Accepting Acceptance

School has overtaken my life. And some how, I'm rather okay with that.

I have spent years of my life thinking I wasn't smart enough--not pretty enough--just never enough, for whatever this world had in store for me.

Melissa, my sister and best friend, was the smart one. I remember when she was in high school and all these advertisements were sent to our house---"Come to our College" they would collectively say. Melissa had a good head on her shoulders but she was lacking in the trust fund department. So she did what most high school graduates did in Brevard County--she went to B.C.C. Brevard Community College, we were told, was a great school and it was just a stepping stone to go on to a four year college or university. That is, if you ever made it out of there with a degree. A lot of people stopped after a while--the Shea girls were no exception. Melissa had but one class to take to get her Associates degree...one...that's all. She's been out of school for over ten years now--she's gotten married, has three beautiful kids, a house, two cars, and just one class to take.

When I was in high school....
...let's just say that I wasn't on the honor roll. I barely passed. It was all because of Math (well, my inability to understand and prove mathematical theorems). But it was my senior year and I was going to have fun with my friends, not worry about college because I assumed that while I was a less than stellar student, some college would be fighting its way into my mailbox to say that they were "so happy they found me, would I please go to their school." Those letters never came.

After high school I did a whopping two semesters at B.C.C. before I stopped going to school entirely. I was burnt out--I didn't know what I wanted to do anymore and I was getting terrible grades. I did well in the classes that I had some sort of interest in, but the rest of them could fuck off, as far as I was concerned. So I stopped going to school and I worked for a while. And I moved around for a bit. Out of my Dad's house in Indian Harbour Beach to my sister's place in West Palm Beach. From one family member to another---I became "that person." I left West Palm after two years to move out to California. I stayed with a friend and her parents for two months and realized this just wasn't the state for me. I made leaps and bounds for getting out of a red state, to live a red house in a blue state. This is not to say that living with my friend's family was like being on Crossfire...it wasn't. I just knew I didn't belong there--and I missed my family. I remember the call I made to my mom, who was living in Naperville, Illinois at the time.

I told her that I didn't want to go back to Florida--it would only be a step back. She bought me a one way ticket on Southwest Airlines for $53 from San Diego to Chicago on the condition that I get back into school. It took about a year and a half or so for that condition to iron itself out. I was frightened of going back to school. It wasn't about being so much older than many of the students--it was the anxiety of "what if I choose the wrong profession?" One of the conditions of living at my mother's house was that I HAD to go to church. It was not an option. I tried to get out of it many times--more because of the oppressive nature of this requirement rather than my belief in God. In all of these things, the only thing that was constant was my faith. So I started small when I went back--taking a religion course, a business course, an English course and a course on Alfred Hitchcock's movies.

I went to College of DuPage for two years--during which I had this insane notion to move to my favorite city in all of the world--Boston. I went to visit my family there and checked out Simmons College, in hopes of getting into the Ivy League of Women's Colleges. I was plotting out this move with a friend of mine and there was some question as to whether she would be able to go or not. Boston has been my dream city since I was a little girl. I knew I couldn't afford it on my own so I thought that I had better come up with a back up plan.

During the school year, a representative of Roosevelt University in Chicago had called me and said that I was eligible to get a scholarship of 5K if I went to RU. The day that I applied for Roosevelt to be my back up school is the day that my friend im'ed me, telling me she couldn't go to Boston. About a month later, I was driving to the airport to visit my family in Florida and I got a call from Roosevelt, inviting me to enroll in the university. I got in. Somebody wanted me. I still hadn't heard from Simmons but I decided to throw caution to the wind and take the scholarship and the hand that Roosevelt was offering. A month and a half later, Simmons wrote me a letter. They accepted me too.

Because I had already taken RU up on their offer, I respectfully declined to attend Simmons. I know now that I made the best decision. I transferred on to Roosevelt University--I have over a 3.0 gpa and I've realized that I'm rather smart. Sure I'm 30 and I'm getting my Bachelors in English with a minor in Women and Gender Studies in the Spring...but I earned it. That is mine.

In all of this, I have realized that I wasn't stupid before. I just didn't know what I wanted or what wanted me.

My mom says that some people are late bloomers...perhaps she is right. And as the Radiohead song suggests, "everything's in its right place."

Random Acts of Value

I apologize, my dear readers, for my silence as of late. Midterms seemed to kill all creative juices and I couldn't really write about anything. Perhaps that's not true, but that is the story I'm sticking to because it's the one I'm choosing to tell.

Truth be told, I haven't really been motivated to write much of anything--I have had no real epiphanies to report, no new found information, no single ray of light emitting from God's Mighty Hand to enlighten me--to instruct me. I won't call it writer's block...I'll call it life. Life happens just as much as shit does. And Boy does shit ever happen.

I finished this novel by Margaret Atwood called "The Handmaid's Tale" and it scared the shit outta me--everywhere I look I am reminded of the oppression that permeates from a patriarchal society. Carrie was right, once you see the world through a Feminist's eyes, you can never go back. It's now become this Albatross that hangs around my neck like a noose---slowly tightening with each passing second. I didn't see it before, and I certainly didn't feel it. The nerve endings have awoken--a mixture of strength and fear. And I'm searching for the knife in my boot to cut it off--wishing someone would do it for me.

I came across this website last night: http://www.girleffect.org/ Go check it out. Do it now. I'll wait.

Do you know what my favorite part is? When she goes to the village council and she tells them that all girls are valuable.
Let it sink in.
Valuable.
Main Entry: 1valu·able
Pronunciation: \ˈval-yə-bəl, -yə-wə-bəl, -yü-ə-\
Function: adjective
Date: circa 1576

1 a : having monetary value b : worth a good price
2 a : having desirable or esteemed characteristics or qualities b : of great use or service
Function: noun
Date: circa 1775

: a usually personal possession (as jewelry) of relatively great monetary value —usually used in plural

We once only fell under the first definitions: "Worth a good price" and "Personal Possession." I don't want to be these kinds of valuable--to be someone's personal property, to fit on his arm like a jewel or a trophy. This brand of value is something that will most surely depreciate. This is a KIA--a vehicle that will be worth nothing once it is driven off the lot.
Now, this second meaning--"having desirable or esteemed characteristics or qualities," it seems rather problematic. Are not all people, by this definition, valuable? If they are, why do we allow certain people who love each other to marry and yet others are denied that right? Why do we fight in silly wars? Why do we murder? Steal? Covet? Why do we oppress Women? Children? People who are different from us? Where is the value in all of this?

This week for my Women's Autobiography: A Narrative Scandal class, we read Dorothy Allison's "Two or Three Things I Know For Sure" and I finished that 94 page book in a matter of hours. I consumed it--or maybe it consumed me. If you haven't read it yet, go pick it up--or perhaps I'll let you borrow it, if you ask me nicely. One of the italicized portions was this: "Two or three things I know for sure, and one of them is that if we are not beautiful to each other, we cannot know beauty in any form." I sat and pondered this for a while after I finished the book. It's a perfect thought. And I thought about how if I changed it by removing beauty and adding a form of "value," that it would be just as true.

So I'm telling you here and now. I value you. I may never meet you. I may never shake your hand, kiss your lips, feel your touch. But I value you. Never stop fighting. Never give up. And never let them take you alive. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

The Power of a Book

This weekend is the last hurrah.

I start my new weekend job at Macy's for the Holiday season (and hopefully longer)this upcoming Saturday and it couldn't come at a better time. I have a paper due tomorrow, a midterm in my Crime in Victorian Literature class on Tuesday, and a French midterm on Wednesday. I have had many tutoring sessions in the past two weeks as well--it is the midterm crunch time.

I have been searching for a job since the beginning of Summer and I finally got a call back from the retail giant. My funds have seriously depleted and I was in dire need of rent money. Prayers were answered and I got the job on the day that I had my interview. Hallelujah!

For my Women and Gender Studies class, my professor requires her students to go out and do a bit of activism in the name of Feminism. I was all to happy too do this and when I found out that I could participate with my friend Sadie, I was even more elated. Sadie and I figured out where we wanted to volunteer for a day, picked a time, and off we went. We decided on an organization called Chicago Books to Women in Prison. These men and women come together every Sunday from 2pm to 5 pm and answer requests from women who are incarcerated in various prisons in eight states. I was excited at the opportunity to help out but I had no idea how it would effect me.

I did my best to fulfill their requests--some were probably more accurate than others--but with each one that I did, I felt a connection with the woman for whom I was choosing books. On each order, I put a personal note, saying that I hope they enjoyed the books. If I happened to pick something from an author that I really liked, I mentioned that as well. Some of the requests were more specific than others--I recall one said that she would like to have some sort of erotica because she can be so lonely "here." No matter what she did to get in there--my heart went out to her. It wasn't until now that I completely understood the power of a book.

I have always loved books. They were often my best friends and I used to cry when a series was over because it was the equivalent of my friends moving away, and all I had left were the memories that I could relive if I wanted to--sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn't. Books were uplifting to me. But I never once thought how it would be for a person who is shut off from society. I've certainly had my anti-social moments, but that pales in comparisons to what those who are incarcerated feel.

I had a great Sunday---and I hope you did as well. If you would like to seek more information about Chicago Books to Women in Prisons, you can find it at their website here: http://chicagobwp.org/about-us/

Elizabeth's Song

For the past five years I have teetered back and forth from wanting to be a writer to wanting to be a singer. As it stands, I am not musically inclined with the exception of my voice. I have a very good voice and I love to sing. Last year my friend Ryan asked me to sing for his band/project called Sunday Mourning Call and while my friends all told me not to get my hopes up, I did--I was getting my chance to sing. Well Ryan and I got busy doing other things and that was that.
A couple of weeks ago, he text messaged me saying that he had something he wanted to work on with me. I was intrigued, to say the least. And I laughed a little--because every time I set my course starboard side, something was always pulling me to port. I had come to grips that all I really want to do is get my MFA (after my time at Roosevelt, of course) and teach writing while perfecting the craft myself. And here it was again--the zany idea of singing, fluttering like a butterfly in front of my face. So I played along and followed the white rabbit down the hole.

Ryan and I made plans and met up to work on a song he'd written. I was so elated to be singing until I found out the reason why we were combining our efforts on this project. He had written a song for his co-worker. Actually, for his co-worker's daughter, Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was born in a troubled state--amongst other health problems, she has a severe case of Cerebral Palsy and it broke Ryan's heart to not be able to say more than a "sorry" to her mother. Elizabeth is still in the hospital and her family (mom, dad and older sister) are staying in a Ronald McDonald house so that they can stay near to little Elizabeth.
I was completely humbled by her parents strength and Ryan's compassion for his friend and her family.
Ryan and I recorded a rough demo of the song and it's now up on the band's myspace page. http://www.myspace.com/sundaymourningcall

If you take a listen to "Elizabeth's Song," you'll also see another song I sang on with Ryan called "Heaven Knows I'm Afraid." Let us know what you think of them--but be advised that little Elizabeth's song is not completely finished--we have more lyrics we're going to put on it and we have to fix some sharp notes as well :)

I don't normally promote myself so shamelessly, but there's always a first for everything!

xox

The Search for Real Women

What is a "Real Woman?" No, really. It's not rhetorical--I really would like to know.

The question reminds me of a scene from The Cohen Brother's movie, "The Big Lebowski" when Mr. Lebowski asks The Dude "What makes a Man?"

The Big Lebowski: What makes a man, Mr. Lebowski?
The Dude: Dude.
The Big Lebowski: Huh?
The Dude: Uhh... I don't know sir.
The Big Lebowski: Is it being prepared to do the right thing, whatever the cost? Isn't that what makes a man?
The Dude: Hmmm... Sure, that and a pair of testicles.

All joking aside.

On Monday I was waiting to meet with a professor and I happened to be looking at the bulletin board outside of her office when something caught my eye. I saw an casting call for Dove's "Real Women" campaign and I thought, "Wow! How cool!" Then I started to read it.

It said that it was looking for "Real Women. 25-32 years old. Thin (under size 10)and naturally attractive." They also mentioned that they were only looking for women who were Caucasian, Asian, Hispanic, or a mixture of these. While they were looking for all types of hair (textures and colors), the ad also said they wanted healthy hair that they could "improve." They stressed they wanted "REAL WOMEN" not "aspiring models." So is that what makes a real woman?

Up until this point I had been really proud of Dove and it's sense of urgency to represent all women--not just the models. We've all seen these commercials:


or even this one:



I understand the importance of these ads. I really do. And I agree with most of the Dove Films I've seen but seeing this casting call--it really makes me feel like it's all a lie---all of the girls portrayed are "normal." Some talk about how the girls feel that they can't be themselves or no one will talk to them because they are "fat" (apparently one was anorexic and suddenly gained friends after she dropped some weight--though no pictures are shown of her being fat). I just don't believe it anymore. It's not real. I'm not saying they aren't real young women. I am saying that there are real women who don't fit into that stupid casting call advertisement. Being a woman has nothing to do with your size, nothing to do with your looks, nothing to do with your race.

So what does make a real woman? Something more than Dove has to offer.

A Different Oedipus Complex...

My eyes have always gotten me into trouble.

In second grade, they decided that they wanted to follow in my Great Grandmother's footsteps and without my consent, they allowed my vision to become blurry. No amount of carrots could change their minds. It was an ocular mutiny.

I chose the brown frames that my mother liked. Well, they were more of a tan-ish color, but I remember putting them on in Opti-World in Melbourne, Florida and realizing that there were glasses on racks where before it was just fuzzy beams of light. My mother's eyes wept.

My next pair of glasses that owned me were of blue plastic frames and they swallowed my entire face. They allowed me to see how cute the boys were, but in turn, they were a shield to them. Boys didn't like girls with four eyes, no matter how pretty the color.

When I discovered contacts, I felt that surely the boys would see my blue eyes. Sometimes they were bright blue. And at others they were a slate grey. Occasionally I received compliments on them and they grew a little more blue.
Around this time, my eyes became bigger than my stomach. And I hid behind food to mask their inquisitiveness. They practiced their flits and flutters--their doe eyed gazes to imitate Oliver when he pleaded with the beadle, "Please Sir, I want some more." As my body swelled, no one bothered to look at my eyes anymore. They're always getting me into trouble.

My eyes vigorously trained themselves in the art of Irish Smiling, the Dramatic Roll, and Irish Ice. But once they challenged my stomach to see who could be the better box office smash, they cowered away to learn new tricks. They practiced the best judgmental looks, the Bette Davis, and despite the loneliness, the bedroom eyes. They even cooperated with my underachieving lips; they smirked at the chance to work with the Blues.

To help them out, I learned make-up tips to make them seem bigger, brighter, and more glamorous. Black eyeliner, liquid or pencil; color popping shades, thirteen dollars a shade...but they'll pay me back, once they got the love and respect they thought they deserved.

And then one day, when my eyes weren't paying attention, they caught the interest of a pair of brown orbs. But because my eyes were so in love with each other, no other pair stood a chance. They still don't understand why they're so lonely. They blame my stomach. They blame my lips. They grow tired at the endless reasons why--never looking at the real culprits in the mirror.

My eyes are always getting me into trouble. So much that sometimes, I think I'll go blind.

Thirty.

Three days ago I hit a milestone--I turned thirty, and thirty is a funny number. When you're not thirty, it is almost as if you are a little kid looking up at the jungle gym, wondering how you're going to conquer such a thing. And year by year, you strategize, draw up plans, and reach your arms up to touch the cold, scary metal. By the time you can touch the bars, you don't really want it. You long for the days that you were content playing on the swings and going down the slide--why, why did you choose the jungle gym. You've just heard that life on top of it is just amazing--the view, incredible. Suddenly this jungle gym has become the Eiffel Tower.

And then, you climb. You take time to enjoy the sights and smells along the way, ingesting everything your senses can latch onto. Some days are better than others--but you weather the storm and conquer the metal of ages--and you sit on top of the world thinking, "I am thirty. Look at all I've done!" Actually--that's not you at all, that is more or less your parents, friends, lover, what-have-you. You will never see your progress because you're fixated on others in their climb. There isn't a mirror that you can view your amazing and daring feat to make it to thirty--perhaps if there were one, you wouldn't have made it. But the air and view up here is incredible and you're glad you've made it thus far, while taking a pause to remember everyone who didn't.

Okay, so maybe I've romanticized it a bit--turning thirty is scary---I'm not married. I don't have children. I will be getting a Bachelors in English in the Spring but I'm graduating with students who are twenty-two or twenty-three. I live alone. I am unemployed. I don't even have a cat.
But I'm really not bitter. And I don't regret anything. Everything I have been through has shaped me into the person that I am...and I like myself. Yes, I wish I could have made better decisions about school and being more active in my community as well as my health, but if I had to go back and do it again, even though I know it's a bullshit scenario (who wouldn't benefit from a second go), I don't think I would. If I hadn't gone to Roosevelt University, I would not have met the amazing people I have met. My writing has definitely improved and I've been opened up to new experiences.

Looking back at my life, I'm glad that I'm thirty. I'm old enough to know better--but young enough to laugh it off. And I'm looking forward to the next thirty--however, I plan to prolong it as long as I possibly can.

So my advice to you young whippersnappers...because you knew it was coming--it's rather trite--but enjoy it. Sometimes it's better to just sit one night out of "fun" with your friends in order to discover who you really are as a person. Because if you get to your thirties and you haven't the slightest idea...you'll be in a much worse situation than you ever thought possible.

A Secret Smile

It's amazing what a little crush can do.

Here you are, minding your own business, when all of a sudden you are attacked by a fleet of soundless butterflies in your stomach, bubbling up to your heart like a poison, or perhaps some fourth grade science project involving a homemade volcano. It's messy, unpredictable, and nerve racking. And by the time the poison has reached your mouth, you smile ever-so-slightly.

It's not love. Because what's love? Love cannot possible prolong this feeling; if anything, it only kills the crush. The crush causes day dreams; love, only nightmares of losing that person or thing. A crush is like having too much coffee one morning and around eleven o'clock you feel like you're going to bounce out of your skin. It brings this feeling that you know you are made for bigger and better things. It feels like a crisp November morning, filled with new and inviting smells, sounds, tastes, and eye candy. Everything's candy.
And if nothing happens? It's no big deal. It's just a crush. They aren't meant to be taken seriously--if you disagree, you aren't using the crush responsibly. Crushes are harmless by design but can be a vehicle to obsession if driven by the wrong reasons and ill intentions...so for now, put it on cruise control. Trust in the good time. And let it ride.

I have a little crush. And He'll never know. Because it's my secret. Mine to tell my girlfriends and giggle. An almost-30-year-old. Giggling. Basking in the glory of all that is feminine. All that is human. All that is me. Me and my crush.

Life, Death, and the Complications Inbetween

It seems that it's been quite the Slasher Summer, and I'm not talking about the new releases of Halloween II or the newest installment of the Final Destination franchise. A lot of celebrities have passed on and while I understand that many people of lesser means die everyday--there is not always a personal connection with the departed.
I've been fortunate in my life that I have not had to deal with a lot of death. I remember the first wake I went to--it was for a neighbor who had died from cancer. I don't remember going to the wake, but I'm sure that I did, in fact, go. What I do recall is the thought of how Mrs. Phelps was going to look when I saw her in the casket--would she be a skeleton? Would her eyes be open? Would she look the same in death as she did in life? Perhaps it was more or less just the skeleton bit. Our perceptions as children are quite different; so much that sometimes I wish I could revert back to my childlike understanding of complicated subjects: Boys, Life, Death, Boys, Algebra, Boys, Specific Bed times and Boys.
My next brush with death happened when I was in my teenage years when our cat, Snickers died. I cried a good deal and we buried her in the backyard. Shortly after I was back on the couch, eating ramen noodles and watching Zack and Kelly with their make up/break up bullshit. Even then I didn't understand those complicated subjects.
In my early twenties, I suffered the biggest death yet...yes, another cat, but this time it was MY cat. His name was Zorro and I had him for eleven years--not too shabby for an outdoor cat. Zorro had contracted Feline AIDS as well as Feline Leukemia. I felt it was my fault that he got sick because I always "meant" to get him vaccinated, but other things came up. And when I did take him to the vet, it was usually because he got into a fight and needed to be put on anti-biotics, which is no time for a vaccination. I had him cremated and he is with me to this day. I know it sounds stupid and morbid, but he was my friend when I had none. And perhaps I'm still not ready to let go of that.
In August of 2007, my Stepfather's father passed away. This was an extremely hard death to handle as "Pops" lived with us here in Illinois. He was so quick witted, so gracious, humble, and just an all around great man for the short time that I knew him. I still cry when I think of him and his last days. His eyes, glazed over from the morphine, which was slowly poisoning him. He refused to eat, then drink. He died August 13, 2007. On the way to his wake/funeral in Pittsburgh, my stepfather, mom, and I listened to a soundtrack to a movie called Rempetiko. The movie tells the story of this young Greek woman who becomes a famous singer, performing the "Greek Blues." When the song "To Dihti" (The Net) came on, we all cried--it was simply too powerful for us to contain our tears. Translated into English, these are the lyrics to the song:

Every time you open a road in life
Don't wait for the dark of night to find you
Keep your eyes open wide night and day
because in front of you there is always a net spread

If ever you get caught in its mesh
nobody will be able to get you out
find the edge of the web by yourself
and if you are lucky begin again

That net has heavy names
that are written in a sealed book
Some call it the treachery of the nether world
and some call it the love of the first springtime.



There is not one time after that day that I don't cry when I hear this song. But I have a memory, one that I hope that I will have forever.

Before Pops died in August of 2007, my Dad's dad, My Papa Shea, had passed away May 6, 2006. Papa had dementia and was staying in a rehabilitation home because he was becoming too much of a burden on my Gram. At first the stories were funny--she waking up in the middle of the night to find his bed empty, to rush downstairs and find him in the basement; and when he asked her if she was his wife, to which she replied, "Yes Jack, I'm your wife," he'd say, "Good, because I don't want to get caught messing around."
Then there was when he would hide his wallet because the "strangers" that were his grandchildren were around...or when he asked Gram, "So when I die, you get my money?"
"Yes Jack" she'd reply in her Boston accent. "Why?" Papa would ask. "Because I'm your wife, Jack."
I was driving to work when I got the call from my Dad. I missed the call at first because I could not get to my phone in time and I called him back immediately. After my chipper "Hey Pop! What's up?" he said it..."My Dad died." In shock, I said, "What?" His statement was more unbelievable rather than inaudible. "My Dad died," he said once more.
The next thing I knew I was on a plane out to Boston's Logan airport, meeting my family at the Hertz Rental Car lot. We drove out to the Cape, met up with my Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and Gram and then went to the Wake. I don't know who that man was in the open casket, but it didn't look anything like my Papa. Even Gram said so.
When my sister Melissa, who is twenty months older than I am, was first learning how to walk, we were up visiting Gram and Papa at their house in Harwich, Mass. Dad and Papa, I am told, were out on the deck with Melissa when she took a few steps and fell flat on her face. My Dad, being the first time father, leapt up to save his little girl. My Papa put his hand on his son, and said, "Larry, Larry. Sit down." He turned to my sister and said, "Get up Kid, I got money on ya." Sure it's not "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," but that was Papa. My Papa. When I said my goodbyes to this incredible man, I whispered "Get up Kid, I got money on ya."
That night we laughed, drank, and celebrated his life and it wasn't until June of 2008 that I found out something else about that night. My stepsister, Becky, got married June 14th of '08 and my Uncle Brian and Aunt Linda came down from Boston to take part in the celebration. After the wedding, my Dad, Uncle Bri and I were talking over many beers and I heard a different yarn to that night we were at Papa's wake.
My Papa, John William Shea, had been in the Army during WWII and served in the South Pacific. One Christmas, my Dad and I found letters he had written to his family during his tour and it amazed my Dad because he saw a side of his father that he never knew. When he died, he was set to be buried in Bourne National Cemetery on Cape Cod. But the paperwork, and it's all paperwork, showing that he served his country was lost somewhere in Des Moines, Iowa and the Cemetery offered to bury an "empty casket." My Uncle Brian was at a loss--what do you do when you're supposed to bury your father and a little thing like paperwork is the only hindrance? The wise soul at the Nursing home, where Papa was living out those last few months, mentioned that maybe Uncle Brian could call his Senator.
My Uncle Brian looked up the number to Senator Edward "Ted" Kennedy's office and gave it a ring. Teddy was out of the office but Uncle Bri left a message with his secretary and she said she would make sure Mr. Kennedy got the message. The next day was the funeral and when we drove to Bourne National Cemetery, the color guard was there, in the rain, waiting for us. The two service men played "Taps" and gave the folded flag to my Gram. My Uncle said that after the funeral, he emailed a letter of thanks to Senator Kennedy and his secretary for all they had done. We wanted the right to bury him with other soldiers and it was much more than what we had asked for.
Mr. Kennedy's secretary told my Uncle, "Well, Teddy said,'He served his country, he is one of my constituents. GET IT DONE'."

I will never forget what Ted Kennedy did for my family. And at his passing, I knew in my heart that My Papa would be in a very long line in heaven to shake Teddy's hand. And when it's my turn, I will be there too--waiting among the masses to say "Thank you" and "How 'bout a beer?"

Christine 1, Marriage 0

Recently I received a request on Facebook from a girl I knew in high school. We were never truly close and I didn't want to come off as being rude or snarky so I accepted the digital friendship token that was laid in my inbox. Shortly after I clicked "add to friends" she im'ed me. Aside from the "hey how are you" banter (actually it was "hey how r u"), she asked, "r u married yet?" Apparently she is married, with 4 children. I told her I am enjoying the single life in the big city.

Normally, I would have been irritated by such a question; the idea that my life is incomplete because I do not have anyone to share it with,or don't cart around children is enough to drive any singleton mad. I love children--someday I will cart around a slew of them--well, maybe not a slew, but you get the idea. I just never wanted to just have that be the only thing to aspire to do. Do I want to get married? For sure. Would I rather graduate college, go teach English in a foreign country, go to NYC for my MFA, and then figure the rest of that bullshit out? In the words of the lesser Palin, "You betcha!"

I recall having many pep-talks from my best friend (who graduated college, is currently in Korea teaching English, and has lived in NYC) that a woman doesn't necessarily HAVE to go into being brood mare for the state--she has many options based upon what SHE wants to do; meanwhile I felt like a loser because I wasn't married or in the vicinity of that sort of life. Now, being 29, I am a bit older and wiser. She knew something that I couldn't quite grasp (she did graduate before me, mind you). I write my own destiny. I may bloom early in some things, but late in others. And who the fuck cares? I love my life and I wouldn't change it for the world. Everything I've gone through has been done so for a specific reason. If I weren't in school at Roosevelt University in Chicago, I would have never met the most amazing people I have, I would not be taught by such a faculty and I wouldn't be the person I am today. And I rather like myself, married or no. I am not a failure.

Elbert Hubbard once said, "A failure is a man who has blundered, but is not able to cash in on the experience." In these terms, I am as rich as The Trump sans the buildings, golf courses, tv shows, ex wives and raccoons on my head. Who needs that anyway? Not I.

So while my "new" friend from high school may love her life--and I'm sure she does, it doesn't mean that I should feel disgusted with my own. We simply have different priorities at this moment. She may be up late with her three year old, where I may be woken up by my visiting cousin, having a disagreement with her soon to be ex-boyfriend. My vision for my life is no more skewed than hers. Then again, she said she missed Florida--and that is one thing we'll never see eye to eye on.

Summer in the City Part II: Electric Boogaloo

So the last time I wrote, I was on the quest for my 2009 summertime jam.

My quest was fruitful, as I have found BOTH my songs--the daytime upbeat song and the nighttime song...

First, the day: Gold Guns Girls by Metric




And then came Smashing Pumpkins' The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning. You'll remember the lyrics if you are a Pumpkin head and remember that AWFUL Batman movie with George Clooney but it was called The End Is The Beginning Is The End. It's just been remixed and someone made a video of an eye that gets covered up by...well...I'll just let you take a gander, if not a listen.




So there it is folks. My summer songs of 2009. Lick it up baby, lick it up!

Summer in the City

Going through summer without having a "summertime jam" is like going to the prom without a theme...in a dress that you hate...with your cousin. So while I have been hitting the streets, trying to do all the free stuff I can in Chicago, I have been thinking about my own personal "summertime jam."

What exactly is the criteria for such a jam? Does it have to be upbeat? Does it have to sway you? Must it have the word "summer" in it? All good questions. I asked my music snob friend, Smith, and she said "Electric Field by MGMT, but that was last year's summer jam." Then I explained my question a bit further and she agreed that it should be something that is upbeat for it to be a true summer song. And I'm willing to go along with that. I remember when Taking Back Sunday's "Make Damn Sure" was the summer song---and it truly was. But what about at night? Should there be a different summer time song for night than there should be in the day? Something more "twilight-ish?" And by "twilight-ish" I am not referring to something that is vampiric--calm down you blood-sucking crazed teenys---this isn't about Edward or Jacob. Bands like Death Cab and Fleet Foxes, that to me is "twilight" music...the kinda of tunes you can lay in bed with your lover, holding hands on a sheetless matress and sigh in the twilight of the evening.

There are many songs that have to do with summer: "In the Summertime" by Mungo Jerry, "Summertime" by Will Smith (ala DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince), The Ramone's cover of "California Sun"...and then there are those that just remind you of the summertime because you spent your day (or night for that matter) cruising around in your mother's Camry, listening to The Violent Femmes or Offspring, 311 or Smashing Pumpkins. Or maybe you spent it watching MTV when they used to play music videos--when Bill Bellamy was still hosting MTV JAMS and you weren't sure if you liked Kennedy yet. How simple times were then...before you had to choose your own path to a summertime jam.

As I got older, punk/ska music became more of a substitute for my summertime jams. It was fast paced, rather intelligent and insightful (depending on the band) and it just seemed to make sense at the time. Summer was for punk, acoustic for Fall, Harder stuff for Winter, Warmer music for Spring...the cycle continued. Until one day, you have to stop it and come into your own. You get to decide what your song will be--it can follow the events of the time, be it historical or personal. Something tells me that many will be putting Michael Jackson as their summertime jam for 2009. You already know how I feel about that, so we'll move on.

In the end, I suppose I will have to keep searching for this thing, known as the "summertime jam." I may find the even more elusive creature--the summertime romance, first.

on the recent death of Michael Jackson

So the wheels have been turning since Thursday, when Farrah Fawcett died and then of course, some guy named Michael Jackson. I was sitting on the bus, coming home from my mother's house in the suburbs when my mother called saying that MJ is either dead or on his death bed. With Farrah, it was expected--with Michael, it wasn't. I talked to the bus driver before I got off at Hazel and we were both shocked to hear that he had died. Text messaging ensued. First with Yvvone, then phone calls from Shelley. Wow. MJ is gone.

True to form, Americans have made MJ a top seller on iTunes, sharing the spotlight only with that of The Black Eyed Peas. To those people, I say this: Put down the music, walk away. You didn't realize what you had until it was gone. Fuck off. Unless you're doing it to help pay off Jackson's 457 million dollars in debt, then fine. But you're holding onto something that you gave up on many years ago. As soon as Jacko starting showing issues of being "weird" or "unorthodox" you bolted. Fuck off. You didn't deserve him.

This is not to say that I was a die hard fan. I liked some tunes--I won't lie. And when MJ came over the speakers, I would certainly head out to the dance floor. I had a Michael Jackson doll when I was a little girl and the making of the Thriller video casette (directed by John Landis, no doubt). And while I am sad for the music communities loss, and my heart goes out to his family and his children, you will not find me taking quizzes on facebook about "Which Michael Jackson song are you?" or running out to buy his CDs. I am old enough to remember what it was like when Kurt Cobain died. How every music special on MTV was about Nirvana and we were so inundated with reports, music videos, MTV News, Unplugged...and my sister and I ate it up. We were holding onto someone because the loss was sudden--but it made it seem like he wasn't really dead, because he was everywhere. Finally, four months after that April...while watching "Heart Shaped Box" on MTV, it finally sunk in. Kurt was dead. And this is all I have left.

I still listen to Nirvana occasionally and when I do, a feeling flows through my veins of being young, confused, and utterly spent at trying to figure this world out. Those memories of my youth. I wouldn't change them for the world. And I suppose that is what the rest of these people are doing--holding on to something they were once, before they had to grow up and get responsible. Before they were to lose themselves in taxes, elections, world relations and complicated marriages/divorces. Before kids, before government bailouts, before George W. Bush.
Something from your childhood is dead, I get that. But that is no way to move forward.

I wonder what this world would be like if we mourned every soldier who has died in Iraq/Afghanistan the way we've mourned Michael Jackson. Just sayin'.

Tweet Tweet Tweetle Dee Dee

I'm on twitter now...though I'm not exactly sure as to why...more on that later.

Candide? Can-do-it already.

After a grueling second semester at Chicago's Roosevelt University, I was ready to enjoy a laundry list of books I had been compiling since I had started my Junior year. Although I had read a number of books over Christmas break (gasp! I mean Winter Break!), I knew which ones I was ready to tackle and which ones I would wait until next winter to read.

First on my list was Scott Blackwood's We Agreed to Meet Just Here. Blackwood heads up the MFA program at Roosevelt and I've met him a few times. I liked his book--though I can't really tell you why, nor can I really tell you what it is about. It mixes some actual events with Jonestown with mythology and stream of consciousness in an interesting way. I will definitely have to read it once more before school starts again.

Next on the list was Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. Bottom line--really drawn out sentences, great imagery, all within the classification of modern writing. I do prefer Woolf's criticism--probably because she makes reference of James Joyce and let's face it--anytime Joyce is mentioned, I have to swoon. And yet, swooning at Woolf's affection of Joyce's work is rather odd in itself.

Then my mother swooped down and said, "Why don't you read Candide?" I looked at her with disapproving eyes. I've just finished reading T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland...and you want me to take a step backward and read Voltaire? "I can-did already," I said, quite sarcastically. And when I couldn't tell her anything I had read about it except for that it was anti-Christian, she gave me her copy and sent me on my way.
When I cracked Candide, I found it to be a very quick and easy read and basically anyone who pissed Voltaire off in his life, be it personal or professional, got a shout out in the book---and not a very positive one at that. So basically, if you pissed Mr. Voltaire off, you got killed or portrayed very stupidly in his work. Which leaves me to only one conclusion, Voltaire was a bitch. And our hero, Candide? What an idiot he turned out to be.
When I finished the story, I went back to my mother to talk about it--her plan all along, really. She does this with her own mother; my mom will watch a third rate soap opera (I won't mention the name but it rhymes with One Life To Live) just so she can have something to talk to my grandmother about. God knows they can't talk about politics because we voted for Obama and not Sarah Palin.** So it this what has become of our relationship? She wanted to talk--or she just wanted someone to converse with on Candide?
I called her on the phone. "Hey Mom," I started," I finished Candide."
"Oh, and what did you think?" she asked. "Eh--Candide was a dope." She laughed. Then I asked her some questions about some of the locations of the story--to which she replied, "Oh I don't know Chris, it's been about twelve years since I've read it." My mouth dropped.
"I thought you wanted me to read it to talk about it?" I asked. "Well, yes," she said, "but didn't you like how they made fun of the Catholic church?" There goes her chance at being canonized.

I since have moved onto Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist, which I am quite enjoying but also nearly finished. I'll give a proper (proper? really?) review of it later. Perhaps around the time I figure out what I'll be reading next.

**I realize that Sarah Palin was the VP candidate, not the Presidential one. But my Grandmother didn't like McCain--she loved Palin. Hence the Obama V. Palin comment. Oh, by the way, in case you didn't already guess, Obama would still win against Palin.

Envy Becomes Her

What exactly is it about women that we feel that we can never truly be happy for other women? Oh don't look at me like that. You know exactly of what I speak. It is like we're born with some naturally arched eyebrow and when we reach a certain age, we spritz ourselves with eau de jalousie, then hit the town in our stilettos and black dress--prowling for men and ready to claw out the eyes of some other bitch who steals our spotlight. Too much? Hrm. Where did I place those Lee Press-ons?

A friend, Cyndi, brought this to my attention. She got a call from an old friend of hers and this friend is getting married. An over joyous event, for certain. But she couldn't help but feel that little green monster creep up inside of her and take control. "When I got off the phone with her, I immediately started doing sit-ups" she told me over coffee at Kahawa House last Thursday. Sure, Cyndi is 35 and single--and up until then she was loving every minute of it. So what changed? One more single man off the market? Or one more single girl converting to the coveted "couplehood."

I remember watching a few Sex In The City episodes about this topic of the Singletons v. the Marrieds and with Carrie and the girls--the Singletons won out in the end. The Marrieds were envious of their former lives and of the hot and raunchy sex they assumed the Singletons were having. Apparently they forgot all about the lonely nights waiting for your buzzer to ring to signal that the Chinese delivery boy is ready with your Asian delicacies--and that you ate it all in one sitting, watching reruns of Boston Legal, wondering why you can't find your own personal Alan Shore--and then you remember that Alan is a dick and you know plenty of those. Or maybe that is just me.

The fact is that women are very catty. We want others to be jealous of us, so we have to play into the game. It's somewhat like the lottery--a very insecure lottery. And you don't even need breasts and a vagina to play--some of the men I know are some of the most manipulative and envious people out there. I'm not saying that it is wrong--and I'm not saying it is right for that matter. It is human. We want the best things for ourselves and fuck everyone else. It's the American Dream.

"So what should I do," Cyndi asks me. I sit up a bit stronger in my chair--"You go to the wedding. You let her have her day--and someday, it will be yours. And if this gives you more motivation to change the things about you that you've been wanting to deal with, then fine. But at the end of it all, she will still be married. That won't change reality." It's shiesty advice--for sure. Eau de Jalousie is an airy fragrance but it should never be traded in for it's stronger smelling stench of Hatred, Cockblocker or Regret.