Category Archives: thoughts

On the Supreme Court and Socialism, Quite Happily

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I heard the news about the Supreme Court’s ruling on health care in the car on the way to work this morning. I am thrilled. We are one step closer to joining the ranks of the countries that have affordable health care. Now, if only we could get rid of that pesky “for profit” part…

The cries of socialism are ringing, though. On my way into my office building, a co-worker told me that one of the guys who eats breakfast was ranting about how we’re turning into a nation of socialists.

Hardly.

But it got me thinking about people, specifically. Our democratic model is supposed to allow for involvement by all citizens. Of course, the better educated and motivated the citizens are, the better the democracy, which in theory will work in the best interests of its people.

There was a man standing on the corner on my way to work. He caught my eye because his Hawaiian shirt did not match his checkered shorts. He was holding a sign that said, “Honest work for honest pay.” It also listed his phone number.

There’s another man, wearing some sort of identification badge (as a way to legitimize his request) who stands on the corner where I turn onto the main thoroughfare as I leave work. He’s there every day, even in the hot sun, and his sign says that he’s an Army veteran and a father of four, willing to work.

When I was a child, the signs read, “Anything helps,” or “I’m not going to lie, I need a beer,” and while I don’t mean to make light of the homeless epidemic that has been a problem for longer than I’ve been alive, which is entirely related to our own lack of mental health care -particularly for our veterans – and other necessary services, I find the fact that the signs’ messages have changed to be an indicator of a far deeper problem.

Who are we as a society to put profit before people? Have we forgotten about the “general welfare“?

When a baby is born, it is a helpless individual in need of constant attention. While most of these babies grow up to be adults, the paths that they take (both willfully and unwillingly) are greatly divergent from their shared beginnings as infants in need of clean diapers, a warm bed, and food.

Somewhere along the way, some of these people seem to have forgotten that our fragile existence is dependent upon reliance on others. Reliance on others sounds like hippie nonsense, but it’s not. Every individual possesses unique strengths that serve as an asset to the communities in which they live. A community that is able to utilize these assets in the best manner possible has far greater strength and is a far more vibrant place to be.

People are quick to make assumptions when they see someone standing on a street corner holding a sign that begs for work. I urge you to imagine how you would come to that decision. It’s not a dignified action, the begging, and people know that. They have weighed their options and come up with nothing, and so, standing on the corner with a sign is their last attempt.

Say what you will about people who receive assistance from the government (and in doing so, I urge you to consider the bailouts of banks and large corporations as something similar, just for perspective), but at the core of everything lies the concept of humanity. If we desire to create a society driven by the pursuit of sustainability and progress, we must remember that each and every citizen matters, regardless of their ability to accumulate wealth or their social standing.

In our rush to actualize the American dream, we started valuing white collar jobs, and in doing so, began to devalue labor. Human labor is a necessary force for sustained growth and the success of a nation. People want to work. They want to feel as though their work matters.

Business can be successful when people matter, but the desire to drive the profit margin ever higher must cease. I work for a company that proves that human is more important than anything else. We have been providing software for decades (longer than I’ve been alive), and have maintained and grown the business without sacrificing the integrity of the people who work here. My boss always says, “We are not what we do,” and he lives by that. He once had to get up in the middle of a very important demonstration of our product to go attend to his family, and he did so without hesitation. I respect that.We work together, as a community. We share ideas, inspirations, and celebrate the good news. We are a support network during times of grief and sadness. This is a unique kind of company, and I’m glad I work here.

I’m arguing for or against socialism, but I’m arguing that as a country, we’ve begun to neglect of the most important facets of our society: our people.

The United States is no longer the greatest nation in the world. What we lack in education, human services (including health care), and global respect, we make up for in incarceration rates, defense spending, and bravado. In order to keep ourselves relevant on the world stage, we must learn to compromise between the corporation and the individual. We are a government “by the people, for the people,” and it’s time that we started remembering that.

 

On work, industriously

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Lately, I’ve been on a work high. (And no, it’s not because I’m spending too much time with my highlighters uncapped.)

I’m finally feeling incredibly fulfilled by what I do. The fact that I have my own office doesn’t hurt either, nor does the shoes-optional policy we have here. (!!!! If you know me, you know how much I detest shoes and socks. Barefoot = productivity. Barefoot and in business clothes = I’m taking over the world with my awesomeness.)

I have nothing but incredible respect for my bosses.

My boss – who knew me before he hired me because we played trivia on the same team – was so accommodating of my lack of focus, and it’s mostly because of my very gentle yearly review last year – in which he mentioned that I’m great but that my lack of focus was preventing me from tackling more responsibilities – that I got evaluated for ADHD. Since being diagnosed (and medicated), I’ve noticed that my work productivity has skyrocketed.

He always says “we are not what we do,” and he means it. Family comes first. Yes, work does have to leave the office sometimes, but nothing is so important that everything else must be sacrificed in favor of the bottom line.

They created a position for me, and I’ve ended up picking up responsibilities here and there, creating quite a complex and interesting job description. From writing proposals, scheduling and attending demos, web development, client relations, technical support (but only sometimes) and everything else marketing to changing the toner and handling shipping issues, I’m never bored. And furthermore, as I learn more, I am able to do more. Last week, I got to amend a database design to include specific functionality for a potential client.

It’s not like I’ve not had some misses, as well. Remember last year when I tried to organize a building-wide blood drive? Apparently, I work in a building full of scrooge’s, because no one would donate and I ended up filling the schedule with my family, who were more than happy to donate to save my ass.

(While I realize that the rest of you do all of this all the time, this is relatively new for me. This is my first “real” job – even though I’ve been here for 16 months – and it’s the first time that I’ve really felt like my contribution matters. These are the firsts that I’m never going to have again, and I intend to savor them. So shut up and wipe that smug look off your face. You were 23 once.)

I sincerely hope that they find me as valuable as I find them.

Of course they do, I’m Katie Barry.

About the highlighters – post-ADHD diagnosis, I went from being way too laid back to being way too uptight, particularly about documents. I find that I’m only able to really feel comfortable if I have a printed copy of my proposals that I can highlight as I go – so that I can later go back and reference stuff. I color code them based on whatever categories I decide deserve particular attention.

Ordering office supplies one day, I saw that boxes of highlighters were on sale for $1. So I bought a bunch. Apparently, one of my co-workers and my boss were in the supply room making fun of me for all the highlighters, and wondering why I had purchased so many. You don’t pass up $1 highlighters. psssh.

PS – Swisher comes tomorrow! And I’m 24 on Friday! It’s been such a wild year! Time is flying!

PPS – All of those exclamation marks were absolutely necessary!

On Everything, mostly

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I’ve been avoiding blogging lately. Not because I don’t want to, but because there is so much swirling inside my head and I fear that it will all lump together incoherently and ruin the messages I intend to convey. But I am finding that the longer I put it off, the more everything builds up.

So faced with the incoherent, potentially ruinous lumping or the lack of content, I’ll take the lumping. City Park Statue with Frogs

On Friday night, Jacob and I made dinner and walked around the park as darkness fell. It was cold and rainy, but the air felt good and the conversation warmed my soul. I am grateful for my friendships. My friends are all individualistic, beautiful people. They possess the qualities that I value most in this world, and I respect them immensely.

It doesn’t hurt that Jacob and Carlos adore each other, either. Carlos doesn’t snuggle for just anyone, but he will always snuggle for Jacob. It’s cute.

Jacob and Carlos

(Side note: I got home on Sunday night, and Mike told me that he thought Carlos had died earlier. I was concerned, and upon hearing the story, I just shook my head and looked at the furry creature rubbing himself against my ankles. Mike said that the other black cat that lives in the building had somehow managed to get herself outside my window, and Carlos was howling and trying to attack her through the window. The cat had gotten himself through the blinds and was frantically trying to get at her. I’m just glad the glass held – I accidentally put my hand through one of the panes last  year – and Mike grabbed the cat and took him away from the window. I’m still not sure how I managed to adopt a cat that’s half pit bull. I’m also not sure how he can go from ferocious and wild to loving and needy, demanding that I snuggle with him. I do love him, though, so he should consider himself very lucky.)

in the Mirror

Swisher comes on Wednesday. I can hardly believe that it’s just two days now. I am so excited to not have to take mirror pictures all the time so that I can send them to him. (The great news about unlimited data plans? All the picture messaging you want! It’s allowed us to share experiences, events, mundane pictures, bad hair days, etc.) My phone is filled with pictures just like the one above, and I’m pretty sure that if someone went through my phone, they’d assume that I’m just a terrible narcissist.

I can’t wait. I guess I can, but only because I have to. We’re going to be faced with the immense task of turning our past into a relationship that isn’t long distance. I imagine that it will be an adjustment, but I also imagine that it will be quite wonderful, since both of us are committed to making this work.

I love that he loves me exactly as I am. He loves my curly hair. In fact, he prefers it. He loves my mind, my weird sense of humor, my opinionated nature. I am thrilled by the fact that he wants to cook for me, and has offered to help clean! And best of all, he’s not a purse-carrier (something my family is always quick to ask about). I love that he makes me laugh, and I love how much he teases me.

At Mother’s Day brunch, my Uncle Mike and Aunt Jan were excited to tell me that they had gotten into a debate about something. (Earlier this year, I was attempting to explain that I’d like a mate whose desire for discussion matches mine, and they thought that it was hilarious. “Should we make a list of things to debate about?” my Uncle asked, before adding, “Besides who’s going to make the sandwiches for lunch tomorrow?” I love that thirty-plus years of marriage hasn’t dampened their good-natured teasing. It’s something that I’m looking forward to if I should be so lucky to find a dude who will put up with me for thirty-plus years.)

birth mom!

Speaking of family, I was lucky enough to get to spend my first Mother’s Day breakfast with my birth mom, Lise, who was passing through town with her boyfriend. I haven’t seen her since I was 18 and had just graduated from high school.

(This is us then:)

I was excited to show her the paw print in my eye, since her spirit animal is a wolf and we’ve had a few fascinating (partly creepy, but mostly fascinating) experiences – when I was three, I was on the phone with her and told her that the wolves came to me at night and gathered around my bed, but that I got scared, and when my dad came into the room, they ran away and jumped over the fence. (It was a very intense dream. I had forgotten about the entire incident, but when she mentioned the fence detail, an image rushed through my brain of the blur of wolves and the back fence.) She tells me that the way I told her that story was so unlike a three year old and that she was very comforted by it. When I was 19, I was looking in the mirror in the car and I realized that in the blue of my eye, there is very clear dark paw print that’s set off from the rest of the blue. It’s like I carry her mark with me, and I enjoy that.

My boss, who adopted his four children, says that adopted kids always want to know two things: 1. who are my parents? (or in my case, what do they look like) and 2. why did they give me up? I think he’s right. I know the answer to the second question, and half of the first.

I will never know more about my birth father, but I am so grateful to have an open adoption. I am so glad that I get to see her. I agree with my boss when he says that he doesn’t see much resemblance. As I age, I am more and more sure that I carry a lot of my birth father’s appearance with me. I so badly wish that I could see a picture of him, but there are none. Ah, well. I will settle for the relationship that I have with my birth mother, because I am so lucky to have her in my life (and I’m not actually settling at all).

Both of us are double-jointed, so we showed her boyfriend that at breakfast. He cringed, and both of us laughed. My mom says that there were times when I was little that I would say something, and she’d turn around, half expecting to see Lise there because what I had just said sounded exactly like her. Both of us are unique, beautiful women, and knowing her has helped me to understand a lot about myself. I also love being able to compare our characteristics. As much as I am a product of my environment and therefore carry the qualities of my mother, I am also so much a product of my birth mother and therefore have much of her personality and emotions. i

It’s a beautiful thing. I should also mention that my brother Mike’s birth mother, Jill, is just as wonderful. She always comments on my photos and writes on my mom’s wall on his birthday to tell her that she’s thinking about her. It’s just good. It’s all good.

Mike has actively chosen not to know his birth father. We know who he is, and I wonder if at some point later, Mike will desire to build a relationship with him. But I love and value the fact that he has that choice, and that everyone involved respects his decisions.

Adoption is a beautiful thing. Even though the nuclear family that we were both adopted into would eventually shatter completely, we were placed exactly where we were meant to be. We have been so well loved. Anyone who discounts the forces of the universe and fate would be well advised to look deeply at my life, and at my beautiful family. We are exactly where we were meant to be.

Mom babysitting

Speaking of moms, this is my mother and two of our neighbors. She was so excited to babysit for the little one across the street this weekend, and I don’t blame her. He’s so happy. He was all smiles and he handled the attention he was receiving from the four of us beautifully. I held him and fell in love with him.

And then I ran off to do my regularly scheduled babysitting, which included negotiating story time with a very grumpy four-year old and then trying to talk a seven-year old back into sleeping after the rain woke her.

I had a bit of revelation last night. Unbeknownst to me, dinner plans with my other grandma (on my dad’s side) had been cancelled, and so upon my arrival, I found no one. I went in anyway, and ended up staying for dinner at my grandma’s.

We sat outside while it was still warmish and sunny, and talked. I was guarded, as I always am when I’m there. “Is he Catholic?” she inquired about Swisher, after asking me when he was moving here. I responded that yes, he’d gone to Catholic schools. We ended up diverting, and discussing religion. “What is it with the young people these days?” she wanted to know. I responded that choosing Benedict as our pontiff was a bad choice because he’s obviously not a fan of the social justice that I found to be such a positive part of the church while I was at Loyola.

She asked if I go to mass. I don’t. I went with them on Easter, but I usually just go as part of a family-mandated holiday schedule. The disappointment in her voice was clear. I explained to her that for people my age, the Church (church in general, to non-Catholics) represents a very challenging and hypocritical worldview. I explained that Mike finds god through nature while he’s camping and fishing, and in the introspection that he does while he’s there. I explained that I find god in people. I told her that I find god through kindness and love and acceptance and understanding. I emphasized my belief that god, whatever that means, will not bar me from “heaven” based on my lack of organized religion. I emphasized that love and kindness guide me.

I actually borrowed an explanation from Kelle Hampton, a blogger, who’s book Bloom: Finding Beauty in the Unexpected is on shelves now (20% off at Barnes & Noble, I found on Friday): after her parents divorce when she was a child, she found that the church, which she had previously found to be a beautiful, loving place, became scary in its condemnation of her father’s homosexuality. She writes in the book that church so often gets in the way of god, and I think that she makes that point beautifully. It’s everything I’ve wanted to say about organized religion as an obstacle to god, because people get so wrapped up in interpreting the Bible (or whichever religious text their religion refers to) literally that they forget to live the spirit. People forget to live lives full of love and caring. I told my grandmother that Jesus hung out with lepers and prostitutes, and welcomed all. Why can’t we attempt to do the same?

As dinner progressed, I was happy, but I was also wary. Her focus is not on my career, my baby steps to success, my tiny triumphs, my personal happiness, but is instead is on my eventual marriage and whether or not the guy that I’m dating is wealthy or not. Honestly, I find that people who were raised swaddled in money are often lacking basic life skills, including independence. They can’t do anything for themselves. That was a gross generalization, but honestly, I detest the fact that financial worth somehow equates to the worth of a person. I have watched ruin come to people who must maintain some sort of lifestyle. And I refuse to be a part of that. I wish to be happy.

For a few years now, a rift has been growing between the “other side of things” and me. I’m still not sure what exactly I did to set it off, and to progressively widen it, but I have remained steadfast in my unwillingness to engage in behavior that mirrors the actions of the people whose name I bear, the family that I wanted so badly to belong to. It was last night that I realized that I have no desire to be a part of a family that does not love me unconditionally, but at the base level, it’s about respect. I have no desire to be a part of a family that does not respect me.

I respect my grandfather immensely. He is a wonderful man who is given far too little credit for his progressive thinking and his intelligence. I have always found him to be a wonderful opponent for debating issues, as he is far more patient and wise than most people I’ve ever met. He has a keen political mind and is still incredibly sharp.

I refuse to accept the lack of transparency. One of the things that I respect most about my relationship with my mother is that she is open, honest, and willing to admit when she is wrong. It’s refreshing, and it’s shaped our relationship into something I am incredibly proud of.

I find that the inability to be upfront and honest is what has most affected (and soured) my relationships with most members of my dad’s side of the family. I reached out, and was rebuffed on two separate occasions, and then informed via third party (Grandma) that I was expected to apologize.

It breaks my heart, although I will not compromise my integrity nor will I pretend that I’m not hurt. At the end of the day, I still have no idea what it is about me that’s not okay. Is it that I don’t go to church? Is it that I was offended by my aunt’s suggestion that I start to be more financially responsible for my grandparents? Is it that I have gay friends?

Since December 24, 2010, I have been confused and hurt. I refuse to remain that way and thus have decided that it’s no longer a priority of mine to worry about the things that I cannot control. It feels good to let go. It feels good to accept responsibility for things I can accept responsibility for and make amends, but unfortunately, without knowing what I’ve done, I cannot accept responsibility for the severing of these relationships. I remain the free-spirited, open-minded person that I have been. I remain honest and true to myself. It is out of my hands, and I’m alright with that.

On Gay. On Suicide. On Bullying.

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It’s been awhile, I know. Work keeps getting in the way of the rest of my life.

But alas, I’ve got something to say that’s important enough for me to give up some time to say it.

Jacob posted a link to a Rolling Stone article on my Facebook wall. (I think we still get a subscription to the magazine, but I hadn’t read it, so this goes to show that I’m out of touch with everything.)

It was about bullying and gay teens. While I think the article has some serious flaws (look at me, being all critical), I do think that it raises some serious questions about problems with having policies specifically related to homosexuality in our public schools.

But more than that, I (never thought I’d say this) partially agree with one of the anti-gay groups when they say, “…much of society seems not to be looking closely and openly at all possible causes of the tragedies.” Granted, they did precede that by saying “Because homosexual activists have hijacked and exploited teen suicides for their moral and political utility…” so that still makes them really insensitive and downright hateful.

We do need to really examine these tragedies. Being a child, an adolescent, a young adult: it all really sucks. I had such a rough time because of bullying in grade school – I remember crying and begging to go a new school. I withdrew quite a bit in high school but came out of it just fine. Bullying isn’t just about gay kids. Bullying is about anything, everything. Kids are really cruel. And it blows, for everyone involved. People carry those emotional scars with them long after the bullying has ended.

So let’s talk about parenting, because that’s where those little seeds of hatred get planted, nourished, and encouraged to grow. These parents hold certain political ideologies, certain religious beliefs, and live by an individual moral code. It stands to reason that their children will as well, having grown up hearing their parents espouse their beliefs, complaining about taxes, etc. That’s not the problem. The problem is when parents fail to explain to their children that there are other (equal) ways of thinking. I respect your beliefs; I respect your rights; I cannot respect your hatred, no matter where it comes from. We’re all guilty of putting a blanket over the “other” and forgetting that those people all believe those things because it gives them strength, hope, faith, solace, comfort, joy.

But at what point does my right to believe in whatever I want stop? At the point at which it infringes on someone else’s right to believe in whatever they want. This is why schoolyards are going to remain a political battleground.

They say that knowledge is power and it’s true. I don’t know why we’re against teaching our kids anything. At one point in the Rolling Stone article, a woman named Barb Anderson is quoted as saying, “Open your eyes, people. What if a 15-year-old is seduced into homosexual behavior and then contracts AIDS?” I wasn’t aware that we’re still under the impression that only the gays get AIDS. Yes, 61% of new HIV infections are found in “men who have sex with men” or MSM, according to the CDC. (I always read MSM as metro-sexual men, so that’s problematic for my brain.) But 23% of all new infections are in women. And the race most affected? Black men.
How many people know this? How many people can pull this out of their heads? Not knowing breeds fear and fear breeds the sad situations we’re seeing today. Fear breeds death, hatred, bigotry, disgust, anger. Fear does not bring about positive change, cooperation, or community.

I just don’t know why we’re not teaching our children everything that we can teach them. Creationism, evolution, reincarnation – we should be teaching it all. French, algebra, history, banned books: learn it all! I’m much more comfortable arguing with someone who’s chosen to believe what they believe than I am arguing with someone who’s had their beliefs molded and shaped for them. Schools should be a place of academic achievement, not fear. Teachers report being afraid to address the bullying situations that may be based on perceived or real homosexuality because they don’t want to lose their jobs. So these kids are left alone and helpless to cope with bullying that they don’t understand and can’t control.

Youth is a very fragile time. Even though these people are quickly growing into young adults, they’re not there yet. They need to be taught. Educated. Supported. Mental health issues among teenagers are increasing. Depression, suicide, eating disorders and behaviors are becoming increasingly more and more common.

The US lacks the mental health resources to treat the growing number of kids displaying symptoms. The social stigma surrounding mental health prevents a lot of progress and instead, causes much more harm to our society than a progressive dialogue would. (I’m not known for my avoidance of issues, but I’ve been avoiding talking about my own ADHD diagnosis and treatment for fear of negative repercussions.) We medicate, medicate, medicate. I don’t agree that that’s a great solution to any problem, mental health related or not. But it is too bad there’s no medication to make insensitive, insecure teens blind to differences.

But that’s exactly it: these teens (both the ones doing the bullying and the ones being bullied) are insecure. They’re trying to establish their own identities while being assaulted by their own hormones on a daily basis. They’re trying to figure out where they fit in the world, and they’re using anything they can for guidance. Instead of knowing that their bullying might stem from their attempts to appear more masculine, they think that this bullying makes them more powerful, respected, admired. It doesn’t. It makes them weaker than they’d be if they approached these in-school social situations more logically. But they don’t know that, because no one has ever explained all of that to them. Let’s start teaching sociology in the fourth grade and see how far that gets us. If kids could understand more about what they’re feeling and experiencing, they’re far more likely to make the mature choices not to engage in behaviors. But instead, they’re left to fend for themselves, trying to make sense of everything without appearing weak. Newsflash: we’re all weak. We all need help, support, and guidance.

Feel-good seminars and classroom discussions aren’t going to help either. The message that these kids are getting is that being gay is all butt-sex and glitter. While that’s simply not true, they don’t have any real-life context for understanding homosexuality. In reality, being gay is just like being straight. Couples wear ugly sweaters and make dinner and fight about who’s going to take out the trash. Short-shorts aren’t the norm. But how are these kids going to understand that when we won’t talk about it, teach it, or protect the gay kids from being attacked? Oh wait, there’s always TV. (That’ll help.) Our examples are terrible representations of what gay is.

Gay. Bullying. Suicide. They go hand in hand and they exist separately. In order to get to the bottom of this to stop our kids from killing themselves or driving others to kill themselves, we need to take a long, hard look at the messages that we’re sending to them.

If I ever catch my kid(s) bullying, or engaging in any behavior that I find predatory, disrespectful, or downright offensive, there will be hell to pay. The parents of the kids who say things like, “You’re a fag and you deserve to die,” should be held accountable for the actions of their children. This is a really good example of when it’s okay to ask “What would Jesus do?” Your religions, whatever they may be, do not say that it’s okay to hurt other people. They do not say that it’s okay for you to taunt, tease, punish, and terrorize your peers.

Instead of fighting about what we can’t teach, let’s just teach it all. Let’s teach everything and let our kids learn to think for themselves. Let’s expose them to everything we can expose them to. Let’s make them cultured, intelligent, young people who have adventured, and failed, and come to understand the ways that the world works.

Let’s fight to end teen suicides. Let’s fight to end bullying. But more than that, we need to fight to give our kids the coping skills to handle these things when they do happen. We need to address these issues openly, so that when a kid thinks about committing suicide, they are able to reach out to someone who can help them. So that when a kid thinks about putting another kid down just so he/she can feel better about him/herself, that kid will think twice.

I know that it gets better, but they don’t. It’s up to us to guide them all through.

On Chicago, belatedly

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Lately, my life has been one of those hectic, crowded places. Sometimes, I worry that there’s not enough room for me.

Last night, after work, I cancelled plans to meet a friend and took a long bath instead (apparently, it’s possible to literally steam the cover off of a Vogue magazine). Carlos has been very much not in the mood to love me lately, so I’ve decided that we both need a change of scenery and will be relocating back to my apartment this weekend. That was supposed to happen last night, but instead, I laid on the couch and did absolutely nothing. It was wonderful.

Tonight is a lot of rearranging. I haven’t had my car since I left for Chicago; it’s been languishing in Mom’s driveway. I need to get that back, obviously. Kevin is going up to the mountains this weekend, so he’ll need his car and I very much miss driving Simon, who feels so much less like a Mack truck than Kevin’s SUV. I need to get myself ready for the weekend. Sadly, I wish I had exciting plans to report, but instead, I’m babysitting nearly every moment that I’m awake. 3 families. 4 “shifts”. 3 days.

I’m always excited to babysit. I never view it as work, really, but it does tend to take up quite a bit of time. I’m going to put the money toward my New York trip next weekend, which I am absolutely thrilled about.

Anyway, I feel like I never get to properly describe my Chicago visits. I get too busy with everything else and reminiscing about the trip falls by the wayside. Chicago was wonderful. It was a perfect weekend. I saw a lot of people (of course, I didn’t get to see everyone I wanted to see, bummer), and had a blast.

I ended up helping with a music video shoot on Sunday, so that was exciting. I got to stand on the rocks in one of my favorite places in Chicago (no, not the Bean, the Peace Garden!) and dance around awkwardly while wearing a wig and some rather scandalous clothing. It helped that the weather was beautiful that day.

Between the shoot and the airport, I stopped at Swisher’s.  There’s nothing like saying hello to a friend’s parents while your makeup looks like you’re going clubbing at 3 in the afternoon. Thank goodness for makeup removal wipes – those things are amazing. Carry them everywhere when you travel. Just have them on you at all times. They’re all-purpose cloths sent from Heaven.

Saturday, I went to Wisconsin with Anne. We went to see the Mars Cheese Castle, which used to be this amazing, kitschy place but is now just a touristy castle – they seriously redid it to be a castle, but they do have $1.50 meat sticks, so you know I was happy. I also got some white cheese with cranberry in it, a 6-pack of Spotted Cow from my favorite Wisconsin brewery, and some chocolate. (I’m attempting to recreate the experience I had with the Fairview cheese from South Africa and can’t do it. The white with the apricots was some of the most amazing cheese I’ve ever tasted. I can’t get close.)

After we were done at the Cheese Castle, we were like, well, we drove all the way out to Wisconsin, we should probably drive some more. So we googled. Anne found http://www.custardlist.com, a website which lists the daily custard flavors around the state. Seeing that some place called Oscar’s had m&m and cookie dough, we were off toward Milwaukee. Yes, it was better than Kopp’s (although Kopp’s makes some darn good custard), and I got two scoops for less than $2.50.

Saturday night, I went to play with Patrick and Maddie, who had a hotel room downtown. (Maddie’s explanation of why they couldn’t stay at his apartment is one of the funnier things I’ve heard lately.) Anne’s apartment has a problem with hot water, so I was relieved to find that the Embassy Suites was fully stocked with towels and all the hot water I could want. (I did want, so badly.) Swisher met us for happy hour and then we went out to a bar nearby. I was exhausted, so we ended up back at the hotel with snacks and wine. It was the perfect night. I was sad because my friend Adrian was having his annual “Fried, Fried, Fried” party – it’s exactly what it sounds like – and I was looking forward to eating all the things. However, I would never make it up to the North side. Instead, I fell asleep on the couch at the hotel.

Being back in Chicago was like suddenly realizing that you lost something. I have lost my memory of the street names (not all of them, but finding myself staring at the Chicago theater on State street and wondering which way to walk was a disconcerting feeling); I have lost the flow of the trains, my balance as they stop. I felt my hand reaching out to clutch the pole in a panic as we slid into one of the stations. Being back was like going home. Swisher took me to the train, took me down Lake Shore Drive. I used to drive that every single day. This time, all I could do was stare around. The park. The lake. The river. The buildings. There’s something wonderful about the way the city looms above you, around you. It sinks into you, a little. You’ll never be able to take that bit of Chicago away.

I remember being in love when I was 19. I remember the way that I threw myself into it; the way that logistics stopped being paramount; that no distance was too far, no amount of separation too much. I want to love the way I loved when I was 19. It was pure. It was admittedly one of the most imperfect relationships you could imagine, but it was so real, and it was all-encompassing, and it was beautiful. When did I lose the ability to throw caution to the wind and jump in?

On Death, Eventually

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I fear greatly the answers to the questions surrounding death. It pains me to think too much about any of it. Rather than the belief in something after, I believe solely in attempting to make the best of these precious earth-bound moments. And yet, usually catching me entirely unaware, the thoughts creep back into my brain. What lies after? How can we succinctly tie our own spiritualities with the scientific, with the known, with the cold reality of it all?

I remember the immensity that was the moment – that singular moment – when we put down our beloved golden retriever. His head coming to rest for the last time on my shoe. My jerky response as I stood, smashing into the paper towel dispenser. The nurse (nurse? vet tech? lady in scrubs?) attempting to comfort me and me pushing her away because the tears were coming too fast and I couldn’t wait to break away and be alone, where no one would see me crying. I realize that this is in no way comparable to the deaths of those humans we come to love so much, but then again, I think perhaps that even those mammalian deaths hold the keys to true humanity. The singularity that ties us all together: love.

No matter how it happens, death holds some sort of quiet whisper, a moment in which time stops rushing and instead, lingers for the exhale. It’s not something that will ever leave you. (I do not speak as one wizened by so many experiences, thankfully, although the few that I have had with death have been personally profound.)

I was reading in the bathtub (now that I’m taking baths again, my reading material has multiplied immensely) and I found myself falling in love with the protagonist of the book I’d just started – it’s been languishing in one of my book suitcases (yes, I have those) for ages and I’ve just now gotten around to picking it up. She embodies, for the moment, everything I find wonderful: strength, intelligence, determination, the juxtaposition of masculine and feminine, beauty, courage. And yet, I found myself terrified that she’d die before the end of the book. In that moment, I was certain of her death. I flipped to the last page (a terrible habit, but one I take great comfort in – I even do it with romance novels, and you know from the third page how those are going to end) and sure enough, she dies. It’s a beautiful death, really, her soul personified by birds. But now I’m happier to read about her life. I can take comfort in the fact that I already know how she dies, yet I’ve not at all ruined the book for myself.

This is the point of all of this, I guess: even though you can not know the exactness of your own death, you know that at a certain point, it must come. I look at those yellow feline eyes that I love so much and realize that I can’t keep them forever. I push away the melancholy thoughts, realizing that loving him now is so much better than focusing on the pain I’ll feel when he’s gone. I circle back, from time to time, working myself up thinking about the emptiness that the deaths of those I love will leave. I think it stems from the knowledge that one day, I will be without my mother. In my attempts to soothe myself, I have begun to steel myself against the void I know will exist. Void is inadequate. It will be like a roaring vacuum. It will pull at the edges of my soul.

But it is natural. (I remember this book they got us to teach us about death. I’ll never forget how incredibly mystified I was when I read it. I hated the book and yet something drew me to it. It calmly taught children that everything must die, and yet it horrified me. I hated connecting dead leaves to people. Something resonated somewhere deep inside of me. I often think of that book and wonder what it would be like to read it again now. I wonder if it’s in a box somewhere in a basement.)

Death and taxes, they say. But they’re not wrong. To know the eventuality of it before it happens is to hope that one will be able to fully embrace everything that is life knowing the finality of it all. The chance to struggle and create, to learn and understand, to think, to feel, to be, to love passionately and freely is a gift. Those moments are the footprints we leave behind. To love deeply and live fully are my only goals. If at my funeral, people don’t laugh and tell horrifyingly embarrassing yet endearing stories, I will be incredibly bummed.  Life is a wild adventure. It’s beautiful and bittersweet.

Either way, it is certain. It’s comforting, in a way, to know that everyone has to do it. Someone’s doing it right now. Someone did it yesterday and someone will do it tomorrow. We are all born and we will all die, but what we do in between belongs solely to us. That’s the best part.

On the first snow

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I’ve felt that feeling of glorious beginning only a few times in my life, but I can still remember the first moment for all of them.
It’s never a complete memory, just a glimpse, a snapshot.
You will never feel the way you do in that moment ever again. There will be highs, lows, the muddling about in between, but there is never anything so pure as the singular realization of possibility.

Today, I was too busy to write about how I feel about fall. About the way the light looks different now than it did a month ago, how the sun shines on crisp leaves. I wanted to show you the leaves blowing across the road, skipping along and settling. I wanted you to feel what I felt. Color set against the gray light. Beauty in the beginning of the end. (The beginning of anything is always the beginning of the end.)

It is one of those glimpses, a moment slipping away before the barren winter arrives.

Tonight is that feeling. Tonight is full of possibilities. Tonight, you don’t see it coming; you can’t; you’re too excited. It’ll stay like that forever.

The first snow is the best snow. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it and covers you before you have a chance to take it in. You sit by the window. You stare. You watch the flakes fall. You could watch for hours, you’re enamored. You want it to last forever – your childhood is calling. You see snowball fights and snow forts, your yellow kitchen table and mugs of hot chocolate.

You forget the frostbitten toes and pink cheeks. You forget the feeling of wet wool socks. Now, all you can see is the glittering, the snow falling through the eyes of the street lights. You forget that you’ve forgotten to pull you windshield wipers away from your car; that your winter jacket hasn’t been to the cleaners; that you’re going to be late for work.

The snow will turn black, eventually. It will melt away until the misshapen clumps become eyesores. You’ll ache for fresh flowers. You’ll hate how empty the trees are. Autumn fades before you know it, giving way to the endless winter. Just as you think you’re about to go mad with want of life, spring arrives to save you.

You feel the rush all over again. Love is the first day you run barefoot outside, only to realize the ground is still frozen underneath the spreading warmth.

Potential.

Either that, or six more weeks of winter.

On Bullshit

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*

It’s always the same conversation. You’re at a bar. It’s happy hour. You’re holding a gin and tonic that you wish you could just drink in peace. The people around you are annoying or maybe they’re only that way because you’re annoyed. Whatever.

You start talking to someone. Blah blah blah, my name is so and so, who are you, what do you do? I realize that the career question is important for gauging quite a bit of information about a person, but it’s also the biggest chance for filler. Some people immediately jump into a detailed description, including that inflated job title. Some people are more demure. Some pretend to be interested in what you do.

The responses are all bullshit. 

I spend most of my happy hour conversations bullshitting right along with them and listening to people drop their technical terms like it’s going to make them sound, seem, or even be more important. (I did just begin to type “impotent”, I wonder if that was my subconscious trying to make a point.)

I love the implied importance, the illusion of grandeur, the self-delusion.

This is where successful people are forged. Either you can hack it as a bullshitter or you can’t. Your ability to bullshit directly correlates to your ability to work under pressure. It’s not a bad quality; it’s just funny that so much of the human race relies on it for basic communication.

P.S. I was at Target a few months ago and there was a little girl (seriously, no more than four years old) walking down the aisle just whispering “bullshit, bullshit, bullshit” under her breath. It was so adorable. But it made me worry about her media consumption/home environment. 

* 
(sidenote:)
My boss is super rad. We were demonstrating our product for a potential client last week, and when the guy on the other end made a couple of disparaging remarks about women, my boss stepped up and told him to watch it. Considering that I work in an office full of women, he’s probably used to doing it without thinking anything of it, but I think it’s awesome that he was willing to stand up for us and other women. 
*

Also, your song of today is a remix of a beautiful indie song.
It’s called Skinny Love and it’s by Bon Iver.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kS2w5B0MvvY

On the 30 – 50% Rule and the date.

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“People only listen to 50% of what you say,” I tell J.

We think about that for awhile. Half of what you say, you’re saying solely for yourself. That’s alright, because 50% of what you say isn’t being processed by your audience.

It’s the 30-50% rule.
And it’s awesome.
You never have to worry about what you say in front of people, because it doesn’t matter. Chances are, they weren’t paying attention in the first place.

***

“You’re not at all like I expected you to be,” he says. 

“How so?” I ask.
“You wear a lot of black…You’re not conventional at all. You look like you would be. You don’t even have any tattoos.”  
Inwardly, I groan. I hear the “not conventional” bit so often that I’m not sure it’s even a compliment any more. 
Outwardly, I laugh. “I have two,” I tell him. 
He’s got me pegged: “Such a strong personality coming from such a petite girl,” he says. “People don’t expect that. I bet you don’t get along with girls.” He’s not wrong. I don’t. They scare me. 
As last night wore on and the bar got slowly more and more crowded, I found my eyes wandering. I love to look at people, to watch them shift uncomfortably, embrace happily, stand still sipping drinks. I watched the businessmen come in, all shiny shoes and Oxford shirts. I made eye contact, then shyly looked away.
He was telling me stuff about his passions, his dreams, his art, and I was listening, sort of.  Conversation was good, time passed easily. I got tired – it’s the vicenarian curse. Adolescence slips away and all we’re left with is the hope of eventual maturity. I’m doomed to be tired from now until the day I die.

It wasn’t as horrible as I’d predicted. In fact, it wasn’t horrible at all. He would like to see me again. I will. But I’m not sure I’m feeling any sort of promise, any sort of legitimate future frisson. As we said goodnight, I wondered what it’d be like to kiss him. Then I realized I didn’t want to.

It got me started thinking about sparks. Instantaneous sparks. There are great moments in life when something beautiful begins. It begins with a look across a dark bar, a chance comment at a party, the fortuitous arrangement of time and place. Sometimes it begins with an internet email. A first date gone well.

I’ve never forgotten those beginnings. That couch on Carmen St. That New Years’ Eve. That party in the snow in Chicago. That night we walked around the city. The night in Cape Town at the pool hall. The road trip where we stayed up most of the night. The first date that never ended. The first time you feel the frisson, the slow curling inside your stomach, the safe knowledge of feelings. I’ve not known those for some time now. Am I doomed to stir up those memories in the hopes of never losing that feeling?

That feeling is what I crave. And what I’m determined to wait for. Patiently. Or at least until I’m 25 and I get on match.com, whichever comes first.

***

Today’s song:

West Coast by Coconut Records
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlYGEaeoBWw

"Shame on all of you."

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Yesterday’s post got me thinking.

Racism blows. We can reiterate that until we’re blue in the face.

And qualifying my perspective as being that of a white person isn’t nearly enough.
I need to qualify myself as educated, white, woman, and liberal.
That changes things.

I compared it to being gay. (Why? I don’t know – it was the easiest [not the best] way to make my point during our lunch discussion.) I spend so much time around my gay friends that I don’t see them as gay. It’s normalized for me. It’s not a thing. There’s no need to draw a line, to point out the distinctions, to separate.

I want my kids to be so exposed to people that they stop seeing lines and start seeing people.

It’s the same as being _____. [Insert “other” there.]

The more we talk about “other,” the more we emphasize it. The more we dwell.

Then I started thinking about the real world. (Sighing as I type this. Oh, real world.) There’s not as much integration, not as much teamwork, community building, respect, tolerance….my list could go on…. as there could be. Certain solutions to “other”-ism or “other”-phobia aren’t going to work for people with different mindsets – I forget that. The solution remains elusive.

But I would like to point out that even as we evolve to tolerate and eventually accept one “other,” we replace it with another “other.”

Division based on class differences, social differences, education differences: we’re all guilty of it. I think part of being human is forming bonds with people who share similarities to you and then ostracizing people who don’t have those interests, features, or characteristics. It’s up to us to transcend that.

It’s hard, though. I judge stupid people for doing stupid things. I’m sure people judge me for doing stupid shit all the time. I judge girls who wear Ugg boots, yet I get judged for my “if you can’t wear it with black flats, why are you wearing it at all?” mentality (I do consider that judgement entirely deserved, for the record. I’ve grown out of Birkenstock mode…at least until I find my other black clog). I really try to promote a sense of solidarity among women, yet I know a few women I’d like to punch in the face. So here I am, being just as much of a hypocrite as the rest of us. At least I’m thinking about it, though.

Granted, we all aren’t going to get along. It’s not possible. But we should at least strive to respect and understand. Also, not possible.  But ideal. And beautiful.

I was going to post last week about the suicide of a gay teen on the East Coast. I didn’t. I was too disgusted (not by him, by his tormentors). After his death, the people who taunted him continued to do so. They said they were glad he was dead. That the world was a better place. For him, it didn’t get better. That’s one reason we need to stop spreading hate.

That night I was watching the Big Bang Theory at home. And this clip really put it all into perspective for me. Please watch it.

A girl brings home a rather unintelligent date, and her neighbors (all science geeks) make fun of him mercilessly.

Zach (date): “Oh, I see. You guys are inferring that I’m stupid.”

Sheldon (one of the neighbors): “That’s not correct. We were implying it. You then inferred it.”

…

Penny (girl): “You know, for a group of guys who claim they spent most of their lives being bullied, you can be real jerks. Shame on all of you.”

Truth.