Do we become the stories we tell about ourselves? Sure we do. But not all stories are plausible. Many narrators are unreliable. The line between invention and articulation is a tricky one to navigate; our doubts and fears and desires get in the way.

A classic example of this is the mid-life crisis sports car. No matter how much the protagonist invests in communicating the story of his virility and youth, the subtext is clear: this man is terrified by death. He is haunted by each strand of hair that his scalp sheds. He desires nothing more than to be desired. He is a sad figure. He is telling a story with his sports car, but not the one he thinks he is telling.

Luckily, not everyone leaves the storytelling to the darker side of their psyches. Many people strive to shed the fictions inside of them and make an attempt at an authentic life. This doesn’t mean truth-seekers don’t tell stories, but they might forgo telling them through consumer goods. Truth-seekers seem more likely to bristle under categorization: unlike the mid-life crisis sports car man, they expect no definition or articulation of self through the cars, homes, or computers that they buy. While they are sure to have preferences like any living thing, someone dedicated to an authentic life won’t expect the type of car that they drive to say anything specific about them, other than the fact that they a.) are wealthy enough to own a functioning car and b.) know how to drive.

I’m picking on consumer goods because American-style capitalism thrives on the darker halves of our psyches, so the examples seem the most accessible. But examples could be found elsewhere: to what extent we are defined by our gender, our sexuality, and society’s expectations of someone born to our race/class/and region. Finding your authentic story is tricky amidst all of this. Its hard to know which things we’ve convinced ourselves of are inventions and which are articulations. Sometimes the cross-over between the two is so frequent the whole thing gets too blurry and boring to navigate. After all, we don’t want to live our whole life with our heads up our asses.

Stories are easy to find in others but they seem to hide away whenever we try to find them in ourselves. Perhaps they sense confrontation. In any event, I’ve only been able to nail down one that I’m sure is storytelling at work in me. It is a story that has had an impact in shaping me. It is a story that I like and am happy about.

Since my cousin and I were really small, we loved to proclaim: “We’re WEIRD!” We’d do this without shame, with a smile on our faces. I think this was referencing our preference for Garbage Pail Kids over Cabbage Patch Dolls, our love of making satirical radio shows with the tape recorder (“I’m Bob Evans. And I’m Seven Eleven. And THIS is 20/20.”), and our generally spastic games of make-believe (we liked to stage infomercials in which people died demonstrating various products). We knew that other little girls played dolls and house–both of which were UNFATHOMABLE to us. “We’re WEIRD!” was a challenge to that idyllic little girl and to status quo in general. It was a recognition that we were different and a proclamation that we wanted to stay that way forever. And for the most part, we have.
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Do you have a story that you tell about yourself? Feel like sharing?

What are your thoughts on the following statement?

We become the stories we tell about ourselves.

My brother Anthony and his girlfriend Taylor are on their way to Chicago this morning. I can’t wait. I haven’t really had  chance to hang out one-on-one with Anthony in a few years. A combination of oceans and teen angst kept us apart, leaving sibling-time exclusivly to Julian (the youngest) and I. But I miss Anthony. And I adore his girlfriend. And I was so very happy when he took me up on the invite.

I may have mentioned it before, but it is so weird to me that my brothers are young men. I moved away from home when I was 18 and my brothers were still boys. Skinny, dimple-cheeked little loves. I still see that in them, so tangibly, just beneath the surface of their man-suits. Julian is 16 now. Soon, Anthony and I will be able to go to the bar together.

Crazy.

Also crazy: I had a really good and unexpected night last night. After work, I went to the Village Cycle Center for a bike tune up. While my tune up was happening, I had a beer and read the paper in the next door pub. I read that there was a FREE Pitchfork Music Festival Preview happening that night in Millennium Park. So after my bike was ready, I cycled over, laid down on the lawn, and read my book while listening to fun live music. It was really great. I got turned on to a great new (to me) band: The Fleet Foxes. Really great. Ocean Color Scene meets The Jayhawks. Folk/Rock/Indie/Goodtimes.

After the concert (and a few chapters of me book), I biked home in the night. The moon was big and orange overhead. The lake lapped the shore. The night was soggy and Midwestern and fireflies flickered; fat floaty gems.

As I approached Foster Street Beach, I was happily surprised to hear the thumping beat of a drum circle. A group of fire dancers writhed in the middle of the circle: blazing hula hoops burned bright, poi balls were aglow. An assemblage of bi-standers danced fire-less on the outskirts. Traditional Indian horn music soared overhead.

And the drums. And the drums.

Apparently, every full moon an informal group of fire dancers gather near Foster street beach to revel in its crazy energy. It was really fun. I parked my bike and danced with strangers. I’ll be back next moon. And hopefully I’ll meet someone who will teach me how to hula fire.

Have a good weekend, ladies and gents. Happy full moon!

Oh yeah! Props to Grandpa Jaggers for the photo featured in my new Xanga lay-out. The mountain sunset is the view from their deck. Amazing!

I’m in New York this weekend, visiting friends who are visiting from Scotland.

About the friends:

• Originally from England, we met Dan and Bryony in Scotland; Dan and Shaun were in the same Master’s program at Glasgow University.
• Dan is a fiction writer who works at a university.
• Bryony is his partner and is the single most organized person on earth.
• Susie, who is also staying with us this weekend, was also in the creative writing program and is originally from Boston.
• Shaun has been away in Montreal for work this weekend, but he comes back today, just in time for PRIDE!
• I go back to Chicago Tuesday morning.

This is the last time I’ll be in the city for the foreseeable future. And as much as living here was the pits, visiting has been a RIOT! This has much to do with the fact that I’m hanging out with some of my favorite people on earth.

Friday
After having only slept 3 hours and eaten once in the past 24 hours (insane flight delays, cab shortage, crazy long lock out story), I wanted nothing more than to bury myself in a hot stack of banana pancakes. Dan and Bryony obliged and after a dangerously huge breakfast, we ran through the kiddie fountains in Fort Tyron park and generally milled about the hood.

The rest of the day took us for a wonder through Midtown, an afternoon at MoMA (where I napped in the sculpture garden), and a pitcher of sangria at Georgios Country Grill.

Pics from our daytime adventures:

Bryony and I are sad when we wear Buzz Lightyear on our heads. Actually, I get sad. B looks a little frightened. This is at the Disney Store on 5th Avenue.

Dan, however, loves Buzz.

We also made Mr. Potato heads at the Disney Store. Mine is the pimp. Bryony’s is the Ho. Dan’s is our pet alien.

At MoMA, there was this great installation in the 3rd floor atrium. It was a fan on a dangling cord, powering itself to fly willy-nilly all over the place. It was a hit with everyone, but kids especially loved chasing it around.

After dinner, we experienced craziest thing of the day: Pinkberry. Imagine trying to get a business loan based on the following pitch:

Pinkberry. It’s a frozen yougert shop with the look and feel of NYC’s hottest night club. There’s music pumping, designer lighting and furniture, and best of all: only three flavors.

Plain, Green Tea, and Coffee.

We call Plain “Pinkberry.” Not because its pink or berry flavored. But because we think frozen yougert and we think flirty. We think fresh. We think fun. Funkilicious. Something so cold it’s hot.

And if that’s not enough (we know, it isn’t), there’s a shitload of cereal you can dump atop it. And a few berries. And expensive design-wear for sale on a wall.

Swirl on in, you know? Swirl the fuck in.

Needless to say, we went wild in Pinkberry. We had no idea what we were walking into really, which made it all the more hilarious. This video is of one of our tamer moments at Pinkberry. It is also sideways for a while. Its actually not that entertaining, nor does it capture the true horrific rapture of Pinkberry. But I love it and its my blog so here it goes:

As if you’ve not heard enough, here are some pictures:

This is my favorite ever picture of D+B.

This picture explains everything.

Me+B

I swear to god I’m not being paid by Pinkberry. It really was this fun. And not in an entirely ironic way. This pitcher of sangria may have helped. So if you go ever, make sure to do a bit of drinking first. And don’t sleep for a few days. Otherwise, in the naked light of day, it might just be sad.

Saturday
Yesterday, we met up with our friend Susie at the Figment Festival on Govener’s Island.

The festival was fantastic. The festival is a free “celebration of particapatory art and creative culture.” There’s DJs mixing along the bike path, hula hoops, kiddie pools filled with flower petals to throw and roll around in, sidwalk chalk, creation stations, live bands and lawn dancing, yoga, pet turtles, and lots more. We had a great time and did a lot of hula.

As you can see, I’m about as bad at Hula as you can get. But I like it anyway.

This is my favorite ever picture of Susie. It basically sums her up nicely.

Chit chat

I love this tiny crowd! So much lawn!

Walkin’ around.

Somebody brought their pet turtle. It was so fast! Really! I thought they were supposed to move slowly, but this one raced around on his crazy little legs. Turtle was a big hit.

This big doughnut thing was for climbing all over. It ruled.

This is a pool full of rose petals. As Susie says: “If my kid didn’t look cute in that pool, I’d take them back. Obviously defective. This is adorable.”

After Figment, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and got ice cream at the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory.

Brooklyn Bride. Which is not relaxing to walk across, by the way. There are cars roaring past on either side of you and the air is thick with gross smog.

Peeps

We all scream.

Right after this picture was taken, we were caught up in a thunderstorm. Serious wetness. We were instantly soaked through and through. Big fat drops of rain fell from the sky, thunder and lightening were crashing down all around us. It was God’s way of punishing us for eating frozen treats at somewhere other than Pinkberry.

I love our friends. And New York. What a fun fun place to visit. 

I’m gonna answer the Xanga Featured Question today: Where were you are year ago today?

A year ago today, I was in Scotland. The nationwide design festival I worked for had just wrapped up seven days before. Shaun had just won a young authors festival reading in Edinburgh. My stepdad Tony was in town with his lady friend Cheryl.  And I had shingles.

Here is a funny snippet from a blog entry I wrote on the last Tuesday of June 2007:

Saturday, I noticed a series of red bumps on my upper left thigh and showed them
to Shaun with fascinated disgust; I thought I must have rolled over a
spider in the night and in a struggle to live, Mr. Spider attacked my
leg with bites. I hoped to soon notice super-powers emerging; the
agility of an insect and the ability to shoot web out of my wrists. But
then Sunday rolled around and instead of feeling like Spider Woman, I
felt like I had a hang over, which is never a fun feeling but it
especially sucks when you’ve not even had anything to drink the night
before. The bites were swelling and turning purple-ish; the left side
of my abdomen waned puffy, swollen and tender. “Must be some sort of
allergic reaction to Scottish spiders combined with some gnarly
menstrual cramps,” I thought. I slathered bug bite cream on my leg,
took an ibuprofen, and spent much of the day napping. It hurt to walk.

Monday
rolled around and the bumps seemed scabbier. That’s a good sign, right?
I limped to work. Since my job is so sedentary lately, the day was
fine. Except the bits where I had to walk; then it felt like someone
was stabbing me in the tender, node-laden place where the front of my
left leg joins my body. Ouchie. I fell to a fitful sleep at 7.30pm.

Today
I woke up and called my doctor. My leg/abdomen hurt like a mutha, with
the added fun of the chills, sweats, a migraine, and real live
menstrual cramps. I described my problem to the GP over the phone and
was whisked to an emergency appointment; not an easy thing to do when
using National Healthcare.

The doctor looked at my leg and said, “Those aren’t bites. Those are shingles.”
 
I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too!

Last weekend I was in NYC to see my husband and his visiting parents. I know that I compartmentalize things, but I hadn’t realized how much I’d done so with this separation from my husband until last weekend.

I’ve been noticing more than a few new footprints on my site from new readers, so it might be worthwhile to stop a minute and explain my situation. If you’ve been a long time reader, apologies for the redundancy.

My husband and I moved to NYC last October. We were returning stateside from a year living in Scotland. Usually we live in Chicago, although we were both born and raised in the same hometown in Michigan (we were friends, then sweethearts in high school). We’d never lived in NYC before, but thought we’d give it a go. While it was a great career move for my husband (he works in publishing), it was taxing in many other critical ways.

Firstly, NYC was so expensive that we had to work so many jobs just to keep our heads above water; we are accustomed to saving a large portion of our earnings for travel, emergencies, grad school, and the baby we’re planning on before I turn 30 (I’m 26). But saving in Manhattan is a laughable endeavor. We felt lucky just to make rent every month and pay bills.

Not only were we unable to feel comfortable with our finances, but the multiple jobs were harrowing. We simply didn’t have time for our evening walk, frisbee, staging living room readings of our favorite plays, and doing fun little collaborative writing projects together. We felt lucky just to eat a meal together once in a while. We needed to change our habitat and reclaim our lives.

We are currently living apart for a few months as we transition our lives from Manhattan back to Chicago, a city we’ve always loved and feels like home. Practicalities and fiscal responsibility have him wrapping up life in New York and I setting up life in Chicago. And while I planned on missing my husband for the few months we were going to be apart, I figured it wouldn’t be much different than how much I’ve missed him all year. But it is.

I once heard a radio story about cuddle clubs. These are clubs in major cities where single people go to cuddle. They are not sex clubs. In fact, many people go to them to save themselves from casual sex, since lots of people find that they are only having casual sex to fulfill a need for human touch. While I get the need for touch, I don’t think I fully understood it until Shaun wrapped me up in a hug to greet me. I felt every nerve in my body and cried.

Up until Shaun’s hug, I hadn’t really missed him. I called him on my way to work to say good morning. He called every evening to say goodnight. We texted, emailed, chatted in the day. I sent funny snail mail. We’ve stayed very connected. Probably more so than when we were living in NYC together and simply falling into bed exhausted every night.

Plus, I was having a blast rooming with my best girlfriend, reconnecting with and making new Chicago friends, riding my bike to work, and running along my beloved lakeshore path every morning. I started a new job that I find extraordinarily rewarding at the museum that I used to work at, a museum that truly is a home to me. There was gallery hopping, opening night parties for new exhibitions, a new 1950′s skirt and a pair of vintage wedge shoes from my favorite resale shop, a fresh haircut at my favorite salon. I have a rich and busy life here, but at the same time, a lot of personal space; I’ve found this pace to be unique to Chicago. One day I’ll find a way to articulate it better, but I know that it is true.

Anyhow, I simply didn’t miss Shaun. But when he folded me up in his arms last week, I did. All at one. In a flood of tears.

My writing compartmentalizes things less. My subconscious bleeds into it. Three days after I moved back to Chicago, I started writing a story about apocalyptic love. I’ve never written a love story before, let alone a sexy one. My story is more along the lines of Walker Percy’s Love in the Ruins than Bridget Jones‘ Diary, but it is love and sex nonetheless. So obviously the two things were on my mind.

Anyhow, we had a great time together in NYC. Shaun’s parents loathed the city and our apartment and our lives in general (they want Shaun to give up on his career as a writer, get a corporate job, move in next door to them in the Michigan suburbs, and have loads of babies that I stay at home with. We’d both rather die than do any of those things.), but we ignored their negativity to the best of our ability and enjoyed their good moments. Because they really are loving, beautiful people underneath all their worry and uncertainty. It just takes them a while to get them limbered up and accepting.

On Friday, we met Shaun after work for drinks/small plates at the Zipper Factory and a walk through Central Park. On Saturday, we stayed in our neighborhood and visited the Dykman Farmhouse before lunching at the farmer’s market, followed by a walk through Manhattan’s last remaining forest.

It felt so good just to do little things for family. I made a great pizza for Friday’s lunch. I baked blueberry muffins for Saturday’s breakfast. I liked making Shaun’s coffee. I like knowing exactly how much milk and sugar he likes. I like knowing which mug is his.

I also like how Shaun remembers when I offhandedly mention something I’d like to read and then secretly orders the book for me. He always makes sure that I have a quiet little pile of reading material stacked neatly on my desk.  

Anyhow, it was hard to have all the heartache come pouring out at once, but it was really good too. Its not healthy to compartmentalize things like that. Its not healthy to compartmentalize most things, but its hard to learn how to be that efficient while still being “whole.” I’m learning, though. Slow and steady.
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Do you compartmentalize things?

I’m nearly finished with The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolano. The book takes form, flips it upside down and shakes it. The story is told in part journal-entry, part interviews. Near the end of the book, the following statements cap off each interview. When put together, the statements form a poem of sorts. (Bolano himself identified with being more of a poet than a novelist–and the book is about poets–so this device is fitting and wonderful.)

Here are the statements from the book, in order:
1.) Everything that begins as a comedy ends as a tragedy (pg 513).
2.) Everything that begins as comedy inevitably ends as comedy (pg 514).
3.) Everything that begins as comedy ends as a cryptographic exercise (pg 516).
4.) Everything that begins as comedy ends as a horror movie (pg 519).
5.) Everything that begins as comedy ends as a triumphal march, wouldn’t you say? (pg 521).
6.) Everything that begins as comedy inevitably ends as mystery (pg 524).
7.) Everything that begins as comedy ends as a dirge in the void (pg 526).
8.) Everything that begins as comedy ends as a comic monologue, but we aren’t laughing anymore (pg 526).

Q.) Which statement do you like best? Which do you identify with most? Which one makes you laugh?

Personally, #4 makes me laugh every time I look at it but none of the statements hold any truth for me. I’d say:

What begins as tragedy ends as comedy (because nothing ever begins as comedy. This is the stink-hole of humanity that we’re born into after all).

I might also phrase it:

Everything that begins as tragedy stays as tragedy until you realize how funny it is.

Q.) What’s your take?

What a beautiful day! The the sun is sunny and the lake is shimmering like a drag queen’s sequined dress. Chicago’s plain-faced midwestern sky is uniformly blue, with big white fluffy clouds. Its the kind of sky that says: “I am nice!”

I’m so happy that this day is grand; I woke in a panic from a strange dream, unsure of where I was. At first, I thought I was in Michigan, visiting family. But as it dawned on me that I was not, I couldn’t quite figure out where I might be if not there. Plus, the kitten dropped a furry toy mouse in the hollow of my clavicle in the night, which added to the confusion: I also thought I was covered in rodents.

But once I got up and went running, things got markedly better. I was happy to be outside, happy to be in my city. Totting along the sweaty homestrech of my 5 mile route, I decided: I would buy a bike today.

I’ve never bought a bike before. I’d been using my mom’s old bike forever. Her old bike is a huge, heavy thing; its one of the first mountain bikes ever made for women. I call it The Hulk. It currently lives in Michigan, in my paternal grandma’s corn silo. I wanted to keep The Hulk there; she a GREAT bike, but I’ve always thought it would be nice to have a bike while in Michigan.

Anyhow, riding to work is so easy for me in Chicago; the museum is flush against the lake-shore path. I can bike to work faster than it takes me on the subway. And without the threat of passing out on the crowded subway cars! Its a bargain. Plus, public transit has gone up to $2 a ride and will only continue to go up with the cost of fuel skyrocketing.

Going through the Chicago Reader this morning, I found an ad for The Village Cycle Center’s bike clearance sale this weekend. To hell with uncovering a suitable Craigslist bike! If I’m going to use my bike for my primary mode of transport, I deserve a new bike! So a new bike I got.

My new bike is named Mary Shelley and is a hot orange 07 Trek 820. Mary has special little anti-theft pins on it that make it impossible to steal the tires and seat. I also got a U-lock for her frame, a big basket on the front (I usually put my work outfits in a basket and change once I get to work and have a sponge bath with baby wipes), and a good helmet (its adjustable and comfy and after I tried it on I knew I could never settle for the foam chunk that I’d been using ever again).

In total, Mary Shelley and all her gear will have paid for itself after 2 months of riding. That’s 2 months of public transit riding in exchange for a bike with all the bells and whistles that I’ve ever needed! Totally worth the splurge.  

This afternoon, I’m in Tweet with a pint, checking up on Life2.0 (that’s code for email and blogging). I love Tweet. After lunch, Tweet becomes a gay bar (for boys and girrrlz) called Big Chicks. So technically, I’m at Big Chicks. Everyone here is SO FRIENDLY. Old black and white movies play are playing on the TVs (rodeo was on before the movies) and Walking on Sunshine is playing. People dance and sing along, uninhibited and free. I feel so lucky that this place is my neighborhood bar. 

Soon I’m heading in for dinner. If I’m good, I’ll work more on my story. If I’m bad, I’ll watch a movie with Squee (I think she went to Blockbuster this afternoon). Either way, I’ll get an early night. Tomorrow will be a BUSY day at work; its opening weekend for the Jeff Koons show. And the sexually explicit material warning is going to be a fun one to handle complaints from. Explicit indeed! But that’s what happens when you marry an Italian porn star and make MASSIVE photo-realistic oil paintings of your sex life. Ha!

Which reminds me: the members’ opening night party last night for the Koons show was a blast. My friend Nick and I both loved the show and ate and drank and socialized and were merry. It felt so good to be back in the museum at an opening night party. I felt like my life was back, for real.

Hope everyone has a great weekend! Have you, my dear reader, any fun weekend plans?

Be well!

Friday morning, I was one of those dramatic, tear-stained airport people. Beside LaGuardia’s checked baggage station, Shaun wrapped his arms around me tight. I used his shirt as a kleenex.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
“Don’t be. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s good.”

I thought of soldiers and their spouses and how this was their life, only worse, with the lilac-stench of death hovering over everything.

Crying in the airport, I thought of something I’d written for Shaun that compared heartache to the ache our muscles feel on a long mountain hike. When we hike, we trust our bodies despite the ache. Aches like these propel people forward. But it only made me cry harder to think of how strong our relationship was, how I would be spending months away from my best friend (with those sexy, sexy benefits that would also be greatly missed).

We finally peeled ourselves apart after a time. I boarded the plane and fell into a dreamless sleep. When I woke, I looked out the window to see Chicago unfolding beneath me. I cried again. I’ve always loved how the city curves to cradle Lake Michigan; I was home. The home that we’d plant roots in, have a family in. I was overcome with happiness, eager to build us a nest.

Friday afternoon was spent chitchatting away my frayed feelings with my roommate and best girlfriend Squee. I also got my haircut at my Chicago place (I’m now sporting a very cute, layered bob with short fringe). In the evening, we met two of her girlfriends at the Scottish Pub, where we all grew close and girl-like and made friends with our waiter, Elrubiel. And we must have been exceedingly cute that evening; when the bill came, our meals were comped and we only paid for about half of what we drank. 

After nursing a small hang-over on Saturday (it is really VERY rare for me to go out drinking), I went running along the lakeshore path. And I nearly cried again. SO BEAUTIFUL. Seriously. This city. My god. So good. That evening, we had the Scottish Pub girls over again to watch Teeth, which is my new favorite movie. So much camp. So hilarious (weather the humor is intentional or not is up for debate, but I for one, don’t care). 

There was more running and chitchat with Squee on Sunday, which, in addition to nightly calls to Shaun, has pretty much been the underlying current to my daily life here in Chicago. I’m also writing a non-linear story with multiple points of view, inspired by my reading of The Savage Detectives. I’m also trolling craigslist for a suitable used bike/bed-thing. Also: Squee has a new kitten named Hamish, who is very cute but farts a great deal. We call him Cat Smell.

I started work on Tuesday. The welcome back was incredible. So many hugs and conversations and warmth. The MCA really is a home to me.

My new work schedule is Sunday–Thursday. And I work weird hours on Tuesday, when the museum is open late (I come in late and leave late). Since I’m in charge of everything front-of-house, my schedule reflects the hours that the museum is open more than regular office hours. 

While I’m not working tonight, I am headed to the museum to attend the opening night party. My friend Nick is my date–I’ve not seen him since I’ve been back and I’m very excited to catch up. Nick and I became pals in college; we worked at the computer lab together and wrote exquisite corpse stories about McDonalds characters (because love affairs between Mayor McCheese and Ronald are very funny).

I’d like to write more (and write better), but my computer is nearly dead. One drawback of living with Squee is that there’s no internet in her pad. The surrounding cafes have free wifi, but if my blogging is skimpy for a while, that is why.

All for now. Hope all is well in Xanga-land.