Month: March 2005

  • What a Nightmare
    © The Author, 2005

    The sky filled my eyes as I floated on the calm surface of Lake Michigan. My ears were submerged, hearing only the gurgle of the water and the whispers of fish. So at peace, it came as a big, happy surprise to me when my brothers dumped a pail of water onto my belly from my step-dads white and rainbow striped speedboat, which must have quietly been driven over to me while I was resting from my swim.

    Laughing, I splashed water at their sweetly pimpled, smiling teenage faces. They hit me with another wall of water from their pail. My step-dad Tony emerged from the boat floor, laughing in mock madman mode and jumped into the drivers side seat. My brothers threw an inner tube out to me and I grabbed hold. Soon the transmutable water became a plane of hard glass beneath me as Tony began to cruise fast around the lake. As always when tubing, I couldn’t stop laughing—I was smiling so hard my face hurt. Thumbs up! Faster! Faster!

    As we came to a halt on Chicago’s far north shore and I had the sudden realization that my brothers and step dad didn’t live here with me. I encouraged them to hurry up and go back to Michigan—I had the strange, sudden feeling that something horrible was about to happen. The sky over the city was becoming dark and the acrid taste of soot seemed to stick to the back of my throat.

    I trudged through the water back to the beach. I dusted the sand off my bike and began to ride south through the city. I was worried. Something was defiantly wrong—too many people were out on the streets. At first they just seemed to be hanging out, getting in my way as I tried to reach the Art Institute to retrieve my partner from work before the trouble hit. My intuition assured me that the trouble would be coming from the north, so I was sure I could get to him before anything catastrophic happened. He could hop on my bike and we would pedal to Indiana and take a train or flight out from there, since I was sure that the city would be too heinous to exit safely.

    As I reached the Gold Coast, pure pandemonium reined the streets. People were frantically moving north, screaming—absolutely terrified. I ditched my bike and tried to push against the frightened hordes. I was sure I needed to go south—I was sure the big bad would be coming from the north. Silly people, I thought, you are all walking into a trap!

    Shortly after, I had finally pushed my way past the crowd. Instead of a clear path to run to my partner on, I was met with a wall of fire, a tsunami of flames. The fire towered above me—and in slow motion—it came crashing down on me and I knew I was wrong. I had done everything wrong.

    The bulk of my nightmares usually follow some variation the following theme: Truly Saves the Day. Although they are now teenagers, in many of these types of dreams my brothers are still small boys; Anthony is still six and Julian is still three. Their ages make me 13 again. I wake from sleep to find a ferocious fire raging in our childhood home. I race to my brother’s bedroom to rescue them. I lift them out of bed, but my skinny arms struggle to carry both of them as we try to evacuate unharmed. I am usually able to save them if I do not wake up sweaty and screaming first.

    Other nightmares follow this heroic theme with a varied plotline. In one recurring nightmare, I am driving on a deserted highway with a group of friends and family. Suddenly a tornado as large as small city appears on the horizon. It is up to me to deliver everyone to safety. The land around us is flat and I know that the tornado will devour our car, as it is the tallest thing around. To everyone’s horror, I park the car and order everyone to get out of it and lie with me, as flat as they possibly can, in the roadside ditch. I know that this is the only way we will be saved, but the other passengers just want to try to outrun it—no one wants to budge from the car. I am pulling them out, fighting them to come. Sometimes they do, or sometimes my partner wakes me before the dream finishes, citing my sleep talking and difficulty breathing as ample reason.

    While I always know how it can be done, I never enjoy saving the day in my dreams. It is horrible trying to get everyone to cooperate with me, and it is really scary because I know that if I can’t convince the people I love most to do as I say, then they will die. The nightmare I had last night was the first nightmare I have ever had that I was completely wrong about how to save the day. While it was less frustrating than my usual nightmares, I can’t shake the feeling that it means something—that it is a message about the direction I have decided to take my life. What if I am completely wrong?

    Yesterday, in my waking hours, I did something that was a huge deal for me. This next protion might seem like a red herring, but it will all make sense soon enough. I aplogize, dear reader, that I have yet to master the transition beween the subconcious world of my dreams and the realities of my day, but please bear with me.

    Writing has always been my true love. But like a singleton who is too afraid of commitment to marry, I needed to dabble in any artistic venture that waggled its tail at me. I became engrossed in theater, music, drawing, painting, collage, sculpting, filmmaking, and photography. I tried to keep my adoration of writing to myself—indulging only in avid journal writing and very private fiction writing, but my obsession with words always bleed through in my other work. I would weave words into my visual art, I found myself jumping at the chance to write scripts rather than act them, and for a time I was in a band, composing very bad music to my hearts content.

    When it came time to go to college, I eventually settled on a screenwriting major. Film and video seemed to me to be a place where many different facuts of the arts converged to create a single product, so it appealed to me at a time when I still was not ready to admit that writing was my one true love. During the latter part of my undergraduate studies—after many soul-draining internships—I realized, too late to change my major that I didn’t want to work in television or in film. My skin is not thick enough for these industries. Plus, I enjoy my family, friends, sanity, and community too much to slave 70 hours a week for a medium that has so much potential but is constantly wasted in order to sell advertisements and fuel our capitalist machine. Why didn’t I see it sooner? I don’t know—I’m a fool. But I think being a fool in your late teens, early twenties is pretty standard. I could have done a lot worse.

    I graduated with a degree called Television Writing and Producing last May—loving the art and hating the industry—and was ready to start anew. Aside from participating in shitty studio and television station internships, I spent some worthwhile time in college doing a lot of community work with a local youth center. I loved helping the kids with their art projects. I had also been tutoring English composition at my college as an undergraduate, and I found that to be much more fufilling than any of my media internships. With both ventures I found that I did my best writing when I was helping others to do their best. I loved the interpersonal interaction and I was overjoyed to be working with organizations that I shared values with.

    Since graduation, I have continued my volunteer work at the community center and I feel like I get more out of it that I am able to give—the teenagers are amazing and funny and interesting people. I mentor a girl there who is surely destined for greatness. I mention my involvment in the community center in this essay, because, as you will see later, it helped me have strength in a career defining descision I made yesterday afternoon–a decision that has been haunting me since my creepy dream last night. Anyways–as much I love volunteering, I can’t spend all my time doing it. After all, I’m a college grad now and I’ve got some enourmous bills to pay (namly that gastly student loan). It takes working a few jobs to have enough to pay them.

    I’ll start with my jobs that occur during the regular workweek. Two days a week, I have the privilege of working as a writing consultant, which is basically a slightly higher-paid version of what I did as a composition tutor during my undergraduate years. (And the students are on Spring Break this week—woo hoo for two days off for me!) The other three days of my workweek are spent at the Museum of Contemporary Art, where I work as a marketing assistant. Here, I write marketing copy for newsletters, plan special events, do boring data entry, schedule meetings, file shit, and wear dress pants with a crease ironed into them.

    In the summers, I teach weekend workshops to “at risk” (god I hate that term—these words belong to the company I work for—they are not my own) high school students who want to “change for the better” and apply to college. In my workshops, we leave all that propaganda at the door and I just help them write personal statements that will communicate effectively and personally, who they are to anyone who has the privilege of reading their work—be it a college admissions worker or not.

    For the most part, I love all of these jobs, but I have yet another job that I hate.

    After graduating with a degree in the media arts, I felt like it would be wasteful to not invest in some production equipment and utilize the film and video skills I had acquired during college to earn a bit of money. Actually, it was less a matter of feeling that it would be wasteful and more a matter of feeling guilty and pathetic that I had chosen the wrong degree.

    Anyhow, although I have always loved writing the scripts more than doing the production work involved in the video, it wasn’t until after I graduated—and I was finally able to admit that writing was my true drive—that I came to absolutely hate doing video production work and editing. I think I always loathed shooting and editing, but now it is just soul draining and aggravating. I really, honestly, hate it. I can do it decently enough, but I just hate doing it. Lucky for me, yesterday afternoon I decided—and made public—that I never will do any of it again.

    Until yesterday afternoon, the fourth job that I held was as an Independent Video Producer. An independent producer is a fancy name for a freelance video production person. It’s anyone who can script, shoot, and edit video and charges for it. Recently, the museum hired me to do a video to accompany an exhibition series that we have in our education center lobby right now entitled, Artists and Their Kids.

    I was flattered by the invitation to do the video and I was happy for the extra bit of money. However, just like all the projects I did as an Independent Producer before it, I absolutely hated every minute of it. I put on a happy face, and completed the project. The museum director and the education staff were all thrilled with the video. Everyone was excited about it but me. I was drained and dreading the invitation to do the next one.

    A good boss is able to see her employees not only as resources in terms of what they can bring to the company, but also in terms of what they can do to ensure that whatever skills the employee can bring to the table are able to flourish.

    Fortunately, I have a really great boss at the museum. She was kind, supportive, and inquisitive when I told her that I wanted to focus more on my writing and my teaching. I politely told her that my plate was just too full to accept any more video projects, and that my other projects were just to important to me to sacrifice them for the video work.

    It wasn’t just because I was saying “no” to my boss that I was nervous about this admission. It was the first time that I had admitted to anyone other than my husband and myself that I wanted to write, and to write at my best, I needed to work creatively with others, not for others. The very discovery that lead to the admission was new to me, and I have been strangely afraid to articulate it until yesterday. It was a big step for junior, here. And I couldn’t be more grateful that I have a boss that was able to support me—nurture me in a way, even—and make it a good experience.

    My boss never knew that I was a writer. She is a writer too, and wrote many articles at one point in her life. Who knows—perhaps she will see my writing as a resource now, and I will get more writing assignments than data entry. If not, finally being able to connect in a real way with someone in that office is enough to make my heart sing.

    So, after these big career-defining events transpired yesterday, I was happy and at peace with my decisions going to sleep. Which made my horrible nightmare about the wall of fire even more traumatic, the message even heftier—what if I am wrong about all of this? What if I’m wrong yet again?

    What do you dream?

  • Get Outta My Face!

    What began as your run of the mill annoyance at a fellow CTA passenger yesterday morning ended in a dull but persistent case of heartache.

    As my commute to work begins, I become greedy to soak up any remaining time left before work that I am able to, which primarily manifests in my vulture-like behavior when scouting for a prime place to sit or stand on the bus and subway car that are the vehicles of my commute. Enthralled with Kafka on the Shore, I boarded the bus yesterday morning and immediately scanned the crowd. A young woman in scrubs with an intricate criss-crossing blonde and black weave was gathering her things in a my stop is next type of way. The coast was clear—no pregnant women, no elderly people, no small children—so I scurried to ensure my butt would replace hers on the nappy, blue bus seat. This would allow me to enjoy my reading better than a standing position would allow. But the passenger who shared the two-seat row with me was not about to let me read in peace.

    “I said git outta my face!”

    Startled, I glanced over. A teenage girl, sixteen at most, was sitting next to me, chatting on her cell phone. I hate it when people carry full-blown cell phone conversations on the bus. Don’t they know that is my quiet time?

    “No-she needed to git outta my face! She had all these babies back in the day and things was different then. We live in the modern world now, yo. We live in the modern world, you know what I’m sayin’?”

    I tried to imagine what she was saying. Now women have legal reproductive options? Now “non-traditional” motherhood is more accepted? Less accepted? I wished she were more articulate. I did not know what she was saying.

    I tried to get back to my book, but my eyes just stare blankly at the page as I eavesdropped.

    “You know—when she was unemployed I gave her my paycheck to cover half the rent and you know, no one else offered her a fuckin’ cent, you know. Where was her sista’s then? Where was her cousin then? I give her that money. And you know what—she didn’t even remember my birthday.”

    I closed my book. There was no denying it—her story was more interesting than Haruki Maurakami’s.

    “No-she didn’t even remember my birthday! My auntie called to see what we done on my birthday and my momma said, ‘oh, you know—we played it chill. We stayed at home and celebrated nice together.’ Bullshit ! That woman is talking shit. I crept out on Friday to go to a party at my cousins and I didn’t get home ‘till Sunday around 5. She didn’t even notice I wasn’t at home on my birthday. And you know—she got my other cousin an outfit for her birthday last month and my own momma didn’t get me anything! You know, I don’t care if she unemployed! She could take money outta my own check and get me something to surprise me, you know…”

    I was beginning to wonder if there was a person on the other line. This girl was talking non-stop.

    “…and now I’m ditching school ‘cuz I had to pick up another shift so we could have the phone for this month since Shaniqua is almost due and we’ll need it, you know, to pick her up and go to the hospital when it’s the time. So you know what—when momma yells at me for dumb shit I don’t deserve, hell yeah I’m gonna tell her: Get outta my face!

    I have never been more thankful to transfer to red line at North and Clybourn. I wasn’t sure how much more sorrow I could take so early in the morning. But before I could squeeze my way through the crowd, she dropped one more bomb.

    “She always say, ‘your daddy is rolling over in his grave.’ Bullshit, I tell her. My daddy not in a grave. He ashes.”

    I hope someone is able to “get in this girls face” and tell her that her mom’s issues are not her responsibly. Tell her to focus only on school. Tell her to let her mom figure out how they will have phone service. Tell her that she is important and valuable and give her a birthday outfit.

    I don’t pray. But I do ponder and wish and volunteer and try my best to create change. But at the end of the day—I’m just me and the jaded teenager on the bus will still have to miss her classes to support a mother who has seemingly forfeited the right to “get in her daughter’s face” to make sure her child gets to school. So perhaps prayers aren’t such a bad idea after all, if only to provide comfort in a world ready to jump out and rattle your emotions at every turn.

    How do you deal?

  • This weekend was lovely. My partner and I went to see the movie, Millions yesterday thanks to some lovely birthday Fandango Bucks from my homeslice, Lindsay. If any theaters near you are playing this fantastic Brittish film, I encourage you to go see it. It’s a great movie for people of all ages–kids, teens, adults, old, the undead–everyone will love it. A reviewer claimed that it was the best film carried by a child actor since A Christmas Story, and I’m happy to report it lived up to the expectation beautifully.

    Also, this weekend I have ventured into a new fiction piece. It stars a character named Hotarou. The bulk of today was spent doing some plot outlines and character sketches. Tonight I wanted to try my hand at a little scene to see if I will dig becoming this character while I write her. So far–so good–I dig her.

    I typically don’t post my attempts at fiction writing–the web just doesn’t seem to be the right venue for longer works and some of my essays seem to push that already (plus, while I am a trusting person and I don’t think my work is even good enough to want to rip off–there is always a part of me that is a bit guarded). However, I thought some feedback on this little scene while the concept is still congealing might give me some inspiration. Namely, I’m curious to know what you, my dear reader, are curious about.

    As always, all opinions are welcome and cherished as long as they are shared. ::smile:: I hope you all had a great weekend! And fear not–Monday will be over before you know it I’m really just consoling myself here). Enjoy!

    Hotarou Goes to Kyoto
    A little scene, with no real reason to title anyhow, so please excuse the crap title
    © The Author, 2005

    My reflection in the train car window was ugly. It had been a few days since my welcome at Toshi’s apartment expired and I had yet to scrape together enough to give myself a proper scrub down at the public bath. I had been avoiding my reflection all day, but since my Walkman batteries were shot and I still had well over two hours until the train reached Kyoto, self-loathing seemed to be a reasonable way to kill time. But in all honesty, I wasn’t expecting it to be as half as bad as it was.

    My hair was in tangles. It was greasy and my scalp itched under flakes of dead skin and the grime of travel. My eyes were tired, dull slashes in my puffy face. My skin was yellow and dead. A heinous pimple had cropped up like a third eye, or better yet–an egg with an evil hatchling inside, between my eyebrows. I tried to push my bangs about to hide the monstrosity, but they only clung in limp strands to my sticky face. I was defeated by my own filth.

    It seemed like a million years ago–in a funky twilight zone parallel universe of a place–that this face was ever was able to smile. Despite my better judgment, I lifted the corners of my sagging mouth. Immediately, my lifeless eyes accumulated a wall of tears, blurring my unbearable reflection. And suddenly I was home.

    My mom’s hand was running through my hair as I lay on my bed, collapsed and defeated from another bad day in Mr. Tanaka’s class. At sixteen, I was too old for this type of comfort, but I didn’t want it to end. Her hands smelled like aloe and miso. Her neat fingernails massaged my scalp. Then and now–and I suspect always–I wanted to be little again. I remember counting the days to my dad’s next business trips so I could have my mom all to myself. While he was away, I would tiptoe into her room to crawl up beside her in bed and sleep with my back snuggled up against her warm, white pajama-ed back. In the dark, she would whisper that we were like two little sleeping shrimps.

    I blinked my eyes and my wall of tears came plummeting onto my fat cheeks. I looked about at the other passengers on the late train–most of them weary businessmen commuting to stale meetings and industry conventions in the city. My eyelids were growing heavy and were becoming nearly impossible to contend with. I exhaled loudly, inadvertently catching the eye of an old woman across the aisle from me.

    Wearing a silk, poppy printed scarf tied around her head and an orange wool pea coat, she was rigidly clutching her luggage, which seemed to only consist of a basket filled with cherries, apples, and little pre-packaged pink bean curd buns. My stomach groaned jealously. It was odd–I couldn’t recall her boarding and I was flummoxed as to how I would miss her. We held each other’s gaze for longer than is customary on public transit–perhaps a full five seconds–before my eyes finally succumbed to sleep. My dreams ebbed with childlike pictures of poppy fields, fruit, and happy sleeping shrimp all lined up in a row.

  • Typically reserved for leisurely Sunday afternoons, I am usually too busy during the week to have the pleasure to post. However, the treatment of this week’s news items have left me reeling and I crave the informed, quality insights of my fellow Xanga authors to help me process the insanity. You were all awesomely articulate and generous with sharing your opinions, knowledge, and experience on my last post, all of which was very helpful to me as a wanna-be writer and simply gratifying for me as a reader. Thanks for that! I’d be grateful if you could indulge me yet again.

    The Unbearable Whiteness of Being and Other Media Ponderings
    © The Author, 2005

    This Monday, March 21st, Jeff Weise, a 16-year-old from Red Lake High School on the Red Lake Chippewa Reservation in Minnesota went on the goriest high school killing spree since Columbine. Armed with two pistols and a shotgun, he killed his grandfather and his grandfather’s girlfriend, as well as seven people at his school. Weise went on to wound seven more before he eventually shot himself.

    Before I express my horror, I want to express my sympathies. My heart aches for this community, truly and sincerely. May peace be with them.

    I have always thought that if one can express their angst at society through writing and art, then they are less likely to act out on these things. The events of the Red Lake high school shooting have shaken this core belief in me because apparently Jeff Weise was an avid writer and illustrator. His material was dark and sadistic, but instead of providing him with a nonviolent outlet, his art only seemed to fuel his need to kill. This is really disturbing to me on many levels and I have yet to fully processed my feelings on this, so I apologize for the lack of conviction here. I just don’t know what to think of it.

    The events at Red Lake High School have also made me question both the news media’s portrayal of this tragedy, as well as my perception of the coverage. I was a junior in high school in 1999 when the Columbine shooting occurred. I’m not sure if my opinions are due to the fact that I was in high school at the time and was thus I was hyper sensitive to the event, but it seemed to me that the media coverage was HUGE. In my memory, it seemed on par with the coverage of 9/11. It was a national grief. It was a national issue. It frightened me.

    It could just be me, but the Red Lake School shooting does not seem to be receiving as much attention the Columbine shooting.

    This morning NPR reported that the Red Lake reservation was not allowing the media into the reservation to cover the incident. This gave me a bit more insight into my internal struggle to digest the media treatment of the event, but I was not completely satisfied by it.

    Whatever the case may have been with journalists entry into the reservation earlier this week, it seems that they are being let in today. Tonight ABC aired a brief report on the 5:30 broadcast that included footage of the high school and brief sound bites of some of those involved. The students and community members who spoke about the incident went unnamed, as there was no title graphic on the lower third of the screen. A man with a black ponytail and the tan skin of a Chippewa explained, “Our children have no sense of identity anymore.” His statement is fine, but I have a feeling this man had a lot more to say and most likely, had a name—and neither were paid proper attention.

    A part of me wonders if the lack of due coverage is racially motivated. I went to a primarily white school in the suburbs. As hard as it is for me to admit it, it took a shooting at a school with demographics similar to my own all the way in Colorado for me to realize that school violence is a real threat. The all-white suburb I grew up in is only 45 minutes from Detroit, where the schools are notoriously violent, but primarily black. The media seems to acknowledge that violence is a problem that effects everyone only when it happens to white people. It is true that the news is plagued with stories of young African American men slaughtering each other—and that is heart breaking and terrifying—but it lacks the immediate national concern and attention given to violence when it happens to white people. It shouldn’t.

    This white priority was also evident a few summers ago when little white girls were being kidnapped left and right. That story dominated the airwaves and made The Lovely Bones a best seller, but people are kidnapped all the time. Not all people are white and upper middle class. Was there not one African American, Native American, Latino child kidnapped during that entire summer? Was there not one poor child taken from their home? Again, I am not certain about these things—it’s just a sneaking suspicion that happens to haunt me.

    Perhaps audiences are just too desensitized to care about yet another school shooting. Whatever the case, there is no excuse for the events at Red Lake high school to be billed on the news as secondary to Terri Schiavo’s drama.

    Terri Schiavo has been pulverized this week by the incessant insertion and removal of her feeding tube. Congress got involved proclaiming, “Let her live!” Thank god for checks and balances a la the Supreme Court. I only say that because I believe Mr. Schiavo when he asserts that it was Terri’s wish to die if she was in a persistent vegetative state. The Supreme Court upheld the decision to have the tube removed, and removed it seemingly shall stay.

    But why is it that everyone is so fixated on this damn tube? I can only imagine the frustration that Dr. Kevorkian is feeling as he vents alone in his cell at the Thumb Correctional Facility. Individuals have a right to die—the courts are admitting that much. But to let people starve to death? As my friend Chad eloquently stated, “There are murders that are more humane than that.” I am just simply shocked that lobbyists for euthanasia have not been taking advantage of this media circus to chime in on this debate.

    The logic of the feeding tube removal seems to be, “we didn’t kill her. She just died.” What a cheap and inconsiderate way to comfort and distance society from the actions they condone. Assisted suicide may be a brutal term, but least it’s honest. I just know that if I were in Mrs. Schiavo’s position, I would like to die with a content and full belly via a gentle drug injection.

    What is not entirely clear to me is if there are in fact no strong lobby groups continuing to fight for assisted suicide after Dr. Jack Kevorkian’s imprisonment, or if the media is just not interested in what they have to say.

    Perhaps the media chooses to cover Terri’s dilemma because audiences can easily take a stand on it. The events at Red Lake High School, however, are inconclusive and lacking in a clear resolution. Few seem to want to engage in the discourse that is needed to arrive at ways to counter the violence in our schools, simply because it will be a difficult discourse to have.

    Perhaps if Right To Life lobbyists stopped squandering all their resources on a woman who had chosen to die, spent their time working for the rights of students to live though their classes, then there would be enough financial and governmental pull to lead such a discourse. Until that day, I guess we’ll all have to do our best to create a nonviolent society—one in which we can respect each other enough to know when it is the right time to say goodbye.

  • Symmetry is Boring; I am Beautiful.
    © The Author, 2005

    I am very tall. I am creative. I am extraordinarily loving and opinionated. I have acne scars. I care about my community. My teeth are enormous. I like to go running. My ass is round. My tits, however, are not. Symmetry is boring; I am beautiful.

    Last week’s episode of the WB reality series, The Starlet had me foaming at the mouth. The show, which I had been eager to watch, has turned out to be blatant in its disrespect to women, and last week it felt directly insulting to my body in particular.

    While I generally expect the quiet oppression of women in all mainstream media, I had for some reason, expected more from this show. It seemed to have the potential to demonstrate that acting is a difficult profession and a challenging craft; it had the opportunity to show that women in the media are more than “sexy” bodies and predictably pretty faces—they are artists. Or at least, some of them are. I guess I was just hoping for some integrity, which was entirely too much to expect from the WB.

    For all of those who are not hip to The Starlet, this show provides viewers with the opportunity to watch ten young actresses have their dreams pissed on by Faye Dunaway, Vivica A. Fox, and casting director Joseph Middleton. This panel picks only one young woman to be The Starlet, which entails an acting contract on one of the WB’s insipid teen melodramas.

    The ugly(er) underbelly of this particular show, reveals the preparation of these young actresses to continue the disgusting tradition that many starlets have perpetuated before them; the actresses learn to exploit the female form and a woman’s right to an individualized identity (sexual and otherwise), in order to fuel the patriarchal, capitalist machine. This has become obvious in more than one instance on The Starlet, but I’d like to discuss one of the more obvious points first to ease you, my dear reader, into my feminist rant with your comfort in mind.

    Both the first and second episode of The Starlet included acting challenges where bikinis were a requisite. I have nothing against the swimwear (I myself enjoy donning as few clothes as possible in the summer heat, and I am all for the right for woman to go topless as our male counterparts have the option of doing), but the episode last week shamelessly implied that if you do happen to prefer a different style of beach gear, you are not only a flabby, out-of shape failure of a woman, but you are also a bad actress. Case in point: Mercedes, a stunning contestant on the show who preferred to wear a sarong with her bikini while doing a screen test for a hideously scripted hair product commercial. At 24, Mercedes is the oldest actress in the house and by far the most seasoned. While the younger actresses obsessed over creating predictable mainstream bodies when they heard that they had been accepted as contestants on the show, it is evident that Mercedes instead focused on attending her acting classes regularly. But with all this bikini wearing, Mercedes expressed in last week’s episode that she wished that she had done a bit more thighwork than scene work. The panel echoed her insecurity, with Vivica Fox producing the particularly catty comment, “you hear that? It’s the gym calling.”

    What a bitch.

    Not only is Mercedes in no conceivable way fat, but she is in fact thin. She is thin! Her stomach is flat. Her arms do not waggle. Her breasts do not spill. Her butt and thighs, although an admitted insecurity of Mercedes, were not even half the size of one ass cheek belonging to that gargantuant man on the King of Queens. And so what if Mercedes were fat? Who says that fat must equate ugly? Ugly comes in all forms—fat and thin, so Atkins really can’t save you when it comes from escaping the ugly stick. And what is so bad about being ugly, might I add? Why is it that many fat or ugly (or both) men are allowed to be successful, interesting, funny, “good” actors, while beautiful women who happen to on the slender side of average (because as we all know it is the duty of actresses to be on the cutting edge of thin) struggle to be recognized? I’ll tell you why. It’s because the capitalist system perpetuates self-hating behavior on the part of women everywhere in order to sell us shit we don’t need, and truth be told we don’t even want. This goes far deeper than the obvious image issues that Mercedes and women everywhere suffer from. It threatens to follow us into the bedroom.

    As we all know from When Harry Met Sally, orgasms are entirely fake-able. Women are well aware of how they are “supposed” to look and sound during climax because of constant efforts of the media to inform us of these things. But certainly every true orgasm is as unique as the person having it, so why would the media want to deceive us so?

    According to capitalist pedagogy, if women can be convinced that only the traditional “oohs and ahhs” are appropriate during climax, then they can also be convinced that they all have the same desires and the same fears. This tidy little bundle makes it oh so easy for Victoria’s Secret to sell you a “figure enhancing” bodice (which will undoubtedly cut into your flesh while the un-breathable polyester blend gives you a hellish yeast infection) for $70 U.S. dollars.

    That’s the way (uh-huh, uh-huh) Uncle Sam likes it (uh-huh, uh-huh).

    Aside from selling us actual items, the capitalist pigs who are in charge have historically been men. To stay on top of the proverbial power fuck, these men also try to sell women a weak and powerless mold to fit into. Sure, you can decline purchase of this mold, but then you will be ostracized and isolated and receive an automatic placement into another category: the FemaNazi Dike Butch Bitch Category. This placement is for women with those pesky little things called emotions and opinions. Only men are allowed those things. Proper women receive barbiturates, complacency to a male dominated culture, and fashions that reinforce their powerlessness.

    You know as well as I that those ultra pointy-toed boots with stiletto heels aren’t made for walking. And neither are the emaciated and feeble legs that are shoved into them.

    One could easily argue that feminism is advancing in U.S. society and culture. Women, although they make an average of 71 cents to every dollar a man makes, are nevertheless prevalent forces in the workplace. Women, although their reproductive rights are constantly threatened by whatever white man happens to rule their land, nevertheless have choice. Women, although they typically only see themselves portrayed in our culture as being in sexual relationships with men, and when they are with women it is to appease a male fantasy, are nevertheless free to embrace another woman as a lover, a partner, or both. Women, although faced with the light-skinned, straight haired, white ideals of beauty in nearly every facet of our culture, are nevertheless encouraged to embrace the beauty in their ethnic identity. Women, although pressured with daunting diets that produce a skeletal version of beauty, are nevertheless free to embrace their curves. After all, there is another reality show especially for those who make this choice—Kristy Ally’s Fat Actress. But this too is unsatisfactory. Why should the fat actresses be separated from the thin? The game of separating women into clean demographics and categories is getting old.

    It is time for us to see beauty in all its forms—fat, thin, and in between. It is time for women to reject the images of what we are supposed to look like and the fashions we are supposed to prefer. It is time for us to writhe in the bedroom how want to. It is time for us to laugh in the face of the predictable, easy to market to robots that the capitalists want us to be.

    After watching a very pink Gap ad starring Sarah Jessica Parker singing, “I Enjoy Being a Girl,” my husband recently asked me, “Do you enjoy being a girl?” I didn’t know how to answer. I enjoy my personality. I enjoy my opinions. I enjoy my brain. I enjoy my body. With all the shit that I as a women have to combat on a daily basis just to keep a shred of my actual identity from being snatched up and shit upon by capitalists selling “The American Dream,” it’s a wonder that I can say yes—I enjoy being a girl. I only wish that society could enjoy my womanhood as much as I do.
    ___________________________________________________________________________________________________

    An Afterward
    As always, thank you for your readership. If there are any points (or counter points) that you felt need to be tossed about on this issue, please feel free to post them in my comment box. In interest of keeping this essay short, I am sure I left crucial points un-discussed and certain arguments un-combated. Open discourse on this topic is the only way to dismantle it, and since media literacy is something few are privy to learning in school, the web seems a likely place for this discussion. Your opinions are important and valuable, and I look forward to hearing them.

    Also, in pursuit of honesty, I’ve got to tell you: I’m still planning on watching The Starlet this week. I like to try out the acting challenges during the commercial breaks. It’s more entertaining than it deserves to be.

    Finally, I’d like to invite you all to participate in Chicagoartgirl23’s The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly Photo Challenge. This will challenge us to take a look at the beauty and the horror in ourselves instead of taking the television’s word for what looks good and bad.

    The Rules
    If you dare, post a minimum of two pictures of yourself. One must show you at your ugliest. The other must show you at your most beautiful. This does not have to translate into the least/most attractive pictures of yourself. This challenge is open ended in interpretation, but since it is as such, it would be cool if you could post a brief description of why you chose the photos you chose. Once you have done so, drop me a comment—I’m curious to see what you post!

    My Photo Challenge Results

    The Ugly

    This is, by far, the ugliest picture I have of myself. I almost ripped it up and threw it away before I realized that it is actually quite hilarious. In this photo I am sunburned, dehydrated, and frustrated. I snapped this picture myself because I wanted to see what an openly irritated me looks like. I am a ham for the camera, so I did sprout this expression intentionally, but it comes from deep within my monstrous self. An openly irritated me is not only ugly to look at—more importantly its ugly to feel and ugly to be around. After seeing the startling physical manifestation in this picture, I was reminded of the importance of keeping my cool—if only not to frighten young children who might see me. Plus, it’s an effing funny picture.

    The Good

    This is a picture that my partner and I took after we made up after a horrible fight on a vacation we took together when we were still dating. The pure happiness is not because we have a love of quarrelling (in fact we seldom fight), but rather because we were able to take comfort in the fact that it was going to be all right. We are actually happy that we are two different people, with two different ways of approaching the world—even when that sometimes results in the occasional argument. We used this picture on our wedding invitation because it reminded us that we are strong—and that is beautiful.

    How does beauty flourish/wither in you? ::smile::

  • I am typically silent in the mornings. It wasn’t until I said, “excuse
    me,” in a voice that closely resembled the Crypt Keeper while shoving
    my way onto the subway yesterday morning that I realized I was sick. I
    left work early due to my inability to speak or eat (which was causing
    me to feel faint and dizzy) and I’m at home today. My cousin (who
    stayed in our apartment this past weekend) called this afternoon to
    warn me she has strep throat. I’ve found no white dots breeding on the
    back of my throat yet, so let’s pray for an inexpensive (read: orange
    juice curable vs. pricy antibiotics and dr. co-pay) virus.

    Anyhow, when I am sick I like to watch my favorite movies. I started the day with Election and I’m just about to put on The Wonder Boys.
    These are two standbys that are always sure to make me feel a bit
    better. It is good that movie watching, one of my favorite ways to
    spend time, is still available to me in sickness, as my other favorite
    pastime, kissing, is not. With those things in mind, I bring to you the
    following essay. I hope you enjoy it, and stay healthy ladies and gents!
    ________________________________________________________________________
    The Kiss of Death
    © The Author, 2005

    My first real
    kiss was with Brett Jerdon. I was in eighth grade and he was in
    seventh, although he seemed older due to his chin length hair, his
    eyebrow ring, and his infinite knowledge of the band Rancid.

    I
    was not Mr. Jerdon’s first kiss. I could tell this by the way he so
    casually invited me to see a movie with him after having met me only
    once at a band and choir spring concert rehearsal. He, naturally, was
    the skateboarding drummer from the middle school across town. I was the
    girl whose growth spurts left her knee length choir skirt prancing
    inappropriately an inch or two below her bottom. My legs, which were on
    full display to the drum line due to the positioning of the choir
    podium, were taller than most of the students who were gawking at them.
    Although they resembled twigs more than legs, I overheard a certain
    Brett Jerdon describe them to someone behind me in that single,
    pathetically sought after phrase; Hot.

    It was decided. The
    theater was to be local. The movie was to be inconsequential. The kiss
    (with tongue!) was to be expected. I readied myself. I perfected sexy
    poses in the mirror (no small task when you have yet to grow boobs),
    and called every girl friend I had to gain advice. “Tilt your head to
    the side like in the movies,” they all said. I rolled my eyes—I already
    knew that much. If only my kissing partner could say the same.

    I
    stepped out of my mom’s mini van (she was convinced I would be meeting
    friends), and bounded into the theater lobby. Mr. Jerdon was waiting
    there with a bucket of yellow popcorn. I smiled and took a few kernels.
    “Hey,” I said.

    We made our way down the aisle and picked a
    seat snuggly in the back, in a section of the theater historically
    known as Make Out Central. The previews began and we munched popcorn
    and shot each other a few “meaningful” glances. Soon the movie began.

    Before
    I continue my story, it is important to know something about me. I
    suffer from a hideous symptom that my family refers to as “TV face.” I
    was first diagnosed while watching my favorite show, The Wonder Years.
    During the second act of the show, my mom noticed an alarmingly ugly
    look of concentration taking over my otherwise sensible face. According
    to her, my brows furrowed, my eyes retreated deep into their sockets,
    my chin burrowed into my neck, and I was staring with an intensity that
    could burn a hole through the screen. She burst out laughing and I felt
    my muscles shift back to normal, “what?” I asked. “You’ve got TV face,”
    she answered. And so it was.

    Although the name implies it,
    television is not the only cause of this dreadful facial expression. I
    can become enraptured with any form of storytelling to the point of TV
    face: theater performances, concerts, books, and paintings. But nothing
    quite brings out my TV face like television or movies. I become so
    entranced and so gripped by the story at hand, that I loose all sense
    of my surroundings. My TV face is an impenetrable shell, a warning to
    those around me that I do not wish to be disturbed.

    With that in mind, perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen a movie to be backdrop of my first real
    kiss, let alone a movie that was actually good. My passion for story
    swept me away from my hormonal self sitting next to the hot boy beside
    me and threw me into the drama that was Mr. Holland’s Opus .

    So
    good was this movie, that my TV face warded Brett off for the better
    half of the film. It must have been my stuffed bra that did him in,
    because just as I was ready to burst into tears when Richard Dreyfuss
    sang to his deaf son a personalized version of the Lennon song,
    “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful…Beautiful Cole,” Bret Jerdons face
    attacked me.

    A slimy tongue was lashing this way and that.
    Popcorn spilled onto the floor as I was startled back into the reality
    in the theater. Snot that had accumulated from choking back tears
    streamed down my face. He was nearly on top of me while I struggled for
    breath beneath his wormy mouth. And worst of all, he did not know how
    to tilt his head properly. Perhaps if he had been watching more movies
    instead of making out during them, he would have known this.

    After
    our tragic kissing episode, I was always sure to warn my subsequent
    dates about TV face and my preference to be left undisturbed during
    movies. I knew my husband was for me when he waited until the
    commercial break during the Rue Paul Show until we kissed for the first
    time. The mere fact that he would watch the Rue Paul Show with me seems
    reason enough to marry him.

    Like any two best friends, stories and I proclaim with pride, “we’ll never let a boy come between us. Never!” And no fitting boy has ever wanted to.

    _______________________________________________________________________
    And
    now, because I am bored and unable to communicate verbally, here is a
    list of recommendations. I just got Netflicks (I am CRAZY about it), so
    any additions to my list are more than welcome. Just add them in the
    comment box. Also, all kissing stories are welcome as well. Come on
    people—where can you kiss and tell if not a blog?

    A list of Good Eggs:
    (In no particular order)

    Movies:
    Election
    The Wonder Boys
    Sling Blade
    Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
    The Nightmare Before Christmas
    Edward Scisorhands
    The Usual Suspects
    Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
    American Beauty
    Y tu mamá también
    The Omen I, II, III
    The Exorcist
    From Dusk Till Dawn
    Pulp Fiction
    Jackie Brown
    Shrek
    Snatch
    What Dreams May Come
    Hedwig and the Angry Inch
    The Who’s Tommy
    Lilo and Stitch
    Mulholland Dr.
    The Shining
    O Brother, Where Art Thou?
    Talk to Her
    Stanly Kubrick’s Lolita
    Garden State
    A Clockwork Orange
    To Kill A Mockingbird
    Rocky Horror Picture Show
    Citizen Kane

    Television Shows:
    Any and all of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer seasons on DVD
    Twin Peaks, season 1 on DVD
    Freaks and Geeks, season 1 on DVD
    Best of the Muppet Show
    The Family Guy

    Stand Up:
    Eddy Izzard
    Margaret Cho
    Dana Carvy

    Now get to watching! ::smile::

  • Before we get to this week’s post, I’d just like to thank you fabulous readers for your comments on my last post. I was thrilled to see so many new names posting and even happier to visit your sites.

    Also, a wholehearted recommendation on a worthwhile way to spend your hard earned (or in my case birthday) money: Margaret Cho’s Assassin Tour! It was hilarious. If you are lucky enough to have the Cho come to your city, go see her! If you live in the boondocks, make sure you add her DVD of her last comedy tour, entitled Revolution, to your Netflicks que. For those of us who fight the good fight, who believe in human rights, gay rights, women’s rights, deconstructing racial boundaries, dismantling the scary conservative right wing, and eating all the carbs we damn well please–Margaret Cho is a refreshing, welcome, and beautiful relief. With creeps like James Dobson, George W. Bush, Bill O’Reily, and Rush Limbaugh clogging up every facet of the “liberal media” (HA! Liberal my ass…), it’s good to have someone as awesomely vocal as our Cho to help counter their scary, destructive propaganda. So go enjoy some Cho! But first, read the following “coming of age” essay that I wrote for your reading pleaure. Enjoy, and as always, your comments and readership are cherished. Take care!
    ______________________________________________________________________
    Call me Naive (I am)
    © The Author, 2005

    Debauchery has gotten the best of me and left me with indigestion and a monster zit on my left temple. I hate drinking.

    Last winter I had my first hang over. Surprisingly enough, my alcohol-induced rancor was more than legal. I was 22 years old when I whined into the hollow chasm of the toilet bowl, “My mom’s going to be so disappointed in me!” Actually, I am lying. I never made it to the toilet bowl.

    After waking up in my best friend’s apartment, I turned on the television and witnessed an unfair amount of cellulite jiggling about on the show Reno 911. I then proceeded to grab my friend’s candy dish from his coffee table, chuck its contents onto the floor, and retch into it. If my mom was disappointed when she heard, she hid it well beneath her laughter. I have not been hung over in this way since. In fact, I’d rather die than do it again.

    I like letting loose. I like conversation. I like dancing. I like meeting new people. I like sex. Aside from the aforementioned drinking debacle, I have never felt the need to drink to do any of these things.

    Don’t get me wrong–I’m not straight edge by any means. I appreciate a glass of wine with my dinner, a chilly cider with my spicy curry, and a glass of frosty Belgium beer after work, a long island ice tea before karaoke, and a cuddly cup of sake with my sushi. But I don’t enjoy getting trashed for the sake of getting trashed. Frankly, I don’t enjoy more than the occasional drink or two with my dinner.

    I could say that my moderate drinking behaviors are due to the fact that I fear the hereditary nature of alcoholism–a fear that did grip me at one point after alcoholism pickled my dad and his brothers–but that is not entirely true. Nor are my any claims I could make about the questionable morality of alcohol (although I could make a few in regards to the selfish thoughtlessness of drinking and driving).

    The truth behind my rules of moderation is this: I am a control freak with a temperamental tummy. I dislike situations that I feel powerless in (and as we all know, alcohol starts with your motor skills and doesn’t stop there), and I don’t enjoy shitting sad little pellets like a bunny, which for some inexplicable reason, alcohol causes for me. Plus, I don’t need to get sloshed to feel comfortable socially like some people seem to.

    As for neglecting to have sipped a beer or two in high school, I can honestly say that I was too dorky to ever have been invited to parties where booze were supplied. In high school I was a compulsively reading, theater obsessed, choirgirl. Neither the Alto section nor the book club ever got around to throwing a kegger. Plus, I have always hated acting like a cliché, and since I am white and not very gay, there was little I could do to push against the oppressive force of “sameness” that permeated from my high school counterparts. I figured that by not drinking, I would be “different.” I was blissfully ignorant to the fact that my sobriety supported stereotypical choirgirl behavior, but high school logic is never as solid as we would like it to be.

    Anyhow, despite the fact that I generally live a primarily sober life, my devilishly fun best friend and cousin came from Michigan to visit this week, which caused me to foolishly abandon my typically moderate alcohol consumption preference so as not to cramp their vacation style. Their rules of alcohol consumption vary drastically from my own. According to them, the phrase “drink responsibly” can be loosely translated to “buy in rounds.”

    I truly cannot grasp how so many people in their early twenties live a life style that involves frequent weekend pub crawling and clubbing. Call me naive (I am), but I am honestly perplexed about the pure logistics of it all. It was hard enough to keep up for the four days my guests were staying with me; I cannot fathom how anyone could regularly juggle their lives while suffering from the exhaustion caused by chemically induced fun. Not to mention the fact that bars are expensive. How on earth do these people have any money left over to pay their bills? How do they function at work?

    While I am not judging those like my visitors (who admirably manage to function while frequently getting sloshed), my heart aches a bit for the things that I hope that this type of debauchery does not rob them of. Life can be so simple, so pure, so beautiful, and so easy. Life can shine so radiantly that it would ache to look at with dilated pupils. Human interaction is too precious to dilute. Sex is too glorious to numb. You miss a lot when you are drunk. And worst of all, the next day you just might shit like a bunny.

    After bidding my visitors farewell last night, I closed the door behind them. Quietly, I rested my throbbing head against the wooden frame of the door and exhaled for a full minute. I wearily turned back to my trashed apartment. Scanning the damage, I was happy to find my partner waiting patiently for me in the kitchen. Sweetly, he held a glass of cold water out to me. I went to him and grabbed the cold glass. I gulped it down, my body relived to taste a pure clean liquid. Slamming my glass down, I sighed and held my love tight. I was nourished at last.

  • In Praise of the Party
    &copy The Author, 2005

    My fifth birthday party was the first party that I invited friends to. One of the best things about being the first child is that your parents don’t know any better than to appease their child’s more outlandish and impractical requests. In my case, my mom seemed almost as enthusiastic as I was when I said I wanted to invite my entire pre-school class to my fifth birthday party, plus my cousin (and best friend) Sheri. The only attendee that my mom had to talk me out of was my teacher. Like many preschoolers, I loved my teacher and it came as a shock for me when my mom gently told me that she would probably be busy that day. My teacher had a life outside of hanging out with me and my class?!? Outrageous! I wasn’t disappointed for long though, because if I remember correctly, a whopping 25 kids attended this party. Yowza.

    My mom and my grandma played host to this party, which took place at my grandparents’ house where my mom and I lived for a time in a small cute apartment over the garage. My great grandma, who I loved intensely and called Nannar (our family is British and this was my loving variation of the endearing term, Nanna), had previously lived in the apartment, but had recently passed away, leaving it for my mom and I to live in after we discovered our old apartment complex had been haunted by a peeping tom. Anyhow-back to my story.

    I’m sure my mom and grandma took great care in organizing games, and I have seen pictures of the teeming masses munching happily away at cake and ice cream, but the things I remember most about this party was the activities that took place outside of our structured activities.

    For instance, I took great pleasure in introducing my guests to the apartment that my mom and I lived in. I informed my classmates that my Nannar had lived there, but now she was dead and we lived there. Most of these kids were from two parent homes without any dead relatives disrupting their early lives. They had no idea what I was getting at, but they seemed interested nonetheless.

    We also enjoyed swimming in the guests’s coats that had been piled high on my grandparents big king sized bed. I seem to recall the pleasure being brief, interrupted by my Granddad peeking his head around the corner of the room and barking in a playfully scary way for us to skedaddle, but the fun was infinite.

    Another game we played was jumping from one piece of living room furniture to the next. My grandparents had a huge, bouncy sectional sofa and two comfy recliners to move about on. Predicting a bumped head followed by crocodile tears, my grandma nipped that game short as well. I held no grudge for this reigning in of fun—I was too young to feel that sort of thing yet.

    What is important about these invented games and activites is that they were the first time that I experinced the sensation of “cutting loose” at a party. The feeling was so great, that I have been a big fan of the party ever since. I like throwing them, attending them, planning them, and looking at all my pictures of them. I even like cleaning up afterwards.

    I have thrown at least two parties nearly every year, ranging in size from sleepovers of two best friends to parties (our wedding bash) that have had guest lists of over 200. I can truly say—it is not the size of the party that matters. It matters only how much fun you are open to having. And I am always open to fun.


    One year at a birthday party, my friends and I decided it would be fun if we plastered our faces in makeup, slicked our hair back in thick crusts of hair gel, hiked out pants up to our chests and created spastic skits based on the various bizarre-o characters we created. These characters married each other, killed each other, ran for president, and even ate human flesh if I remember correctly. See the above picture for the complete visual.

    Another year, my mom made my favorite childhood dish-Spanish rice and beans. From this I learned the importance of catering to your guests, as most of my second grade, white suburban counter parts were unsure of what to make of my dinner of choice. All subsequent parties relied on the mainstays of pizza and subs.

    My fifth grade birthday party took place at Caesarland, which is the pizza chain Little Caesar’s attempt at the more popular children’s party venue, Chucky Cheese’s. At this birthday party, we ran amok, fueled by caffeinated soft drinks and sugary angel food cake. When a disgruntled and underpaid employee sweating away inside of a Caesar costume emerged to mingle with the children, I thought of the perfect way to impress my guests. With a big tug, I pulled the giant proboscis dangling provocatively from the costumes face, unconcerned with how this might affect the human inside the costume. While my friends squealed with glee, the person inside the costume was probably recovering from some sort of costume injury as a result of my prank. “Fuckin’ kid! I’m gonna get you!” Caesar growled. Scared out of my mind, I spent the rest of the party hiding in the tunnel ‘o’ fun.

    My twenty-first birthday was spent sipping Mai Tais and laughing with a handful of good friends in a creepy tiki bar that, due to decor that seemed to be stolen from a set for a David Lynch film, we kiddingly dubbed “The Portal to Hell.”

    My fifteenth birthday actually seemed like a portal to hell, as I was too self-conscious to have the fun I deserved. At the end of the night, I cried myself to sleep. I don’t introduce that downer point to depress, but to demonstrate my success as a host. Judging by the emotional intensity that parties tend to bring about, one party ending sourly out of countless held is a marvelous average. Yes, I am patting myself on the back.

    On my last birthday, before going to dinner with a small group of friends and my husband, I treated myself to a trip to our friendly, neighborhood psychic. I have been to a few psychics before, and I do believe that there are a few who are in touch with the ability that lies within all of us to intuit the universe. This woman was defiantly one of them. I sat down, clasped hands with her, and immediately she looked into my eyes and asked, “Do you know anyone named Nannar?” My jaw dropped. I was flooded with memories of my Nannar, the woman who had played with me and loved me so well untill her death, which resulted in my mom’s inheritance of her apartment. “Nannar’s purpose in the universe is to make sure all your ducks are in a row.” I had always thought that my ducks were suspiciously meticulous. That reunion of sorts with my Nannar was the best birthday present I have yet to receive.

    Tomorrow is my birthday. I enter my twenty third year with an amazing partner, two jobs to sustain me, a strong artistic vision, life goals and plans of action, good health, a cuddly cat, a supportive, beautifully complex and big family, funny and brilliant friends, and a Nannar to assure me that more good is on the way. I can’t even think of what to ask for my birthday. World peace and equality for all would be nice, but improbable. I am happy.

    Just like a kid whose birthday falls on a school night, I am going to be observing my birthday in party form next Friday. My best friend Bryan (click here for your formal introduction to my Bryan) will be in town from Detroit. Along with a group of my very awesome Chicago friends, we will be celebrating the day with a party I have dubbed, Dinner and a Cho. First we will be off to dinner at the yummy Mambo Grill (1/2 price Mojito special, ladies and gentleman!), before we will be whisked off to the Chicago Theater via the ever-so elegant Chicago public transit authority to see my political comrade and fellow feminist, the comedy superstar….MARGARET CHO! After that—we’ll see where the night will take us, but I’m sure it will have something to do with Karaoke, dancing, drag queens, or all of the above. Needless to say, I can’t wait.

    Tomorrow, my love and I will be attempting to bake an angel food cake of our own, and cooking up a mouthwatering pot of eggplant and sweet potato curry. I suspect that a present or two will be involved, and of course, the barrage of happy phone calls from my loving family. I look forward to thanking my mom in particular for the agonizing 23 hours her tiny, young frame spent birthing me, making my life and my beloved birthday possible.

    Last night my husband and I had a little birthday-ish celebration as well, cashing in on a free dinner cruise about the Chicago lakeshore that we won in a drawing while attending the ballet last winter. The night was spent laughing hysterically at the abundant corniness of the cruise wait staff and entertainment, boozing it up from their cheapest bottle of wine, and getting our groove on the dance floor. Like the good party people that we are, we danced non-stop from the first song to the last. I am a Brick House. I am Like a Virgin. And even though I was wearing brown and crème at the time, I am a Lady in Red.

    I am a lucky little Pisces, and come March 6th, I truly will be chicagoartgirl23.

    From left to right: Grandma, Mom, Baby Me, Nannar

  • Before you start in on my newest very-fun-to-write (and hopefully fun to read) essay, I want to share with you a lead that one of my readers, the whip smart and funny Davis McDavis has discovered about the questions I pose about the film Osama in the post, Questions from a Wonderstruck Me. Because I love his writing, and because I want to be sure he receives full credit for providing us all with the answer, I’ve copied and pasted his insight below:

    DavisMcDavis’s Insight into the Scenes in Question in the film Osama:
    Now I’m curious about the two things you mentioned. Not having seen the film, I have no opinion of my own, but it appears those two scenes have also flummoxed viewers on the IMDB discussion board for this movie. The lock thingy is apparently that the mullah is allowing the girl to choose which lock we will be locked into her house/room with, as the mullah keeps all his other wives locked up. It is supposed to be ironic that the only choice for a woman in that society is which lock she will be locked up with. By contrast, in the US she would be allowed to choose what color Juicy Couture sweatpants she would wear to yoga, but she wouldn’t be allowed to pull them up high enough to cover her ass crack. Is it progress? I think so – but we can do better!

    The bleeding thing I don’t know, but I’ll bet it has something to do with vaginas.
    ____________________________________________________________________________________________________
    Interesting stuff huh? Three Cheers for DavisMcDavis!

    Now on to my newest essay, which has nothing to do with the depressing realities of locked up women or bleeding vaginas. Enjoy!

    My Precious
    &copy The Author, 2005

    I was six when I was first introduced to the rounded sounds, the devilishly harsh edges, the smooth textures, and that glorious smell that was to seduce me into a love affair that would cling to me for a long time to come. Dolled up in barrettes in the shape of blue poodles and a sweatshirt with sleeves that were encrusted with green snot, I was about to be awakened in a deeply profound, amazingly exotic, and very adult way. The awakening came when I read the following sacred words aloud with my class: “The sun is up. Buffy is up. Buffy and Mac are up.”

    It wasn’t the message itself that was so appealing, but the sudden awareness that those strange inky blots—previously mere interruptions from the pictures in my bedtime stories—had actual meanings. Prior to my introduction to the sordid tale of Buffy and Mac and their glorious rising sun, I had always thought that those ugly black symbols provided loose guidelines to as how long a person had to invent a story about the illustration before they turned the page. These symbols didn’t have any “set” rules per se. I imagine this assumption was due to spending much of my early childhood receiving bedtime stories from my very inventive granddad, who apparently was attempting to make my children’s books (and his repetitive reading of them) more interesting.
    When I learned that these blots were words, and they were a way of documenting a very specific story, I felt like I had made a startling and new discovery. Imagine my disappointment when I found out that everyone else in the world already had figured as much.

    My craving for the written word became so intense, that I remember my frustration at the time consuming process of reading aloud. Since that was the practice in my first grade class, it never occurred to me that you might just simply look at the page and read silently to yourself. I remember sitting on the living room floor, my arms crossed, my book thrown angrily aside. I was scowling at my mom.

    “What do you mean, read to yourself? How do I just look at the page and know it?”
    “Try it,” she said.
    Amazing. The thoughts of the author were suddenly, magically, my thoughts. It was like being telepathic. It was heaven.

    As I grew older, my nightlight burned hot as I read until the early hours of the morning from Alice in Wonderland, The Secret Garden, and To Kill A Mockingbird. When my eyes finally dropped closed for the evening, my dreams were vivid and beautiful assumed continuations of the story I had been reading.

    As I entered adolescence, entire warm summer days were spent sprawled out on a beach towel on my family’s deck with a glass of O.J. and some toast to nibble, reading and re-reading Catcher in the Rye. During the school year, I would spend the days leading the life of a healthy, active teenager: student council meetings, Advanced English classes, play and choir rehearsals. But after school, I would become a quiet recluse, holing up in my room, heaping down and flannel blankets into a warm nest for which I would burrow into and devour Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein, George Orwell’s 1984 and Animal Farm, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, and the existential crises penned by Camus and Hemmingway.

    As an adult, I devour novels with more passion and hunger than most porn stars play at in their films. Reguarly occurring emotions that I experince in my quest to be brimming with words include:

    • Pride
    I hold my reading up high, bringing the text to my face, flaunting the weathered cover for all too see-be it Dostoevsky or the newest issue of McSweeney’s.

    • Greed
    Witness my excessive spillage of precious paperbacks!

    • Lust
    I am frequently distracted at work by explicit fantasies of what the next page might hold.

    • Gluttony
    I am happy to grow soft as I suck each word to the bone and salivate greedily for the next.

    • Envy
    I oftentimes charge furiously through books, just to get my hands on the most recent acquisition my husband has started reading.

    As long as I can keep Wrath out of the mix, I think might escape the burning throes of hell, if there turns out to be such a place.

    My husband is also afflicted, making us enablers for each other. With barely enough money to stock our refrigerator, we guilty spend money on publications of all sorts: comic books, paperbacks (used is preferential—our addiction is so bad that we could not possibly afford new at the volume we consume them, unless we submit to the corporate whoredom of Amazon—which we are not to proud to do), and magazines (oh, how I salivate to see my fresh weekly New Yorker glistening at the top of my mail pile, or better yet, a nice, fat, book-sized Granta or Tin House).

    Although I enjoy social interaction, and I am by no means the bearer of a “bookworm” personality, my list of favorite authors is undoubtedly longer than my list of actual friends. John Updike, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Dave Eggers, David Sedaris, Margaret Atwood, Amy Tan, Neil Gaiman, Michael Chabon, Ernest Hemingway, Vladimir Nabokov, Kurt Vonnegut, Isabel Allende, and Yukio Mishima, Walker Percy, William Faulkner, and oh I’ve got to stop because this list is going and going and I fear the list will never end. And please don’t think that this list is some sort of indication that I am a “book snob.” I enjoyed Jemma J. and Bridget Jones’s Diary as much as the next girl. But I do admit, these books might be better classified as “acquaintances” rather than tried and true friends. But they are welcome, celebrated guests in my home never the less.

    Recently, I have fallen hard for an author who is new to me. In his book, Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins weaves a delectable tale of epic proportions while entertainingly nudging along a philosophy that challenges society’s view on existence. Robbins writes, “The drama unfolding in the universe—in our psyches—is not good against evil but new against old, or, more precisely, destined against obsolete” (Robbins, 326).

    While this philosophic thread seems to be the reason for the fiction, this does not in any way imply that the vehicle that supports it (the story) is lacking. Although the philosophy is sometimes heavy handed (although it never takes itself too seriously, in fact, it oftentimes pokes great fun at itself), it never detracts from the jubilant and outstandingly brilliant comedy of the writing. The story is sheer entertainment from the very first page. So entertaining in fact, that I am savoring this read. I am currently 10 pages away from finishing and I have forced myself to break so that I can make it last just a little bit longer. I wouldn’t possibly conceive of ruining this story for you by providing a summary (not even the book jacket does this), as the completely unexpected, unpredictable plot is an intrinsic element of this book’s charm. Someone who caught on to my admiration of Vonnegut recommended Tom Robbins to me, and I am now certain that I enjoy Tom Robbins even more than my stud Vonnegut (no hard feelings, Kurt).

    This year I have opened my home to other great authors as well. While it is hard to keep track of just how many penning ladies and gentlemen I have been involved with since this time last year, a few spectacular names of new authors immediately come to mind. The sexiest of them all is Oscar Hijuelos.

    Oscar won my heart with his whammy of a novel, The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love. Not only does Hijuelos completely rejuvenate the footnote (he uses this traditionally academic documentation strategy as a way to delve into the microscopic elements of character development), but he also is able to write grit, melodrama, and erotica in a seamless, sophisticated, Pulitzer Prize winning style.

    Mikail Bulgakov sauntered into my life early this winter with vodka on his breath and an incredible book for me to read, The Master and Margarita. While I regularly I revel in the devil-may-care logic of Mexican and Latin American magical realism, reading a Russian author’s version of this beloved genre was a refreshing adventure. This book was laugh-out-loud funny and reminded me of the wonderment I had reading Alice in Wonderland for the first time, except this very adult book features naked witches, the devil Himself, and a talking cat named Behemoth.

    My adventures continued with a little boy named Pi and his journeys across the sea in a tiny boat shared with a starving and feral tiger. Yann Martel deserves all the acclaim he has received, but what I think of most when I reflect on his writing is not the authors poignant philosophical observations, nor his vivid writing and imaginative plot, but rather an eloquent statement that he makes in the forward of his novel, Life of Pi. Martel states, “If we, citizens, do not support our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination on the alter of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing and having worthless dreams” (Martel, XII).

    If I were to throw the dinner party of my dreams (which would happen only in my dreams, since many of the attendees are very dead), with all my favorite authors, plus Che Guevarra, a handful of my friends and family, and Madonna (if she felt so inclined), I would be sure to include Yann Martel’s sentiment on the invitation.

    I am not addicted to the written word for its sex appeal alone. I am simply grateful for writers who produce wonderful work, for without them, my brain would starve. Their thought inspires my thought. Their stories prompt my stories.

    As all of the fundamentals of existence, the effect of art is majestically, profoundly, and irrevocably prismatic. When I read a good story and it prompts me to write a good story, my thoughts and my reality change. When someone else reads my work and they are inspired to write because of it, the prism refracts anew. Soon reality as a whole is bathed in a new light, as we evolve thanks to the gadfly of art. My friend Tom Robbins’s 1000 year old character Alobar sums this constant recasting of reality when he comments on modern society in the novel, Jitterbug Perfume. “We’re standardizing people, their goals, their ideas. The sham is everywhere. But wait, now. Don’t let me spoil the party. Things will change. Even now, I’m curious to see what’s going to happen next” (Robbins, 319).
    _______________________________________________________________________

    **I hope you enjoyed this essay. As an added bonus for all of you who want to prolong your time reading about reading, I’ve included one of my all-time favorite poems, Eating Poetry by Mark Strand. If you are sick of reading about reading (or if poetry is not your bag), skip this and head straight to the comment box and be sure to leave me your reading recommendations. As always, thanks for reading and take care!

    Eating Poetry
    by Mark Strand

    Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
    There is no happiness like mine.
    I have been eating poetry.

    The librarian does not believe what she sees.
    Her eyes are sad
    and she walks with her hands in her dress.

    The poems are gone.
    The light is dim.
    The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

    Their eyeballs roll,
    their blond legs bum like brush.
    The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

    She does not understand.
    When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
    she screams.

    I am a new man.
    I snarl at her and bark.
    I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

  • A breif note before you read the following essay:
    My Xanga site was recently put on some poll on Not_Featured_Content. I am confused as to the motivation behind this poll, and to be perfectly honest, it puts me ill at ease. It reminds me of high school when everyone is trying so hard to be popular and no one is having any fun. I blog because it prompts me to write more, and writing is so very important to me. I also blog to receive the fun and insightful opinions on my writing from this neat Xanga community. I really wasn’t expecting to enjoy the community aspect of it as much as I do—the sites I subscribe to could easily be nominated above mine any day. But then, of course, you’d have to deal with the pressure of trying to be cool enough to win a poll.

    For readers who have happened upon my site from the polling, welcome—I am sincerely thankful for your readership. However, if you were looking for a cool entry to convince you to “vote for me,” you might be disappointed. But I hope you will read anyhow—your insightful comments are worth more to me than a vote any day. So spill it—let me know if you can relate to this essay, if you grow bored, if the pacing is tedious, if the prose is shortsighted–I really do appreciate it.

    I hate to put a disclaimer before my writing (only because it bugs me when other people do it), but I’m not too crazy about this peice. I emphasize the need for your comments not only because I love them, but because I need some input to make the next round of revisions sucessful.

    Slipping Into Something a Little More Comfortable
    &copy The Author, 2005

    My eyes flung themselves open in sync with the digital wail of my alarm. It had taken a curiously sinister tone ever since I began my official inauguration into the adult world. A month out of college and a few weeks into a job in office land, I was trying to adjust to adulthood by mimicking the characters of “career girls” in movies and the smart fashions of women who rode the subway into the Loop at 8:30am. I was cramming myself into an ill-fitting role and I wasn’t sure why, aside from the debt of student loans that would surely outlive me. I only hoped that I looked in control and nicely groomed as I did it.

    At this time in my life, I had developed a ritual of waking an hour earlier than necessary to go running. It was a time for my thoughts to occupy me, before my mind was swimming with office protocol and my was soul saddened by having ditched my dreams in order to spend a gorgeous day in an overly-air conditioned office.

    I leapt out of bed and changed hastily into my grungy running clothes. My muscles ached to race the hour away. With my hair in a messy ponytail and my contacts grating against my lids, I leapt out of my dark apartment and into the warming summer morning. My jog always begins with the first step I take out of my apartment. I worry that I will be mistaken for a dunk or a homeless person in my rumpled clothes and unwashed face, and I feel the immediate need to demonstrate that it is permissible for me to be out in such a state. “See? I’m exercising!”

    Soon I passed the Mexican man setting up his mango slice stand outside the bodega on Western and Grand. “Buenos Dias!” “Hola!” These are our morning exchanges. It is good I move fast because this is the extent of my Spanish speaking abilities, unless I wanted to randomly request, “la cuenta, por favor.”

    Language skills aside, I felt happy and good about myself this morning. My mind was clear. No thoughts of numbing data entry, no crippling anxiety over office introductions, no worries over trying to convince my bosses that they didn’t make the horrendous mistake of hiring someone to balance their budget that struggled in her remedial math courses in college, no disappointment in myself for abandoning my dreams of acting, directing, and scripting at 22. I was light and free and delighted by the sweet smell of mango and the friendly, familiar faces of my route. My breath was effortless and the city seemed suspended in my charm.

    The sun was orange and fully realized when I passed the homeless man who props himself up drunkenly against the park gates and lets his brown, dry legs sprawl all over the sidewalk. I jump over his legs, “Excuse me! Good Morning!”
    “Lookin’ Good, Good Lookin!” he calls after me.

    Although it might seem cheap to be sincerely flattered by a man who has been pickled in alcohol to the point of homelessness, during this time in my life, my morning run was the only time in my day I really felt good looking, despite my bedraggled and sweaty appearance. Beauty is a state of mind.

    I passed the digital bank clock at Damon and Division. According to the clock, I had only fifteen more minutes to feel alive for the rest of the day. I typically crack under pressure and this run was to be no different.

    My sweaty brow furrowed as my mind drifted, as a runners mind often does, from the immediate pleasures of the morning to dwell on a cloudy and indirect source of my insecurity; my loss of closeness to my best friend at university.

    My friend Derek and I had been each other’s muses since High School. We shamelessly created fabulous alter egos for one another. Instead of a tall, gangly, and acne-ridden teenager, I became a beautiful, radiant actress, writer, and filmmaker. Instead of a slightly feminine, slightly paunchy teenager, he was a dashing, handsome and undeniably gifted actor. The best part about our alter egos was that we actually came to believe in them for one another. And as we became young adults, we actually grew to become these things for a time.

    We chose to study theater at the same university and during that time, we became inseparable, giddy, and an incredible support system for one another. With our arms wrapped around each other’s waists, parading confidently about campus, we would comfort each other after a particularly frustrating lecture or a lackluster quiz, “Ha! We’ll never have to finish college anyhow—we’ll become famous before it comes to that!” And we actually believed it, which made things all the more disappointing when neither of us became famous and we both ended up graduating.

    As my sneakers pounded out the rhythm of my movements onto the sidewalk, I thought about the last time I had seen Derek, when we were both still in college and he stole the show at a performance of The Laramie Project. At this point, I had transferred schools and moved to Chicago and I had traveled back to Michigan to see him perform. Before I had made the decision to travel to see his show, I hadn’t realized the extent to which we had lost touch. Although we spoke seldom, I still felt close to him, and I couldn’t help but beam with pride when the audience gossiped about him during intermission.

    “The young guy with the black hair—now he is absolutely amazing.”
    “Yeah, he’s going places, you can tell.”

    After the show, I waited for him in the theater lobby, clutching my coat to my chest, watching cast members strut with pride from the back hallway door out to greet the proud friends and family who had come to see them. My eyes fixed to that doorway and I waited for him with a posed smile that began to sag as the minutes ticked by and the crowd dispersed. Soon, I was alone with a pimply coat check worker, closing up his booth. My breath slid heavy from my lips and I wondered outside into the gray, misting dusk. Standing outside of the theater, my smile was salvaged suddenly as I caught Derek laughing and walking arm and arm with a group of cast members to his car. I begged my face to not betray what my heart knew; I had been replaced.

    “Hey stranger!” I called to him.
    “Hey!”

    He threw his arms open theatrically as he walked over to me. We hugged and a new smell of nicotine clung to him. He was thinner. I began to tell him all about the rave reviews of the audience members, but he seemed to already know about all of that, as he kept looking over his shoulder at his friends waiting for him by his car.

    A year or so later, he moved to New York to pursue acting.

    As I ran steadily past a group of surely teenage girls dragging themselves to summer school, I recalled the one phone conversation that Derek and I had in the past year. We were both on our cell phones, outside, in our respective downtowns. We listened to the noise of each other’s city, letting these sounds stand as proof that we were separate and overlooked in a place too busy for the likes of two young aspirants. I got the impression that he had lost as much confidence as I had since our separation. No longer did we have the world by the ass; he was a host at a Planet Hollywood and I was hidden from the world completely by the stale, corkboard walls of my cubicle. He wasn’t a famous actor and I couldn’t seem to think of myself in a big enough way to even attempt a script, let alone have one performed. Miles between us, our friendship taken for granted then almost completely abandoned, we had lost our glamorous alter egos to the realistic demands of adulthood.

    Approaching the last stretch of my route, my breathing became fluid but heavy. Involuntarily, my body sprang into a mind-numbing second wind. All thought drained from my mind as my stride stretched to its limit and I flew past shops and groggy-eyed dog walkers. Derek slid away from me in a rivulet of sweat pouring from my chest.

    Panting and red faced, I sauntered into my apartment. Grabbing a glass of water and draining it, my heart steadied. With a deep stretch, my pulse slowed.

    As I stepped in the shower, the world came back to me. The prospect of the workday made my heart tick in a way I was not yet used to. Instead of a happy thump of a pulse, my heart seemed to twitter these past few weeks like an irritating itch. Trying to distract myself from my crazed heartbeat, I lathered my hair into a soapy sculpture.

    While I attempted to create liberty spikes using a mixture of moisturizing masque and regular conditioner, it dawned on me that I might be having trouble adjusting to adulthood because I had yet to create an alter ego that fit this role. In order to survive in the reality of my adulthood, I had to create a simplified version of myself that could be presented effortlessly to my colleagues. If creating an alter ego with Derek made me feel better about my pimpled high school and awkward college self, it might work out for me in the “Real World” as well. I would simply become an Adult.

    I remember this day as the first time I ironed a crease in my khakis. I had always been a neat dresser, but this was a starched, deliberate crease that I ironed in. My true self laughed in my face at that one, but my newly appointed Adult self persevered.

    I arrived to work early. Typically, I had dawdled away 8:50-9:00 at the bookstore across the street from my work, thumbing through the movie reviews in Entertainment Weekly or listening to a CD at the audio sampling stations. Today, I went directly to work in a swift and grown up way, even though my true self was tugging at my pant leg, begging like a whiney kid to go to the bookstore and sample the new Bjork album.

    Upon my arrival at work, I refused to stand quiet and embarrassed as the security guards mistakenly rifled through the intern ID badges for mine as they did every day. Instead, I said in a very adult voice, “I’m not an intern, I just happen to look like I’m 12.” I laughed in a trite way that I had heard somewhere before, perhaps from Mrs. Plum in the Clue movie. The security guard chuckled back at me as I told him, “You’ll find me in the Marketing stash. Thanks,” then a casual, “Have a good one!” My true self was gagging at these clichés, but I pushed onward and punched “in” to the day.

    As the weeks rolled by, I found that creating an alter ego was becoming easier and easier. Instead of giving the deplorable Aunt May in the new Spiderman movie a well-deserved tongue lashing while at lunch with my older co-workers, I now chose the more tasteful conversation piece of the opening of New York’s new MOMA. “Wow,” they said, “Fascinating.” Not really, but who was my alter ego to complain?

    By that winter I was a bonified creased-kaki-wearing Grown Up and the world knew it. The last fifteen minutes of my workout became as thought freeing as the first thirty. The twitter in my heart had stabilized to a soft rumbling and my true self no longer balked so openly at my displays of adult behavior. While it was a challenge for a time, my true self began to make the transition back into my body with greater ease once I was finished working for the day.

    Soon, it was time for our departmental holiday lunch. While my true self jumped with joy (“free food!”), my Adult self quoted lines from a recent review on our restaurant of choice. As we munched on delicious Indian food, we began a very Adult conversation about international travel. To my surprise, my true self chimed in. I relayed a tale about a Spanish kabob that I ate that was undoubtedly made of pigeon (“It’s not chicken,” the waitress warned us). To my great surprise, my colleagues found this very funny and this made my heart infinitely happy. My true self beamed like a child who has said something cleaver at a family gathering and then is asked to repeat it over and over to a crowd of adoring relatives. For the first time, I had successfully integrated my true self into the adult world.

    During Christmas weekend, I traveled back to Michigan to see my friends and family. While attending a holiday party in my hometown, I was surprised to have an elegantly wasted version of the Derek I once knew suddenly beside me, sipping stolis, smelling sweetly of nicotine—a cool and collected stranger.

    My interactions with Derek used to include piggy-back rides and screaming filthy lines from the Exorcist into the night; we were so comfortable in our belief that we would soon be whisked away from our campus to become famous stars that we acted as foolishly and strangely as we liked. Now, Derek seemed to me too stylish, too mature, too impenetrable. I sat, peering into his pale and perfect face for an answer until I realized he had worn his New York alter ego to the party. It was a smashing outfit, tailored and vogue and perfectly believable. But I missed the old one. I missed the warm of his plaid button up shirts thrown over t-shirts of his favorite bands. I missed his raunchy impressions of horror flicks. I missed the invincibility of our original alter egos.

    Soon enough, I was back in Chicago, waking up an hour before necessary to exercise before work. The impossibly cold and icy Midwest winters forced aerobics tapes to replace my beloved running route, but the effect of my increased heart rate’s ability to free my thoughts remained the same.

    As I punched and lunged, my thoughts wondered back to Derek. It hurt me so much to see him so lost in his New York alter ego that he was unable to be real with me at the Holiday party. I worried that the Adult alter ego that I had created had become suffused with my true self, just as the New York alter ego had consumed Derek.

    Later that morning, as I ironed the crease into my kakis, I wondered what Derek thought of me, if he mourned my changes as I did his. I wondered if I had given up the best of me, and if I would ever get it back.

    Walking to work from the El Stop, I shivered against a wall of wind barreling off the icy lake. As I passed a bustling Dunkin Doughnuts, my scarf whipped up in such a lively way, that I thought for a moment that it was a happy little kid rushing about the sidewalk. When I paused to let the kid by, I smiled to discover it was my mistake. I caught a glimpse of myself in the doughnut shop window—a confident, quietly glamorous adult, laughing.

    As much as my new Adult routine was a necessary evil to acquire my Adult need for a paycheck, I knew then that my personality would never fully dissolve into it. I just needed to see my potential mistakes materializing painfully in someone I deeply cared about—and to see my self smiling, off guard, and beautiful in a doughnut shop window—for me to realize that my identity deserves more respect than I was giving it. And after all that exercising, I needed a doughnut.