BREAKING NEWS: CHICAGOARTGIRL GOES FROM JOBLESS TO PROMOTED IN LESS THAN A WEEK!

Serendipity is a beautiful thing. I’ll write more later, but it looks like the Year of the Dog is going to shape up to be a lucky one!

Thanks for Making Me a Fighter
The Author, 2006

One of the best qualities that my family possesses is our resilience. We will not be defeated. We will not loose hope. We are characters of tenacity and most importantly, we are not jaded or hardened by our challenges. We grow and flourish from them.

When my mom found herself faced with single motherhood again in her forties with two teenage boys to support and no work experience in the past 14 years, did she resign herself to desperate attempts at saving the marriage just to retain her checkbook? No. She scrimped, she saved, and she went to college. She graduates this spring and I know she will be hired in the blink of an eye.

When Shaun’s application to grad school in Scotland was denied last year, did he give up on writing and higher education? No. He made sure to gain even more experience to make him even more of a competitive candidate—he wrote countless reviews, got published in a comic anthology, and edited a comic book guide. He researched his grad school options further and broadened his applications. I know that the hardest decision for him this March will be deciding which of the many acceptances to choose from to attend this fall.

When my sudden, unprofessional, unnecessarily rude, ungrounded, and highly inappropriate termination from the Writing Center happened on Wednesday, did I go to see a shitty movie all by myself just so I could be in the dark, eat chocolate, and cry without seeming like a depressed freak?

Yes.

But I also wrote a letter to the Dean and the English chair, describing the incident and my (and everyone else in the entire department) suspicions about the injustice behind the reasoning for the revoke of my rehire status. I was also in touch with my fellow colleagues that I am presenting with at the College Conference on Composition and Communication, to ensure that I am still eligible to present. I am. And the organizers are interested in hearing me talk about my recent experience, because the academic community really should be discussing the fact that any iota of dissent results in expulsion these days. I mean, I know that is how the Bush administration rolls, but for that level of fascism to penetrate a liberal, urban writing center in an art school, it really seems as if we’ve reached the last frontier. When academic staff is prohibited from expressing concern for the students and community that they serve, the result is a stagnant institution as opposed to one that is constantly growing and evolving, nurturing students’ pursuit of knowledge as opposed to squashing it. I don’t expect my letter or the upcoming presentation will get me rehired at the center, but I hope it will help to stop this type of reprehensible behavior from happening at Columbia College and other universities. Or if that’s wishful thinking (it is), at least get people talking about it.

I also put the word of my termination out to my colleagues, who are behind me 100%, and I have received an outpouring of support and a few job leads from them. While it is a bit too late in the term to get another job in academia, now is the perfect time to apply to various places for summer programs. And since Shaun and I will be moving for him to go to grad school this fall, I can take advantage of the transitory period this summer to apply at programs all over the country. I’ve applied to seven places today. Many are youth summer camps for the arts, a few are teen writers retreats, and some are college-sponsored workshops. I also spoke with a woman in charge of a great program sponsored by the Illinois Humanities Council. The conversation began with discussing volunteer opportunities and ended with discussions about a stipend position-teaching screen writing to adult ed.

Thankfully, I still have my trusty Monday-Thursday job at the MCA. I have always been so grateful for that job. I enjoy it and I hear that I’m good at it. But the MCA can only offer me part-time, and without my Writing Center job I will now be short $300 a month. This is nothing that a little job at Starbucks or Borders can’t remedy until I hear back from places for the summer terms I’ve applied for, but the Writing Center was more than just a job. Even after we got a new and atrocious director, the Writing Center felt like home. I’ve never suffered from a broken heart before, and judging from this experience, I hope I never will.
____________________________________________________________________

Have you ever been unexpectedly out of a job that you loved? How did you deal?

Also, if you know of any youth summer programs for writing and the arts, anywhere in the world, drop me an email with the name of the program. I’ll love you forever…::smile::

My heart feels waterlogged and I can’t stop shivering. My face is fevered and there are blotches on my chest. Below you’ll find an email that I had to send today. I wish I could write more about the injustice of it all, about the fact that I was fired for this nifty thing I lug around called a backbone. But I can’t. Names have been changed.*

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hello all,

Well, as it turns out, I won’t be able to meet with you all about this
conference at the Writing Center on Friday.

Jenn* contacted me tonight (Wednesday, 1/18/06) at 8:00 pm to tell
me that she needed to revoke my rehire status due to scheduling
complications. I am uncertain as to why the schedule I have maintained
for 1 1/2 years is no longer of use to the center and why I was not
informed of it until 2 days until the semester begins, especially
since my evaluations were favorable, I continually strove to further
the center with its mission, and new hires were added to the roster.
Nevertheless, I am extraordinarily thankful for the opportunity to
have worked at the center. All of you have been especially wonderful
to work with.

I sincerely hope that my termination from the center will not
jeopardize my eligibility to assist this team with the presentation at
the Conference on College Composition and Communication, as it is a
project I would really love to continue. If it turns out that I can
participate in the conference despite my present lack of affiliation
with any college, I would be more than happy to meet with you all at
another location before or after the meeting on Friday. Caribou
Coffee, anyone? Let me know and thanks.

Also, if it is not too forward, I would also like to inquire as to
whether any of you would be so kind as to let me know about any
part-time employment opportunities that you may encounter that you
feel would be suited to my skills. While the Writing Center was never
“just a job” to me, it was an income that I relied upon to supplement
my part-time Monday-Thursday schedule in the Marketing Department at
the Museum of Contemporary Art. I would like to continue my work in
academia and arts education, as I feel that it is my ultimate career
path.

My resume is attached for your review, in case you are uncertain of my
qualifications. I am really grateful to you all for all your support
and I can only hope that the workplace that finds me next has
colleagues half as encouraging, human, and lovely as all of you. Keep
in touch.

Best Wishes,

Truly
_________________________________________________________________________________

Teaching Experience

Writing Consultant
Columbia College Chicago Writing Center: January 2003 – January 2006

Tutoring:
• Writing tutor to undergraduate, graduate, ESL, and Learning Disabled students.

Event Planning:
• Initiated The Never Ending Story collaborative writing event at Columbia’s annual orientation.

Writing:
• Co-wrote a chapter, “Publicity, Play, Pedagogy: The Story of the Never-Ending Story” in Creative
Approaches to Writing Center Work, scheduled for publication in 2006 by Hampton Press.
• Co-wrote a presentation for the 2006 Conference on College Composition and Communication,
“Passing the Pen: Introducing Students to the Not-so-Secret Community of Writers.”
• Wrote and compiled materials for the Writing Center Resource Library.

Writing Coach
College Summit: June 2004 – Present
Teach four-day personal essay writing workshops for high school students.

Media Experience

Marketing Assistant
Museum of Contemporary Art: June 2004 – Present

Writing:
• Write weekly newsletters, including Concierge News and Committee Newsletters.
• Assist in generating advertising copy for museum exhibitions.
• Assist in creating MCA eNews.

Event Planning:
• Cocktail receptions for international consul generals.
• Exhibition previews for concierges.
• MCA participation in Chicago cultural fairs and festivals.
• MCA participation in Greater North Michigan Avenue Association programs.

Administrative:
• Maintain advertising budgets, departmental calendar, and manage committee work.

Public Relations Intern
Harpo Studios: February 2003 – May 2003
Assisted PR associates during the taping of The Oprah Winfrey Show and maintained press clip files.

Television Station Intern
WPWR, UPN 50: June 2002 – August 2002
Wrote on-air program promos and produced segments for the community affairs show, Concerning Chicago.

Video Intern
KidzVid New Media: June 2000 – August 2000
Wrote, produced, and edited educational videos.

Education

• Bachelor of Arts in Television Writing and Producing
Columbia College Chicago

• Story Studio Chicago
Creative Writing Levels I & II
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Hiring or know anyone who is for part-time positions in Chicago? If so, click email me.

I work hard. I love people. I give a shit.

The Boys

This is my fourteen-year old violin prodigy of a little brother. No
joke—the music he makes come out of that instrument have knocked the
socks off of everyone who has ever heard him play. I call him Juje. Or
Jujie. Or Ju-Ju Bear. Or Juje-a-ma-Cuje. Or sometimes Cujo. He’s
started to call me Truje in recent years. He draws Shaun and I pictures
for Christmas gifts every year and he is torn between a career in
orchestra and a career as a cartoonist. He forgets to hand in homework
that he has completed and has an affinity for giant squids. I expect
Julian’s adult life will be rich and beautiful.

My seventeen-year old renaissance man of a brother would probably
prefer that I not put a picture of him up, so I won’t. Although quieter
and more reserved than our youngest brother, the renaissance man has a
wickedly
funny sense of humor. He’s been known to make gut-busting stop-motion
animations and he was nice enough to let me follow him around with a
video camera when I made a documentary of the psychology of teenage
boys for one of my senior-level production classes in college. He’s a
pro at supping up cars (he pimped a Neon, and making that car cool, my
friends, is a great feat) and fixing them too. He works construction
and he is the hardest worker his crew leaders have ever known. When he
was legally obligated to write an essay on the harms of drug use, it
was the most polished, expertly written essay the juvenile disciplinary
system had ever seen. He rocks at school when he goes (his IQ is
through the roof), and his teenage years have made him fragile and
ferocious all at once. I expect manhood will bring him great things.
______________________________________________________________________

What are your siblings like?

Unbridled Machismo
The Author, 2006

During the second half of our California vacation, Shaun and I had the pleasure of really getting to know our favorite friends Beth and Allyson’s significant others, Jay and Jessie, since we all stayed in Ally and Jessie’s apartment just outside of LA. I couldn’t be happier for our friends, because the older we get, the better their taste in significant others becomes.

Like Shaun (and all of our friends, really), Jessie is an accommodating listener, asking questions and seeming genuinely interested in whatever lame story you might be telling, and piggybacking with funny stories of his own. While getting to know Jessie is as easy as pie, a first encounter with Jay is a bit more involved: he is a writer who upon first introduction is bristling with opinions and shows of fire-speed linguistic dexterity, but once a bit of time passes, he quickly settles into a naturally curious, genuinely nice and funny guy before this bubbly energy has a chance to get on your nerves. Jay is the kind of person that made me thankful for having patience, because once I got to know him, it became obvious to me that he is a hilarious, perfect match for our group of friends, plus he seems to be really good to Beth. Everyone involved gets two thumbs way up.

While we spent most of our time together in LA being stuck in traffic,
museum going, frequenting used record stores, discovering delicious ice cream parlors , eating heavenly Thai food, and playing endless hours of games (see random tangent for details), we also spent a few minutes everyday laughing at Ally and Jessie’s cat, Dean, who was wildly in heat. A spading is on the horizon for the female cat inexplicably named Dean, but the present sex-crazed reality of the kitty’s life causes her to be especially emotional and walk with her butt out and low—ready for action. As sad as it was to see an animal so helplessly preoccupied with its vagina, the freakishness of the scene was pretty entertaining. When Dean the cat came around, Jay would get low to its neck, and with his voice thick and rich and emanating from his chest, he would seethe, “Deeeean. Deeeaner.” The cat would go wild purring and arching her back with all this growly, raw machismo reverberating on her spine. Writing it makes this sound really crewel, but I have to say, we were all busting a gut over it.

As you may have read, this past Monday, January 9 was my and Shaun’s 8-year anniversary. To celebrate, we used a $50 coupon we had to dine at a fancy restaurant, Opera. Serving luscious Pan-Asian cuisine, Opera is by far one of the most dramatic dining experiences I have ever had. Walking into the bold, extravagantly decorated, open space makes you feel both special and stupid for wearing your big, clunky winter ski jacket accessorized by a lunch bag containing bright red Tupperware reeking of beet couscous from the day’s lunch-hour meal that you have in tow because you are meeting your date for dinner promptly after work. Once you suck it up, put on a brilliant smile, and get over your own personal lack of polish, the experience becomes marvelous again. Absolutely maaahvolous.

Tucked away from the rest of the diners are little, curtained dining coves in the exposed brick walls that are reserved for romantic couples or people who are wearing unsightly ski jackets accessorized by Tupperware. Seated in this intimate space is claustrophobic, but fun, like the whole family being cramped in the basement during a tornado watch. The funniest thing about these little dining coves is that the diners have no idea when a waiter is approaching and it is startling to have a waiter, no matter how ridiculously suave, pop his body through the curtain, like a little sprite, and take your order or bring you food and drinks. I was startled every time.

I can’t speak for the entire wait staff at Opera, but if you have a big paycheck coming up (or a coupon), I would recommend dining there just to have a hearty laugh at the waiter we had. Imagine a man too debonair for his own good. His hair is a permanent slick: coiffed and impenetrable. His eyelids hover halfway between open and closed at all times. His lips are glossed and puckered and curled up at the edges. His voice is thick and rich and emanating from his chest in the exact same tone as Jay used to seduce Dean the cat with unyielding hormones. The waiter is lavish. He is ready. He wants to roll naked in steaming piles of duck sauce.

After bringing us our appetizers, the waiter sashays into our dining cove.
“How are the flavors?” He coos.
I can barely keep a straight face. Shaun’s back is to him, so he can silently laugh all he wants.
A while later, the waiter tweaks his nipple, drooling and asks, “Is it finished?”
The odd use of the word “it” instead of the more standard, “are you finished?” causes me to imagine Shaun and I feeding a monster under the table. I suppress violent laughter and manage, “yes.” With his back to the waiter, Shaun is rolling.
Upon reserving our table, Shaun must have let it slip that we were celebrating our anniversary. When it was time for us to enjoy some decedent basil ice cream for desert, the waiter, desire oozing from every pore, burst into the cove with two dinky birthday candles a-glow on the desert plate. “I wanted to bring you some candles for your anniversary,” he said, his voice husky and low, “I wanted this to be special.”
Instead of crawling around on all fours with our butts arched ala Dean the cat, Shaun and I laughed until our sides hurt. It was a splendid evening.

________________________________________________________________________
Have you had any laughable encounters with unbridled machismo?

::Random Tangent::
While I hope you are all familiar with Pictionary and make the game more interesting when you play by writing funny suggestions like “Poops Ma Gee” and “Vagina Salsa,” you may not be aware of three very fun games called The Name Game, 8-Headed Doctor, and Drawing in the Dark. I promise you will love them all. Here’s how to play:

The Name Game
Everyone at the party writes ten names on slips of paper and they put them in a hat. The names that you write can be anyone from celebrities, characters on TV or from plays, authors, mythical characters, Bible peeps, dead people, Tommy the boy who peed his pants on the big slide in your kindergarten class, your Aunt Sheryl—anybody, whether the others in the group know of them or not. Have the party break off in teams of two. It makes the game harder if you are paired with the person in the room you know the least. Pairing off in couples makes the game easier. Now it is the first team’s turn. One person draws a name. They may know who the person is whose name they drew, or they may not. But they have a minute to try to explain as many names as they can to their partner without using “rhymes with” or charades.

Once I had to explain a name that turned out to be Shaun’s sister’s 5th grade boyfriend. But at the time of drawing it, neither Shaun nor I had a clue as to who Michael David was. So how did we do it?

Truly: What is the name of our favorite character on the show Arrested Development?
Shaun: George Michael.
Truly: Good. Now say just his last name.
Shaun: Michael.
Truly: Now, the second part. What is the name of my favorite director?
Shaun: David Lynch.
Truly: What’s his first name?
Shaun: David. Michael David?
Truly: Good job! Next one…

See how having teams of couples makes everything easier? However you break off, it is a lot of fun and you learn lots of fun stuff about people and laugh really hard.

8-Headed Doctor
You can play this improvisation game anytime, as long as you have two or more players. If it is New Years Eve, it can also be a drinking game. Shaun and I also play it while we are taking long walks.

The object of this game is to tell a story, with each person of the group adding one word at a time.

Truly: Rancid
Shaun: cats
Jessie: hate
Allyson: to
Beth: wear
Jay: tutu’s.
Truly: The
Shaun: story
Jessie: begins…

See? Fun. If you add a word that results in incorrect sentence structure, or take too long to say a word (it should be a seamless flow after your practice run), the group makes the noise of a game show buzzer at you and you are responsible for starting a whole new story. If you choose to make this a drinking game, you also have to take a swig of something.

Drawing in the Dark
In this game, each participant is given a pencil and a piece of paper. All the people at the party put their names in a hat. Everyone draws a name and keeps it secret. Then the host turns off all the lights and each participant has a minute to draw a picture of the name they drew without being able to see the paper. Then the lights are turned back on and everyone displays their artwork and laughs at how retarded it looks. If the party can guess who you drew, then you are very cool and a winner indeed.

Lucky Number 9
© The Author, 2006

The night was almost over and I didn’t want it to be without him knowing what it meant to me. Even after getting chopped to bits by a lawnmower, pulling myself together and slipping into a sexy red dress to sing a gushing torch song in, and murdering my family in a manic, Valium induced frenzy ala Quentin Tarantino a while after, he still couldn’t tell that I was crazy about him. Boys can be so clueless sometimes.

Clarkston High School Drama Club (the organization I credit for keeping me interested in attending the hell known as high school and saving me from dropping out all together), had an annual fundraiser called Theater-A-Thon, which was a nine-hour variety show that took place starting right after school and running until midnight. The program was directed by the vice president of the club (which I was to become in my senior year) and it was comprised of student chosen, directed, and performed skits and musical acts that audiences could see for free, on a come and go basis (9 hours is a freaking long time to sit through the entirety). The MC raffled off neat items throughout the night and a surprising amount of people bought tickets, giving us money to build big, crazy sets for the spring musical. Theater-A-Thon was loud, funny, and riotous and it was by far my favorite thing about high school. Especially my sophomore year in 1998, when it allowed me to hang out with my biggest crush for countless hours of rehearsal and 9 hours of performance.

The first time I saw Shaun was at my first drama club meeting, fall of my freshmen year. I walked into the theater and a tingly, spiders prancing about your ribcage kind of overwhelming feeling rushed over me. I knew he was there before I saw him, eventhough I had never laid eyes on him before. It was as if I was looking for him. When I glimpsed the back of his head, I felt relief.

“Who is that guy?” I asked my friend Randi, pointing to the back of Shaun’s head.
“That’s Painter,” she said, using the name of a deaf character he played in a skit she was in with him.

I walked away from her and suddenly I was near him, smiling. He was alone, with a book on his lap.

“Hi, I’m Truly.”
“Hi.”
“Can I sit by you?”
“Sure.”

Later he said he thought that I must have been a senior (he was a junior and I was really tall) and feeling bad for him because he was all by his lonesome. And that he thought I was hot. I felt like I was coming home, a transcendental experience of reincarnation. I had always known him, and I knew that he would always be there. It was weird and it creeped me out and I loved him then and now in this big, amazing way that reveals a higher order of things and feels delightfully good.

We were friends my freshmen year. While I dated a few guys (one of which was later to become my gay best friend) I made it a point to get in with his group, firstly because they were all super nice, chill people and second because I liked being near Shaun. I liked how he was always first to arrive to a party. He brought chips and CDs and he always had a Snapple to drink. He was never loud or interruptive and he never did things for attention, and yet he got loads of it. The girls in our group loved flirting with him because he was too polite to flirt back. But we all played with his hair, and felt his muscles, and did all sorts of stupid girly things around him because it was so funny how non-threatening, bashful, and well mannered he was about it. You could tell he was really smart, although only because he was always offering to help whenever he heard you were struggling with a subject. He never bragged about being in AP English and AP Physics and a general, all-around smarty pants. I don’t even think most of us knew that about him. He was just a nice guy. Did I mention that I was crazy about him?

My sophomore year (Shaun’s senior year), I was getting a bit frustrated that he didn’t seem to notice any of my attempts to woo him. Didn’t he feel the same way? Didn’t he know we knew each other in a past life? Come on!

When it was time to begin preparing skits for Theater-A-Thon, among other things, I wrote and directed a piece called The Cleaver Family, which was a stage combat piece featuring a 1950′s family that becomes possessed in the night and tries to kill each other in all sorts of funny ways until morning, when all is rosy again. I cast Shaun as my husband. Practice was dreamy, but he still didn’t seem to get my drift. But he was secretly in love with me, too. He was taking a super hard class-load and already involved in more skits than he thought he could handle when he took me up on my offer to murder me in my skit.

The night of Theater-A-Thon, I participated in two other skits that went beautifully. The Cleaver Family stunned the audience and then shook them with guilty laughter, as any proper dark comedy should. It was spectacular. Once midnight struck, and we were all wiping off our stage makeup and packing up our props, I didn’t feel right ending the night without letting Shaun know how much, precisely, his participation meant to me. Walking out to the parking lot with my best friend Lindsey and my parents, I made an excuse to turn back. I found Shaun in the hallway, walking out by himself.

“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
“It was a really good night tonight.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“You know, I like you a lot. If you want to do anything about that, I’m not busy Saturday.”
His face broke into the biggest smile ever. I felt my heart sing.

Although we have a wedding anniversary (January 25, 2002) we celebrate January 9 as our “us” day. Eight years ago today, we became us and it seems like yesterday and forever ago all at the same time.

Happy 9th, Shaun. I love you always.

Before I begin this little ditty, please take notice of my new side box, “Fun Sites To Love.” I think you, my dear and lovely reader, will love them too.

Bedtime Stories
© The Author, 2006

Sometimes, when we are lying in bed decompressing from the day’s events, I ask Shaun to tell me stories. While everyone’s mind is like an enormous filing cabinet of information, when it comes to retrieving learned information, Shaun has the fastest, most complete, and most extensive system of anyone I’ve ever known. This means that he is not only a talented test-taker, but he is also useful as a walking encyclopedia and literary anthology. He is able to recite countless stories on demand—be it Greek myths, biblical allegories, long forgotten fairy tales, or tribal lore. Shaun’s recall is amazing to behold, and I feel especially lucky that our future child and I are the primary beneficiary of it. What is strange though, is that Shaun has very few memories of childhood, and he is often blocked when it comes to recalling details about personal events.

While I am a shoddy test taker and my memories of learned things are fleeting if not put to use straight away, I am the queen of experienced recall. I can close my eyes and tell you with utmost precision about the night when my purple snow suited little body laid on my back in the snow in my family’s back yard and looked up at the sky. The moon was a crisp slice of honeydew melon and the stars were brighter than I ever remember them being in my whole life.

Earlier that day my step dad and I build a sledding ramp in the backyard hill from snow, as we did at every snowfall. We used the big, black snow shovel and our hands to sculpt two giant mounds running vertically down the sides of the track, to keep the sledded on course. Once built, we tested the track. The first couple of times down the hill were simply to pack the snow into a slick, flat surface. If we were lucky, the surface would acquire an icy sheen over the crust of it that would propel us forward at deadly speeds. After these test rides, we could determine the best location for a ramp and sculpt one.

Soon, the entire neighborhood—Jeff, Brett, Heidi, Kacie, Marty, Ben, Kyle, Andrew, Dave, and my brother Anthony (my brother Julian was still a baby)—came out of the woodwork with saucers and sleds in tow. And my step dad stayed and sledded with us, not as a supervisor, but just as one of us kids. And no one minded. I wouldn’t know how cool my step dad was for that until much later. The most coveted sleds were the snow tubes, preferred for their speed and soft landing capabilities, but saucers were a close second best. The ramp we built that day was placed on perfect pitch and was at such an angle that hitting it with snow tubes flung you so high into the air that your stomach dropped crazily on the way down like on a rollercoaster. With ramps as ferocious as these, snow tubes were definitely preferred.

Noontime became afternoon and afternoon turned orange-ish pink and night slipped into the sky without anyone really noticing it. One by one my sledding pals were called back into their homes for dinner, until I was alone. I began waddling through the snow to the garage to put my sled away when I suddenly got the urge to stop and hear what the night sounded like beneath the deafening swishing of my snowsuit. So I stopped. And it was soft and quiet. And I liked it. I let myself fall to the snow and lay in it. I wasn’t cold. You might not think it, but snow is warm. Igloos are cuddly and I have always wanted to live in one. I stared out at the night sky and watched first my breath come in swirls of steam from my lips. Following the path of the swirls, my eyes caught sight of the honeydew moon and stars that I mentioned earlier. I remembered a scene from Fantasia where the night sky was a blanket that the world was tucked into at bedtime and the stars were pinpricks of sunlight that shone through the fabric. And I thought, “why not?” and lay there a while longer.

I was eleven.

Later than winter, Heidi would scrape her face horribly on a pine tree that she sledded into while riding at top speed on a tube sled on her stomach down the side hill in the Kirby’s front yard. She didn’t sled for a while because the scabs on her face chapped easily.

While Heidi was out with a knarly face, Dave and Andy Dixon, and Kacie, Marty, and Ben Kirby would become arch enemies of myself, Jeff, and Brett because they tattled on us for swearing and their moms came to some of our houses with loaves of banana nut bread saying to each of our parents, “we need to have a talk about your child.” And we only said goddamn! The banana nut loaf visits seriously deepened the feud, and soon we found ourselves building trenches for wicked snowball fights. We built an ingenious base by creating an enormous pile of snow and hollowing out a space just large enough for one of Brett’s dogs to fit in. We put the dog inside of it and sealed the dog in with a wooden board. Anxious to get out, the dog dug a hole through the other side. Before he broke though, we lifted the plank away and the dog escaped, leaving us a nice sized cave. Andy and Dave’s dog was a mangy little fluff ball smaller than my cat, and the Kirbys weren’t allowed to have pets, so our base was much better than theirs.

On day five of the fight, we hatched what seemed like a brilliant plan. We knew from science classes that alcohol did not freeze, and we were eager to add a surprise element to our snow battle plan. That is how we came upon raiding my mom’s liquor cabinet and filling our Super Soakers with vodka. How brilliant we were to storm the Dixon/Kirby front with snowballs and squirt guns!

Of course, when our enemies all went home reeking of Absolut, there were angry visits to our homes made without the pretense of banana nut bread. No matter how much trouble that battle plan got us into, we knew that we were the victors. We could hold our heads high on the walk to the bus stop. And when we were finally ungrounded and allowed to play outside again, we were not to be messed with or tattled on.

While I can’t keep all the Greek myths I’ve heard separate, or match the names of Bible characters to the people and allegories they go with, I have stories of my own. And they aren’t too shabby either.
______________________________________________________________________

How does your memory work? Do you have any fun wintertime stories?

::Random Tangent::
WARNING: Potentially Offensive Content Ahead
Shaun told me the story of the Tower of Babel a few nights ago. If you are in shock that this story is new to me, please consider that most of my family is atheist and the only religion I was really exposed to was at the freaky Church of Christ that I had to go to Sunday school at when I stayed weekends with my dad. Here I was told that women have jobs and men have other jobs and the two worlds shouldn’t collide and that dinosaurs were really chicken bones that scientist made into big, elaborate things in order to gain fame and money. I also learned that the story of Jonah and the whale was not ripped off from the movie Pinocchio, as I had thought. I argued a lot with my Sunday school instructors and I chewed on the rolls of toilet paper in the bathroom to get revenge and make everyone unable to wipe because I had made the paper all spitty and nasty with tooth marks everywhere.

Anyhow, so if you forgot, or if you don’t know, the Tower of Babel is a story about these awesome people who built this really cool tower, like a live/work high-rise building, to live in and have spectacular views, fresh air, and close proximity to the sky, which as we all know, is a thrill for us humans. And everyone lived there and it was really chill because everyone spoke the same language and got along really well living in their phat pad.

Well, God caught wind of this tower and was pissed off. He didn’t like man being able to put people so close to the heavens. As far as he was concerned, that was his job. His toes were being stepped on. So God got crabby and struck the tower down like a whiney baby chucking his toy blocks at the mention of naptime. Not only did he ruin their super cool high-rise, but all the people were flung in every which way, and then they were in new places and they forgot the language they had when they were together. So they no longer shared a common language and they were homeless.

What a jerk God is in this story! Why would anyone want to worship a bastard who gets jelous when someone makes a really cool thing? Why would people love a god who hates collaboration and peacefulness and understanding between groups? He sounds like an a-hole to me. I’d much prefer to rot in hell than to celebrate that sort of bad behavior. Although, that is easy for me to say since I don’t really believe in hell. Also, you’ve got to be pretty off your rocker to believe that the reason we all speak different languages is because a bunch of people fell off a really high tower and landed in different parts of the world. I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, but I certainly wouldn’t sacrifice Sunday morning leisure for it, that’s for sure.

Anyhow, my apologies to those I might offend. This story just knocked my socks off and I find it incredible that people who seem perfectly sane (many of whom are my dear friends) actually believe that this stuff is true. Amazing! We are such a crazy species!

The Weasel and the Downward Dog
© The Author, 2006

I am a fan of the New Years Resolution, which from what I understand has acquired a pretty bad reputation. Always excited to better understand those that I know, I’ve been inquiring after the resolutions of people in my circle this week. This questioning has been met with abundant eye-rolls (I think people think I’m joking to ask such a thing), shoulder shrugs (resolutions just aren’t on their radar, I guess), and the occasional tirade about how the unnecessary stress caused by the pressure to have fun, set goals, when it all adds up to nothing makes the New Year nothing short of hell, so why bother even acknowledging the damn thing to begin with, why not just put up a new kitty calendar on January first and call it a day (pant, pant, pant). Some call resolutions cliché, arbitrary—they rattle off any number of labels: meaningless, formulaic, passé, desperate—but they can call it what they will. I, with my whole sentimental heart, think resolutions are beautiful.

Don’t gag yet. Bear with me here.

In my life, and in the lives of the best that I know, resolutions are but tiny fragments to be explored in a larger, fuller life. They do not consume. They do not always stay on course, nor are they always meant to. They are reminders to ask questions, to open up to a new thing, to challenge your current reality, to linger a while longer—be it an entire year, a day, or a lifetime—on a detail that has caught your eye. And the best people that I know have stumbled upon far more interesting details than the extra ten pounds of lipids softening their bodies.

I venture that resolution-makers are bound to their love of resolutions not because of the charm of goal setting, accomplishment, or (a word I especially loathe) self-improvement, but rather because they are curious about details of all kinds and as such, it is easy for them to see something relatively small in their lives that would be interesting to know more about.

Some people call this interest in detail: “possibility,” “opportunity,” or “a new beginning.” But those kinds of words place a value on the exploration, making people feel like shit if they don’t “accomplish” anything from the interest (accomplish is another word that I think is stupidly unfair and I apologize for all the obnoxious quotation marks in this paragraph). I much prefer the word exploration to guide any resolution. And in the long run, I am certain that exploration provides more of a reward. Because no matter how long you stay true to the original concept, you are able to value whatever you gain from it. And you always gain something.

Last year my New Years Resolution was “To Write More.” Like any red-blooded American, I was itching to tack on a prize, so it was really hard for me to resist adding “…And Get Published” to complete the resolve. But I did resist. Who needs the pressure?

I started writing more in baby steps. First I started this blog to force me into writing something once a week. I’ve always been a journal-er, but I began to formulate story concepts, observations, and characters in my journals instead of strictly my feelings about my personal life (which are seldom shared in all their rawness in this very public forum). I enrolled in classes at a Story Studio. And with my heart open to chance, a publisher invited me to write a chapter for a book about Writing Center Theory. So I wrote it. And published it will shortly be.

This year my resolution has two parts. The first is a slight variation of last year’s goal: To Continue to Write Regularly. We’ll see where that takes me.

The second will undoubtedly benefit my writing goals, but also I am just dying to know more about it. Lets take the long route to its revelation, shall we?

I might have mentioned a few posts ago that through a colleague, I was invited to try a free month membership at a super posh gym. Well, I gave it a shot with a yoga class a few weeks ago. I am typically an outdoor, long distance runner (I also dig hiking, bike riding, swimming in lakes, and singing Madonna songs loudly while rollerblading), so the yoga scene was completely new to me. But I’m always up for trying something new and, in all honesty, I had no choice but to give it a whirl because there is nothing more I hate than stupid leotard wearing ladies telling me to “squeeze my buns” or sweating at a crewel, soulless weight machine and, aside from the yoga class, those were the only things happening at this super posh gym.

Wait…on that note, I have an entertaining little side comment: I want to mention that the saddest thing in the world for me to do is to pass by a Bally’s when hordes of people are all staring out the window into space while running on treadmills silently. My heart grips with the pain of the loneliness and isolation that must be felt by a person who can smell the toxins leaking out of their neighbors pores, yet is unable to strike up a conversation with them. Not that I view running as a social act, which is why I run alone, outdoors, where I move on the ground and not with fifty other people to all sides of me. And when I do pass another runner, we always exchange at least a head nod or a “good morning!” The symbolic weightiness of trying your best and getting nowhere (literally—you are running in place) is my version of absolute hell. If there is a hell, I will be sent there (along with all the other cool people I know), and the demons will torment me by making me power walk on a treadmill for all of eternity. CURSES!

Anyhow, so I’m at this yoga class at Super Posh Gym and it’s before the New Year so the class only has me and another woman in it because no one has decided to prioritize those ten pounds of lipids softening their bodies and flock to the gym yet. The instructor is in her mid-twenties, soft and relaxed looking, with the most welcoming, non-pretentious attitude I’ve ever encountered in all my time frequenting gyms on short-term freebie memberships.

At first the poses she instructs us to do seem easy. Yeah, I think I dig yoga. Its relaxing, its peaceful—I can do this. Then the instructor walks over, and gently, kindly, shifts my body.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

There is stress searing my muscles in hideous new ways, there is heat and sweat and my cowardly, secret inner-sneak starting to imagine reasons that I could invent to let me walk out of the class right this instant but I don’t so the chicken shit desire manifests itself in my body wiping out but trying to be discrete about it by attempting to cheat the poses just a little, teensy, weensy bit to make them easier. And right before I find the way to cheat, the instructor saves me.

“Surrender to the pose,” she coos, “Surrender and breathe through it.”

And I do. And I surprise myself by falling a little deeper into the position, by seeing something a bit past the discomfort. And soon, I am only the breath. I am just breathing.

Walking to the el to go home from the gym that night I felt beautiful: my organs loved me and sang happy songs of oxygen and blood inside my body. My mind came back to the instructor advising me to surrender. And the concept of surrender has been churning in my mind ever since.

My whole life I’ve been struggling against something. I am a Pisces, and the image of two fish bound to each other’s tails and swimming upstream is an accurate description of my life. As early as elementary school, teachers were telling my mom, “Truly certainly marches to the beat of her own drum.” I go against the grain. I am a force of resistance.

While much of my familiarity and comfort in being the voice of descent has been beneficial in my activism for civil rights, my lobbying for socialist agendas, and my simple curiosity about things that go against the status quo, I wonder how often I resist surrender when I might gain much more by doing so. I wonder how often I’ve struggled against myself like I did when my inner-weasel attempted to get the best of my downward dog.

This year I’m going to dedicate myself to exploring the concept of surrender. I’m sampling different yoga studios and gyms in my neighborhood and around my workplace that will help me delve into the concept further. I’m sure there is much to be read on the topic, including works by our Buddhist friends, and I am eager to write more about the applications of these practices into daily life. I trust that my innate self-discipline and the high standards I set for myself will keep me from diving off the deep end in this exploration and waving a white flag at every oatmeal raisin cookie and military dictatorship disguised as The White House I come across. I am not looking to convert. I am interested in the concept of balance.

So, my second new years resolution for 2006 and beyond? Explore surrender.

Now. That wasn’t so bad, now was it?
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How does surrender play a role in your life? Read/watch/see/hear anything good on the topic lately?

Walking back into our apartment after nearly a week and 1/2 away from it was strange. Our place smelled like thousand-year old dust and our cat was a feral, wild thing. I never noticed it before our late night homecoming yesterday, but our apartment is curiously sparse; the walls are plain and broad and the furnishings dot our bare wood floors miles apart from each other.

This impression could be the result of just getting back from our friends Allyson and Jessie’s homey L.A. apartment decked out fashionably with amazing art and filled with our favorite friends laughing, talking, and playing games, which was preceded by the eye buffet of the Seqouia National Park, again preceded by three days of Christmas Family Bonanza in Michigan. Wow. I think we cut our own, personal little hole out of the ozone with this trip.

However strange it is to be back, I am happy. I think you know when your life is going well when you don’t dread coming back from vacation. My job is fine, I get to spend every day in love and loved by the most awesome guy I’ve ever met, and I like who I am and what I do almost as much as I like wondering who I will become and how I will become it. And as much as a part of me marvels at how anyone is able to find the one place in the world where they feel at home, the more I visit other places, the less surprised I would be if we came back to Chicago after grad school to plant roots. If I have to live in civilization (and not on a mountain top or a secluded nature preserve), Chicago is my favorite place of all the places I’ve been so far. But there are many places yet unseen.

Shaun and I both were lucky enough to have today off work to recoup, do laundry, get groceries, and chase the musty smell out of our humble abode. We just ate yummy homemade Vegetable Barley Soup and now its time to catch up on our Netflicks.

Below, for your reading enjoyment, you’ll find a little moment in time captured from a blog entry written while we were on vacation but without Internet access.

Oh yeah, and Happy New Year!

My Ancient and Depraved Colonel
© The Author, Wednesday, December 28 2005

The skin of a Sequoia is amazing to touch: the consistency of a parched patch of wood is almost that of a flakey, soft croissant; the texture of a water-heavy piece is tender and spongy like wet cardboard. The bark of a Sequoia is 31 inches thick and the feel of it will haunt you.

Yesterday we took a seven-mile hike through the surrounding areas of Cedar Grove Village, the location of our snuggly hotel in California’s Kings Canyon/Sequoia National Park, and ended up at the General Grant Tree Trail. Since U.S. settlers did much of their exploration of the Sierras after the Civil War, a whole slew of trees have ill-fitting patriotic namesakes. If I were to name the world’s largest living things, I think I’d skip petty human war heroes and go with something a little more grandiose: Zeus, Gorgeous George, The Bearded Lady, The Big Kahuna, or simply Fatty MaGee. Although, in all honesty, any given name is meaningless: delicious 2,700 year-old silence reigns supreme here.

On the trail, with my neck thrown back like a Nebraskan tourist on Chicago’s Malignant Mile, my mouth gaped as my unblinking eyes filled with the sinew, tangle, and force of the 311-foot Sequoias above me. There is something wicked and ruined about the majesty of these trees; their mutant claw-like limbs jut obscenely miles up the trunk, their shallow roots emerge gnarled and twisting from the soft earth underfoot. These mammoth, unapologetic creatures remind me of a description of a character named Andrea from my current reading, Hemingway’s Across the River and Into the Trees. Andrea is said to be “a tall, very tall, man, with a ravaged face of great breeding…” In the same passage, Andrea greets the Colonel with another phrase fit for a Sequoia, “My ancient and depraved Colonial.”

Ancient and depraved indeed.

Today we trekked up to see the largest living thing on the planet: The General Sherman Tree. Before a so-called virgin birthed a man named Jesus, while Romans stormed wildly about Europe, a not-so-distant settler from Asia may have seen this tree as a germinating seed, softly shedding its tiny seed coat onto the ash-rich soil after a fire thrashed fiercely here in the months before. Growing up to three feet annually, the tree would soon loom above her and she would notice and love it and fear it. So respectful were her peoples that it is rumored that they would not dare set up camp in a Sequoia grove, for fear of the powerful spirits that lurk amongst the muted, freakish trees. How did humans ever stop worshiping the earth? How did we become so separate and unmoved?

Freezing rain sent us back to our hotel earlier than I would have liked, but its better to be safe than to find ourselves dead or in a horrible situation created by winding mountain roads, a wimpy Geo-metro, and merciless ice.

Now that the rain has calmed and our tummies are full of tuna and crackers, we are off in our ponchos to hike a nearby 6 mile trail called Park Ridge, which doesn’t require driving to get to and boasts spectacular views of snow covered mountains. I like listening to the snow crunch beneath our boots as we walk and thinking of nothing and saying not a word but knowing love and all the rest just the same.

Tomorrow we drive to L.A. and there will be talking and laughter late into the night. But I am here now. Completely and utterly here.

Edit Wednesday Night:
Pushing ourselves up the cruelly steep mountain trail, we paused for a moment to look at the craggy hills surrounding us and we wondered how many predators knew our exact location and the best way to sink their teeth into our clumsy, sweaty, fleshy bodies. At first we guessed 50 and revised it down to 20. In any case, I felt something’s beady little eyes tracking us and licking its chops.

By the time we were a quarter of a mile into the hike, a thick, creepy fog descended upon us, making any mountain view impossible. So thick was the fog that we missed the sign that indicated our trails end and we didn’t know we’d done it until we ran into a sign for yet another trail.

We gazed upon a total of six pretty munching deer and we heard one coyote howl and bark. We smelt a gamey smell that stunk of the spray of a big cat. Although that could have just been our B.O. We felt our caves swell up to three times their normal size and noticed the beginnings of incredibly steely buns.
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In what mind set are you entering 2006?

Party On!

I did it. I rocked the MCA Holiday staff party. I boozed, I chatted, I laughed loudly. Ladies and Gentlemen, I danced. I shook my groove thing and had such a fine time doing it that nearly half the staff joined in. I shimmied with my boss, I twisted with the curators, and I boogied with the security guards. I won a calculator in the staff raffle. Most importantly, I solidified a friendship.

It is so rare that I meet a woman who I dig enough to be real friends with: I am extraordinarily picky. Until last night, I had yet to meet a gal in Chicago who fit my specifications. (Squee—you are not included since you stalked me here from Michigan and you know I love you!) If I had one, my personal ad would have gone accordingly:

WANTED

Darkly funny, bookworm/goofball seeks like-minded feminists to enjoy movies, concerts, museums, rollerblading, zoo-going, bakery frequenting, and sangria slurping. Ladies whose opinions extend further than “who’s hot and who’s not” are preferred. 

IMPORTANT: Applicant must have enough brains and self-respect to discuss something other than diets, the men they associate themselves with, and self-loathing. Charisma and chemistry will be heavily considered at time of application. Salon Divas, Mall Princesses, Bitches, Snobs, Petty Airheads, and Drama Queens need not apply.

I do not settle for anything less, which I hope makes the girl friends I already have feel like the rock (although I suspect they already feel that way 99% of the time). However, my pickyness does make my circle of friends relatively small. But I am happy to say that I added another member to it at the MCA holiday party.

I knew Caitlin and I were going to be friends when we were talking about the complimentary month long membership to a super fancy gym that was offered to some of the MCA staffers from one of our corporate partners for the holidays. Since we both have been taking advantage of the privilege, I started chatting with her about it at the party. To my delight, we both had the exact same answer that seemed to stun the personal trainer at the gym when he smugly asked, “What are your work out goals?” Although we were asked at different times, completely unaware of eachother’s answer, we both confidently told the trainer, “I just want to keep winter gloom at bay.” What about weight loss? A six pack? Rippling biceps? Steely buns? I concur wholeheartedly with Caitlin when she said, “I think I look great—there is nothing wrong with me. I just wanted to chill out in a fancy gym!”

Tonight I have the Writing Center holiday party from 4-6 and the College Summit Party from 6-9. After that, Shaun and I will be heading over to whatever bar his holiday-party after-party will be at. Who needs a salary, sick days, and benefits that come with some lucky full time jobs when you can have three part time jobs to comprise a full time schedule? More jobs=more parties. And I do like to boogie.

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What is bringing you holiday joy this year?