right products will come along and help me make up for my missing hair gene. I will figure out how to style my own hair in a way that is pleasing and looks like I meant to look good that day. People will comment on it and tell me I have never looked better. And it won't be because of the stylist's work. It will be because of me.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Trip down New-Age memory lane...
***I just updated this post because I realized that my old myspace blog story was totally cut off in posting and I somehow missed it! Ack! (Obviously the TV watching and being lazy got to me that day and made my brain dumb. Damn you picture box!) So here is the corrected version, this time not missing the last few words of every sentence. Sorry about that!
Happy Saturday!
So I was reminded by someone today that myspace.com still exists somehow. I often forget that, even though for a time myspace.com was a very significant part of my life. I go back on occasion just to see if anything interesting is going on (there's not) and to look at a few old pictures I still have on my profile.
Today, I checked out my old blog over there. Myspace gave everyone the option for a blog on their profile and I wrote a few things on mine at one point. I forgot all about that and it was fun to re-read some thoughts from that time period.
One thing I wrote in particular was about my experience going into a sensory deprivation tank. I enjoyed writing about it because it was just such a weird adventure and I loved it. I highly recommend it to anyone even remotely interested in doing it. It will really blow your mind.
So in celebration of the past and myspace.com's slow demise, and because I am being lazy this weekend and would rather sit around in my underwear watching TV instead of trying to explore a new topic, here is an old post about what sensory deprivation did for me.
Happy Saturday!
So I was reminded by someone today that myspace.com still exists somehow. I often forget that, even though for a time myspace.com was a very significant part of my life. I go back on occasion just to see if anything interesting is going on (there's not) and to look at a few old pictures I still have on my profile.
Today, I checked out my old blog over there. Myspace gave everyone the option for a blog on their profile and I wrote a few things on mine at one point. I forgot all about that and it was fun to re-read some thoughts from that time period.
One thing I wrote in particular was about my experience going into a sensory deprivation tank. I enjoyed writing about it because it was just such a weird adventure and I loved it. I highly recommend it to anyone even remotely interested in doing it. It will really blow your mind.
So in celebration of the past and myspace.com's slow demise, and because I am being lazy this weekend and would rather sit around in my underwear watching TV instead of trying to explore a new topic, here is an old post about what sensory deprivation did for me.
So...........
I went to a place in Chicago called Space-Time-Tanks after I worked clinic at school. A friend from class had told me about it and I have always wanted to try the sensory deprivation experience, so she and I and her boyfriend all met up and went together. We walked in and the place reeked of pachuli insense. There were super old red velvet couches whose frames were made of mirrors. And a fish tank. And a guy at the desk who looked a little like a tame David Bowie from Labyrith. It was awesome already!
Sort-of-Bowie asked that we take our shoes off. Then after letting us get settled and read some of the new agey books on display in the lobby, he asked if we were ready to float. We were ready as one could be when one is going into something completely new and foreign to oneself. So we nodded and followed him into the hallway. He took us into a small room with a stand up shower and a huge container in it. He showed us how everything worked, and I stayed in that room to begin my experience.
First, you shower off completely. Then you lift open a door that is reminiscent of the outdoor cellar door at Dorothy's farm in The Wizard of Oz. Inside that door is a large square container with 10 inches of water and 800 pounds of Epsom salts dissolved in it. The salts are not only very good for relaxing muscles (I learned that in school) but it also makes your body float effortlessly in the water. So you put in some ear plugs to avoid getting water in your ears, you make sure you dont rub your eyes or the salt will burn like a mother, and you close the door and are plunged into complete and utter darkness.
In the tank, you lose sight, sound and touch. You are weightless and can't hear anything but your own heartbeat, breath, and occasionally eyelashes when you blink. You cannot tell if you are awake or alseep. You cannot feel your limbs. You get to spend an hour in nothingness. And it was so blissful.
At first, I saw so many colors as my eyes, so used to be stimulated all day long, fired off the last remnants of colors and shapes. I watched these colors sort of melt and shimmer until they faded to the pitch black that I was actually seeing. Then my heartbeat and blinking became so loud and rythmic, and I lost myself in it. My mind chatter took a long time, but eventually faded away a bit too. It was like that inner critic that we all have moved about 10 paces away from my ear--I could still hear her, but just barely over the sound of my own breathing.
My body was not there anymore. I felt none of it. Every now and then, I wiggled a toe or finger to make sure I was still real. And then I would be comforted to know I was still truly there. It was so good to let go and not have to pay attention to this shell I am in all the time--my own skin. My mind no longer had to deal with my body. I was free to wander in my head.
I fell asleep once--and when I woke my body jerked and splashed around. Then I looked up at the ceiling and saw images in black and white--they were almost like comic book images, but in motion. It was really intense because I was not trying to see anything, it was just appearing before my eyes that were wide open. I relished in this uncontrolled story line unfolding above me until it too faded away slowly.
I was amazed at my breathing. Deep, repetitive inhale-exhales that came from a place I rarely breath from in my daily life. I thought maybe I was experiencing being awake while breathing like we do while sleeping. Because truly, after a while I could not tell if I was awake or asleep. I began to think of my breath as sounding like a hot-air balloon, and was immediately thrown into a very vivid childhood memory of the Hot Air Balloon Races in Fresno. My mother would wake me up at 6am just to go sit on the backyard grass still moist with early morning dew, and she and I and sometimes Dad would watch the balloons pass over our house. Sometimes they were so low we could say hello to the people controlling them. It was a wild memory that made me really happy and it was so clear I felt like I was back there still, shivering in my pajamas on the back porch, my mom in her robe, and my Dad in his slippers.
So that all came from my deep breathing. A precious moment I remember like it was yesterday. As it faded, much like everything in the experience, I thought to myself, "Don't forget how beautiful that was."
Eventually I lost track of myself and my mind and was just floating freely and enjoying the new sensations. This bliss was finally interupted by a gentle rapping on my "chamber door" so to speak. I had been instructed to knock back, so I did, to signal I was aware my time was up.
I slowly came out of my dreamstate and opened the door. The lights were now deep red in the room, and I took a long hot shower in that light. Then I slowly put my clothes back on (difficult, as I was a bit uncoordinated after my weightlessness) and walked out of there feeling like I had slept for hours without really sleeping.
Now, 4 hours later, I am so sleepy and dreamy that I can barely write all this. But I wanted to try and put it into words while it was still fresh in my head.
I reccommend this to anyone who needs a break from reality for a little while. Anyone who needs to let go or brainstorm on a creative thought or figure out their life or the meaning of that life. It was pure non-existence, and I am all the better for getting the chance to experience that phenomena.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Root of the Matter
While getting the second half of a root canal procedure today, I was contemplating whether or not I could die by drowning in my own saliva.
There I was in the endodontist's chair, bright lights pointing at my face, a pair of protective goggles over my eyes and a dental dam pulled taut over my gaping wide mouth (at last I understand the non-sex-ed reason for a dental dam! Eureka!). I knew the spit was starting to pool at the place where my mouth becomes my throat, and swallowing occasionally was not taking care of business for me. My mouth had been open so long that my lower jaw was trembling uncontrollably. Suddenly I was very aware of how calmly I had been using only my nostrils to breathe during the procedure. I imagined what would happen if I were to panic due to the large and growing pool of saliva down in there. To stop breathing easily and start "getting real" (if I may quote the Real World MTV). This made me stop for a second and almost panic. But then I realized all that would do is cause unnecessary drama and possibly mess up my endodontist's steady hand. And who wants that to happen when he is deep up in your tooth with some sharp, scrape-y instrument? Not this girl. I managed to continue breathing evenly until he finished the job. The saliva pool was just getting big enough for small frogs to dive into when the dental dam was removed and his assistant went to town with the suction tube. Gone was my fear of drowning in my own juices. Hooray for science.
Now I am left fat-lipped and ready to park it on the couch and watch some Netflix. Whose with me?
There I was in the endodontist's chair, bright lights pointing at my face, a pair of protective goggles over my eyes and a dental dam pulled taut over my gaping wide mouth (at last I understand the non-sex-ed reason for a dental dam! Eureka!). I knew the spit was starting to pool at the place where my mouth becomes my throat, and swallowing occasionally was not taking care of business for me. My mouth had been open so long that my lower jaw was trembling uncontrollably. Suddenly I was very aware of how calmly I had been using only my nostrils to breathe during the procedure. I imagined what would happen if I were to panic due to the large and growing pool of saliva down in there. To stop breathing easily and start "getting real" (if I may quote the Real World MTV). This made me stop for a second and almost panic. But then I realized all that would do is cause unnecessary drama and possibly mess up my endodontist's steady hand. And who wants that to happen when he is deep up in your tooth with some sharp, scrape-y instrument? Not this girl. I managed to continue breathing evenly until he finished the job. The saliva pool was just getting big enough for small frogs to dive into when the dental dam was removed and his assistant went to town with the suction tube. Gone was my fear of drowning in my own juices. Hooray for science.
Now I am left fat-lipped and ready to park it on the couch and watch some Netflix. Whose with me?
Saturday, April 24, 2010
It's Complicated
Karaoke and I have a very deep, very lengthy love/hate relationship.
The thing that seems to be the link that flips my feeling from hate to love is alcohol.
Basically, I am generally adverse to going out specifically for Karaoke. I don't consider it "my thing." However, if a ton of people I know are heading out to do some Karaoke, I will give in and just go, and just swear to myself that I will not be singing that night. The whole first hour I am there, I will groan as friends start filling out the song slips, roll my eyes when someone expresses glee that they have such-and-such song, and generally act like I am way too above all this Karaoke nonsense.
Then inevitably I will realize, after about 3 beers and 5 hilarious performances by friends and strangers, that I DO like Karaoke, and I am damn good at it too! My guard drops and my hand reaches for that pen. Suddenly, it's on.
The weird thing is, usually, if I let myself give in, I end up having a BLAST. I am a pretty good singer and a well trained actress. I know what the people want to see. I have a few great performance songs up my sleeve that I can bust out. I will be there till last call, hooting and hollering for every performer, running up to dance along with them, clapping till my hands are raw, and loving every minute of it.
In a week or two, I will forget all about how fun it was that night, and the next time someone's like "Let's go to Karaoke tonight!" I am right back in denial again, rolling my eyes in disgust and looking for a better plan for the evening. It's ridiculous.
Back in my early college years, I hung out with a couple of people who were quite serious about Karaoke. I figure I must have been dragged along to the Karaoke bar almost every weekend for at least a year. (Okay maybe not dragged...but I did not have many friends at that time so it was either watch TV alone on a Friday night or go to the damn singing bar...so guess which I chose, being the social butterfly that I am?)
We would go there and my friends, who were musical theatre majors with dazzling voices, would put in like TEN slips of paper with songs written on them. They would be up there every 4th song, giving it their all. Oh and they were pitch perfect too, but often the songs were kinda boring. Like "The Rose" by Bette Midler. I mean, for someone who wants to show off, its a great way to flaunt your range, I guess. But who feels like hearing that one on a Friday night at a bar? Instant downer.
I would slink in the corner with my vodka tonic, slightly embarrassed to be affiliated with the hard-core singers of the night. Eventually after the vodka kicked in, I stopped caring as much and slipped in a song of my own. Usually something silly that was more of a statement than a song choice. Think "Bust-a-Move" or "Summertime Girls" by LFO. (Yeah, that one was a big hit, I'll tell you what.)
I think during that time I was starting to feel like one of those people (you know, the ones who go to every Karaoke night in the city, the regulars who always sing that same song and look a little too into it?) and that made me feel uncomfortable. When the DJ knew our names by heart, I could not take it anymore. Luckily, I finally started making more friends and I stopped going.
Later, when we would stumble upon Karaoke happening at a bar and it was later in my college career, the new friends I hung out with would get excited--not to sing, but to play a little game my buddy B coined "Scare-aoke." You try to find the worst song in the book, and you sign your friend up to sing it. Then they have no idea that they are singing (or what they are singing) until his or her name is called. It's pretty great. As long as you are fairly intoxicated. And you sort of know the lyrics.
Nowadays, with a fiance who thinks Karaoke is the bees knees (seriously he loves it, and is really good, especially with songs by Ray Charles--we threw him a birthday party at Lincoln Karaoke and it was a night that will go down in history as the best Karaoke night ever), I continue to struggle with my initial "ugh" feeling when Karaoke is mentioned. I still don't want to seek it out as a weekend activity. Yet I know deep down, once I have a drink or two, it will become a fun way to spend the evening for sure. So for now, I am just working on being more open to the suggestion than I used to be. So far, so good. Just ask the good people at Mullen's last Thursday night.
The thing that seems to be the link that flips my feeling from hate to love is alcohol.
Basically, I am generally adverse to going out specifically for Karaoke. I don't consider it "my thing." However, if a ton of people I know are heading out to do some Karaoke, I will give in and just go, and just swear to myself that I will not be singing that night. The whole first hour I am there, I will groan as friends start filling out the song slips, roll my eyes when someone expresses glee that they have such-and-such song, and generally act like I am way too above all this Karaoke nonsense.
Then inevitably I will realize, after about 3 beers and 5 hilarious performances by friends and strangers, that I DO like Karaoke, and I am damn good at it too! My guard drops and my hand reaches for that pen. Suddenly, it's on.
The weird thing is, usually, if I let myself give in, I end up having a BLAST. I am a pretty good singer and a well trained actress. I know what the people want to see. I have a few great performance songs up my sleeve that I can bust out. I will be there till last call, hooting and hollering for every performer, running up to dance along with them, clapping till my hands are raw, and loving every minute of it.
In a week or two, I will forget all about how fun it was that night, and the next time someone's like "Let's go to Karaoke tonight!" I am right back in denial again, rolling my eyes in disgust and looking for a better plan for the evening. It's ridiculous.
Back in my early college years, I hung out with a couple of people who were quite serious about Karaoke. I figure I must have been dragged along to the Karaoke bar almost every weekend for at least a year. (Okay maybe not dragged...but I did not have many friends at that time so it was either watch TV alone on a Friday night or go to the damn singing bar...so guess which I chose, being the social butterfly that I am?)
We would go there and my friends, who were musical theatre majors with dazzling voices, would put in like TEN slips of paper with songs written on them. They would be up there every 4th song, giving it their all. Oh and they were pitch perfect too, but often the songs were kinda boring. Like "The Rose" by Bette Midler. I mean, for someone who wants to show off, its a great way to flaunt your range, I guess. But who feels like hearing that one on a Friday night at a bar? Instant downer.
I would slink in the corner with my vodka tonic, slightly embarrassed to be affiliated with the hard-core singers of the night. Eventually after the vodka kicked in, I stopped caring as much and slipped in a song of my own. Usually something silly that was more of a statement than a song choice. Think "Bust-a-Move" or "Summertime Girls" by LFO. (Yeah, that one was a big hit, I'll tell you what.)
I think during that time I was starting to feel like one of those people (you know, the ones who go to every Karaoke night in the city, the regulars who always sing that same song and look a little too into it?) and that made me feel uncomfortable. When the DJ knew our names by heart, I could not take it anymore. Luckily, I finally started making more friends and I stopped going.
Later, when we would stumble upon Karaoke happening at a bar and it was later in my college career, the new friends I hung out with would get excited--not to sing, but to play a little game my buddy B coined "Scare-aoke." You try to find the worst song in the book, and you sign your friend up to sing it. Then they have no idea that they are singing (or what they are singing) until his or her name is called. It's pretty great. As long as you are fairly intoxicated. And you sort of know the lyrics.
Nowadays, with a fiance who thinks Karaoke is the bees knees (seriously he loves it, and is really good, especially with songs by Ray Charles--we threw him a birthday party at Lincoln Karaoke and it was a night that will go down in history as the best Karaoke night ever), I continue to struggle with my initial "ugh" feeling when Karaoke is mentioned. I still don't want to seek it out as a weekend activity. Yet I know deep down, once I have a drink or two, it will become a fun way to spend the evening for sure. So for now, I am just working on being more open to the suggestion than I used to be. So far, so good. Just ask the good people at Mullen's last Thursday night.
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