I’ve spent four years of college learning about feminism and the sociological implications of being woman in the world.
I’ve spent twenty one years being a woman in the world.
I’m just now getting the theory behind it all, even though I’ve been studying, discussing and living the “how” part of the equation forever.

This is an unorganized rant. I like it. I’m sticking to it. 

I was not raised in a house where gender was an issue. I do not come from a traditional family structure. My mother never cooked dinner and vacuumed in pearls. In fact, I spent much of my childhood without gender. Yes, I had dresses and I was in love with Mom’s makeup and I learned to run in high heels (I have mistyped “hells” three times), but I was never expected to act like a lady. I am grateful for having a brother. I know how to roughhouse and make mud pits and have fond memories of playing hockey in the street.
Being a girl wasn’t something I was overly concerned about until I hit about the seventh grade. Even then, I was labeled as “uncool,” probably because I wasn’t showing any overt interest in makeup or boys and making out wasn’t very high on my priority list. I didn’t feel the need to be attractive to men. And trust me, I wasn’t.
I have always displayed typically male characteristics. Even now, I love sports games, mostly football and basketball, and I love to drink beer and eat steak. I always consider myself three-eighths male (how I settled on that number, I’m not quite sure). I am feminine, immensely so and possess the deeply emotional capacity expected of women. I love mascara and everything that goes along with it, but am in no way “high maintenance.” I’m not afraid of sexuality, and have suffered social repercussions based on that. I am not dainty, nor do I claim to be. I’m not usually the submissive one in a relationship, and until recently, have never been courted in any sort of traditional manner.
I won’t lie, I hate girls. I do not hate them because they are women, but I hate the ways that they act as women. I hate the cattiness (sp?), I hate the obsession with appearance, I hate the whole persona they don in order to please men. When I find a woman who is realistic and approachable, not wearing a fake feminine guise, I am comfortable and from there, can work to create a bond. The male is easier to get along with, less passive-aggressive and more open to odd conversations without the feeling of being threatened. Perhaps once women realize that we’re not all threats to each other, we’ll be able to get along and foster a sense of respect and unity that I am beginning to suspect doesn’t exist, even in our post-modern world situation. 
Sometime around the beginning of high school, I realized that attracting men was something that was easiest done if I lowered my perceived intelligence level. I have spent the last eight years with low standards and expectations, not only for my partners but for myself. I am recovering, slowly but hopefully. I am embracing my intelligence and my femininity, but equally, my independence, something that men are equally impressed with and afraid of.
Over break, I started seeing someone intelligent and successful, two things that I have been afraid to embrace based on my perception of myself. My reactions were overwhelming and nearly instantaneous. Not toward him (well, okay, maybe), but toward myself. I started seeing myself differently, more ably. I looked in the mirror and saw someone beautiful, maybe not entirely grown up, but getting there. I mean, he was wonderful, but I felt like I was able to hold my ground. I’m young, I’m still a child, I know this, and there are so many things in the world I still need to experience. But I was able to hold an intelligent conversation, hopefully carrying my own weight. While I’m still gaining my footing as far as feeling “worth it,” this was a massive step in the right direction. I want to be around people who make me feel motivated to succeed, to try, to want to reach for something. The poor guy has no idea that he will be a huge factor in my life, even though the acquaintance was brief. It was thrilling, exhilarating, the rush that I felt. I felt like a person. I have never been “wined and dined” but this was exceptional. Perhaps not, but let’s review my dating history briefly. Are you shuddering, wincing, thinking, “ooh, that was rough”? I am. And I knew it. When I brought home one boyfriend toward the end of high school, I told Mom, “Don’t worry, this is only temporary.”
I will say that the one thing that attracted me was the level of non-pretentious-ness  about the whole situation. I HATE pretentious people. Success does not have to include a nasty attitude. Intelligence does not preclude pretension, but that way of thinking about others (and inherently, yourself) shouldn’t be the norm. I am just as intelligent as most of the people in the world but don’t feel the need to display it as though my position in society is somehow elevated.
I’ve always known that I wanted to seek better, but I guess somewhere, didn’t think I deserved it. I do. I am Katie Barry, hear me roar. (I’m keeping that sentence but I thought about deleting it. It’s horrifyingly embarrassing yet also so timeless in its statement.)
Of course, no woman should have such expectations for being bought. I do not expect to become an under-earning, under-performing housewife. I want to work. I do not want to stay at home with the children (once I successfully find a man worth my ovaries), because I would be bored to tears. I love children, I want to work with them, but I want a career. I want to find fulfillment outside the household. That and I can’t clean or cook anything but bacon and pie. Bacon and pie are a great start, but hardly worth a man keeping me caged at home for 9 hours a day.
Social convention does not allow women to act as men yet to remain feminine. I am that dichotomy in the flesh. I am lovely, sweet, submissive (at the proper times), snuggly, soft, all of the things a woman should be. But I am also loud, stubborn, offensive (at the proper times, hopefully), dominant, aggressive, unafraid.
I have a walk. It’s a strut, really, and I’m not really sure how it came about. It’s male in its basic form yet feminine and fierce once you throw high heels into the mix. See, for me it’s less about gender bending and more about gender blending. Pick and choose, just like religion. That selection has worked so well for me spiritually and it seems to be working in my dating life as well. Men are attracted to someone who’s not afraid to speak her mind. Not that life is all about attracting men, but, you know, I do have that as a goal.
I’m linking to an article I read in Newsweek. It’s about feminism being blamed for the state of dating. I am not settling. I do not ever want to settle nor do I want to be old and single. I want a life-partner, emphasis on partner. I want a husband or a boyfriend or a life partner who is my opposite and equal. But not yet. In the later years, please.
I come from a non-traditional family with realistic expectations. I never understood myself to be a woman. I was just a part of the family. I was not expected to maintain any certain role, but rather, was accepted for who I was, be that feminine or masculine. My level of education has never been a subject up for discussion. Of course there was going to be college. I never for a second thought that I wouldn’t go. There were no expectations of anything more or less. There was just do.
I come from a family of strong women. Women who can and do provide for themselves and those around them. There’s a strong sense of satisfaction that comes from being able to maintain yourself as an individual rather than based off of someone next to you. Any marriage is a partnership, focused on a mutual respect for one another rather than on dependence. The women in my family are educated, intelligent and wildly successful in their endeavors. I am joining their ranks in a few months (once I become a college graduate, I feel as though I’m more of a person. This is an error, I understand, but it’s strongly based on my desire to achieve and at the moment, I’m just trying to survive each day without becoming overwhelmed by my workload and lack of sleep) and am pleased to have the support system that I do have. Without it, I would not be where I am today. 

Also this blog sounds very self-focused. It is. It’s my blog. But this feminism idea is not based on feminism for other people but rather feminism for myself. Today, I am declaring myself a rational feminist (a term coined by one of the Irish, actually, but I liked it and I’m taking it and making it mine). I have reasonable expectations for equality. I am not looking to outdo men, but rather to coexist peacefully with them.
Perhaps a rational feminist is then a humanist. More than being a woman, I am a human being.
Blah blah blah.
I am, however, already sick of feminist theory. We’re what, a week into school?
By the way, this was all procrastination of Spanish homework. The Jesuits had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they decided to educate the whole person. I’m self-reflecting. This should count for credit hours. Education in action, no?

the promised link::
http://www.newsweek.com/id/232112

I remember the last night. I remember Dad leading me outside to where Chelsea lay in the grass. I remember petting his soft body.
And when the morning came, I remember running down the hall from my room into Mom and Dad’s. I remember sobbing, sobbing, knowing he was dead. He was gone. That memory spins, it’s strange. It slides around and around in my head, ending with my three-year old eyes seeing the ceiling from where I was laying on their bed.
That was my first experience with grief. It certainly wasn’t my last, but maybe animalian grief doesn’t translate to the grief of human loss.
Is human loss just like any other loss? Is all loss inherently the same?

I’ve never lost someone close to me.
I’ve been to many funerals; I’ve seen people throughout the stages of grief. I’ve attended the funerals of the old, very old, and the young, middle aged. And I won’t lie, I’ve never felt anything.
One day, I’ll have to give someone I love to the afterlife. I know it’ll be painful.
My biggest fear, the most pervasive, the one that strikes me at the most unexpected moments, is the loss of my mother. That loss hopefully won’t come for a long time, but even when it does, I won’t be ready.

Lise is readying herself for the loss of her husband; it’s been a drawn-out process. I’ve been unable to figure out how to properly comfort. I feel helpless, even though I’m so removed from the situation. I’ve decided to listen, asking a few questions here and there and then offering support. Support, hardly, just a few words promising strength and future. It’s hard for me to know what to do. I’m caught with the web of life. My life-giver is losing a life partner and I’m unfamiliar with the procedure. It shouldn’t be procedural though.

Death is death, it comes swiftly or slowly but never not at all. It is the single commonality for our race, for everything living. To have life, there must be death.
I’m not afraid to die, but I’m afraid to live through the deaths of the people I love. I’m afraid of the things left unsaid, of the moments redirected, spent elsewhere instead of there. Loss from which there can be no gain. Peace after time. It’s all so simple but so unknown.

Grief is fragile, a beautiful reminder of life. It’s both necessary and humbling, human and sublime.

*This was a weird post. It didn’t go at all like I had planned it.

I re-read it and went back. This is from a moment that nearly mirrored Chelsea’s death for me. Sixteen years passed between the two, but when I heard the news from Mom, I hung up on her. I threw the phone down and broke down, choking on my own tears.
Oh I’ll never forget that day. I took the call in my room, staring at my dark blue sheets and wooden bed. The carpet. Brown carpet. Desk against the wall. Her voice in my ear. Silver phone. Hurt squeezing my heart. Rage.
Here, a bit of grief. My loss of words is evident, my shock and pain masked.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

You never can keep the beautiful feeling for too long.
News this morning broke my heart.
I’ll be back home soon to take care of things.
If things get bad enough, I’ll stay for longer.
I don’t even know what to do.
There is nothing to do, but wait.
He was brokenhearted too at the news.
I made her promise everything would be okay.
She did, but it took her too long.
I’m scared.
I cried for too long.
I couldn’t breathe. It was one of those.
Make it okay, please.
I don’t pray, but I might start.
I told Katie, and she cried

*I don’t edit things. I don’t ever look over anything. I just do it and then it’s done. But tonight, for some reason, I’m re-reading. I must have left something unsaid.
But not wanting to end on such a miserable note (not even sure why I made this a miserable post, I’m in a good mood), I wanted to include my favorite blog entry ever. And when I say ever, I mean it. Grief is one thing, but nostalgia can be nearly pure bliss. A fond memory, then.

Friday, December 14, 2007

Dear Mom,

There they were, sitting at the bottom of a box left over from freshman year. The stamps.

I went downtown yesterday to do some mandatory academic advising, which consisted of me meeting with the assistant dean and  her telling me that I’m graduating. We went over the few discrepancies/requirements left on my transcript and got it all settled.
I told her I was sorry and she interrupted me before I could finish, saying, “You’re dropping a minor aren’t you?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m adding another one. It’s so late, I know.”
She laughed and called me an overachiever to which I responded, no, I’m quite the underachiever, you’d be surprised.
All in all, I have the credits nearly completed and the requirements nearly done (my god I just need to pass statistics–which shouldn’t be a horrible experience. I have no problem with tangible data, it’s the process I can’t do. Theorems escape me. I got from point A to point B, do I really need to know every step it took to get there?)
You are looking at a very nearly college graduate. I will have a major in Communication Studies with minors in English, Sociology and Women’s/Gender Studies. ha, not bad considering this has been a wild four year run. Even with the Denver semester, I’m still going to be able to graduate on time (sort of…one summer class isn’t bad) and then hopefully start school again in the fall.
I’ve decided to attempt to apply to DU for their MSW program starting in the fall. I may not have the experience, but I’m hoping to sway them with my writing skills which I consider on par with the greats. (The previous statement is a bold lie. I’m hoping they enjoy confidence or at least the pretense of it.) Anyway, if I don’t get in (which I’m expecting will be the outcome), I’ll stick to the original plan and get a job in DPS. However, if I get in (please, please) then I will be able to start the full-time two  year program in the fall.
I’ve been trying to get around doing it, but I just requested my transcripts from Loyola and need to do so from MSCD so it looks like I’m actually applying. I spent like two hours the other day trying to figure out how to write a curriculum vitae that makes me look like a thrilling, dynamic individual. On paper, I’m really lame. Personal interviews, however, are another thing. I’m engaging, entertaining, intelligent. Not really. But you know, it never hurts to try.

I’m procrastinating again. I should be reading the 30 pages of feminist literature I have due in an hour. But alas, I’m not.
 I found out yesterday that I not only have an ear infection but my first parking ticket of the year as well.
I’m getting nervous. This afternoon’s task is write a resume (eek, I’ve done it before but for some reason it always leaves me feeling so inadequate), and then attempt to begin to tackle the seven page life response that they require. Other than that, it’s just a check and some online forms I’ve already filled out. Pray for me or send me thoughts or something of a spiritual nature: I’ll need it now more than ever.

The morning has brought a much brighter outlook. Not necessarily sunny, but looking up.

I’m posting my schedule as much for me as for you.

Monday Wednesday and Friday:
-Fundamental Statistics at 11:30 -12:20  (STAT 103)

(The statistics class is the math core requirement, which has remained open after the logic fiasco.)

Monday nights:
-Advanced Reporting from 7:00-9:30 downtown (CMUN 315)

(Ugh. I swore I would never do anything journalistic again. I’m good at it, I just really hate reporting for some reason. I needed this class for the Civic Engagement Requirement –it was either that or a social work class that I couldn’t make due to a Spanish conflict.)

Tuesday Thursday:
-Introduction to Women and Gender Studies 8:30-9:45 (WSGS 101)
-Feminism and Gender Topics 11:30-12:45 (ENGL 307)
-Spanish 1:00-2:15 (SPAN 102)

Thursday nights:
-Introduction to Social Work 7:00-9:30 downtown (SOWK 200)

(I just added this class today thinking that I don’t need the human reproduction class that I was in, but instead, it might be nice to try out social work before I try to do it for a living. I don’t know if you remember, but I was thinking about majoring in social work for awhile but then decided against it because communications offers such a broader spectrum of employment opportunities. While I’m not thrilled about having a Thursday night class, it opens up my afternoons so that I might be able to do some more volunteer work/get in a yoga class/do some more childcare.

Seeing it out for the first time makes it look easier than I had previously thought. I tried to add a seventh class so that I could just finish everything up and not have to take summer classes, but they’re still blocking it. So I guess if I’m going to have to pay extra, I might as well wait until the summer to do it. I can do the first six week session (the second is out now because of jury duty and the big move) and then be done with it by the middle of June.

For a senior in college, there are a surprising amount of 101 classes. I know this. I finished my major so long ago and am just now cleaning everything up. I won’t lie, I didn’t do so well at the long term plan during my first couple of years of school. 

Before I get all moody as I am prone to doing, I’d like to share with you a travel tip I learned today: Don’t correct TSA employees on their grammar, not even under your breath. They have sharp hearing. 

I sat in my car and sobbed, letting hot tears fall down my face and down under my chin.
I sat in the dark and in the cold and cried.
My fingers hurt, a pain extending form the core of my palms.
I know it’s the exhaustion. I just need sleep and in the light of tomorrow I’ll feel better. Easy enough, but not quite.

Life is strange and beautiful. I love being able to feel so deeply but I hate it. One of the biggest strengths to my character is my ability to truly feel the emotion I’m feeling. It’s also the worst detriment. I love the exuberance of youth, the feel of an arm thrust out the window of a speeding car, the music, the mountains, the joy. I let myself feel it, unrestrained. And then I feel the equal but opposite reaction. The empty, the alone. Rebuilding. Renewing. blah blah blah I hate people who preach change but I’m holding onto that sentiment with all I have.

I’m here and there’s so much to do. Simon looks terrible. The window is horrible. I can hardly see out of it. The car was not left in good condition—there’s much cleaning to be done, both inside and out. The house, my room, the big black bag of clothes that desperately needs donated. Time is marching forward. Shopping for school supplies is a must do on the list for tomorrow.

Emily and I made dinner and are watching a movie.

Perseverance, however. I am applying to DU for fall admission. I don’t want to wait a year. I may not get in, but at least I tried. If I am rejected, which I am fully expecting, I will spend the year building my experience base through volunteering and lots of field experience before reapplying next year.  So either way I’ll be doing either DU or hopefully a DPS job.  Only problem is that I have ten days to get the application in. Deadlines, deadlines. I’ve enlisted Maddie as my unemployed life coach to help me get this all situated. Keep yours fingers crossed, dear readers.

I’ve got that same uneasy feeling I get before I go back to Chicago. Everytime. There is no state of mind that makes it any different. Whether or not I’m reluctant to go (which I usually am), it’s always a sense of foreboding that fills me in the days leading up to my departure.
I’ve had so much fun being home. Last night, Val and Heidi and her dad and I played trivia. It was excellent. We won, and the judge developed a fondness for me based on my answer of “Wolverine (growl)” to a question about the largest in the weasel family in the US.
I’ve loved going out downtown. I will say that Denver’s eligible bachelors are infinitely more attractive than the ones in Chicago and quite a bit nicer too. I wish…a few things but fate must have something up its sleeve. Perhaps not all is lost, but then again, I can never read the people that I need to the most. Character is one thing, intentions are completely another.
My senses are spinning. Especially now, when I know what lays in store for me for the next semester. The break up was horrible, not on my end, not at all, but for him. The way he’s reacted to it has made me cringe at the thought of seeing any of our mutual friends. While the old adage, “stick and stones may break my bones…” seems to apply here, it’s taken me all that I can do not to fire back. I’ve slipped once and have since received even worse treatment. I do not have to tolerate such abuse.
I thought everything would be done and over by the time I got back, thought that time would heal all wounds, but alas, it has not.  However, Simon has been put in the safekeeping of Madeline, so I feel a little bit better about that situation. I will be picked up from the airport on Sunday afternoon and will immediately be taken for drinks. Immediacy is the prescription for the evening, just as overcome and avoid has been the plan of action since Thanksgiving.
I’m hesistant to leave the house. (I just re-read that sentence and realized it sounds nutty. I am not hesitant to leave the house in terms of going outside, I am hesistant to leave because it’s my home and has been for the last 18 years.) I’m hesistant to leave Mom alone for the next few months. I’m going to miss Katie (always).
I feel the loose ends piling up and I realize that there’s nothing to be done but take flight and hope for the best.

48 hours until Chicago (give or take 1 hour).
4 days until classes resume.
6 weeks until I set foot back in Colorado.
4 months until I am a college graduate.
6 months until I move back to Colorado.
6 months until jury duty (thrilled).
7 months until I hopefully have a job with DPS.
18 months until I begin graduate school.

This semester is about me. I’m not going to let anyone dictate my terms. I’m going to eat all my vegetables, learn how bake, fight for something I believe in (this may mean finally joining the anti-death penalty people who always call), get straight As (I believe that this can be accomplished simply by doing my homework. What a novel idea), write, and learn how to love myself.

So wish me luck on the 8th leg of the grand adventure that has been Chicago. Let’s hope the city saved the best for last (and by best I don’t mean worst).

Youth poetry slam was thought provoking, but the thoughts that sprung to mind weren’t necessarily brought on by the insights that the young poets were sharing. Insights, hardly. The repetition repetitively repeated itself until there was very little left to say. One poet, however, chose to perform a piece about chili-mac-and-cheese. Unique.

It was an enjoyable evening, dark wine to match the dark curtains hung behind the stage. Red like the lights draped across the ceiling. Wooden chairs, clustered young adults throughout a crowded room. Music from another room floated in as the waitstaff flitted back and forth, carrying clear pitchers of water.

Four performers, or five, maybe. I whispered the scores I’d have given, not really wanting to give scores at all. Poetry is such a personal art, I thought, held so close. Created, sometimes quite poorly with the worst of intentions. All writing is created with the worst of intentions, though; really, a self-serving selection of words, melodrama, lingering glances and forced emotional pain from which might spring personal growth, all set for a stage created and existing only in the author’s mind. But that’s where the beauty is. To see it is to connect, for a second, with the words they wrote, to feel them, almost, but barely, to know them.

Anyway, it’s strange how so much of growing up can’t be taught. I think that’s what I drew from watching youth poetry. Think. Because I was so busy living somewhere else, I’m not entirely sure what I drew. Perhaps a million poems from now I’ll know what I felt.
Listening to life experiences that can’t be relived is beautiful, but then again, so is living.

I turned on the tv this morning to fall asleep and the movie “The Dead Poet’s Society” was on. Do you remember going through that Walden Pond phase? Whew, I’ll never forget senior year of high school. I embraced transcendentalism like a second skin, loving the possibilities that it offered. Even thinking about it now makes me smile. I seized the subject matter with such fervor, not wanting to wade through Emerson or Thoreau, but wanting to dive in. But the details have long been forgotten.

I emerged as we all must from that phase having realized that life cannot be lived in the mind. And thus, I had forgotten the rush that I felt as a lost teenager when the BRAND NEW NEVER BEFORE SEEN idea of “Carpe Diem” hit me. NO ONE had ever felt like that. NO ONE, NEVER. Ha, ha, it’s sad to think that now I’ve realized that instead of being unique I was merely being another in the long line of people to embrace and then disregard (perhaps not entirely) the ideas that Emerson and Thoreau (among many others, including A.E. Waite – of Rider Waite Tarot card fame) put forth into the world.

I watched about five minutes of the movie before growing annoyed at everything: their actions, their ideas, etc. I turned on HGTV and learned how to stage a house for sale (arguably a better waste of time) and finally fell asleep, most definitely not seizing the day.

Some of that jumble of thoughts must have lingered because I woke up with the urge to go exploring. Instead, I walked the Highline Canal from Iliff through Fairmont and back. I know it’s really morbid, but I love graveyards. They are so peaceful, so stunningly set apart from the rest of the surrounding city, so immense in their silence and calming in their sprawling, curving layouts. The path cuts through the cemetery, backing up to one of the mausoleums (I’m not sure that it’s what they’re called–those tall, flat, white wall-like structures?). As I passed, I heard a family crying as they buried one of their relatives. The pain was acute and although I felt it not for them in particular, I felt it for those who have to grieve and lose.

Life, for all its beauty, is an immense burden to bear.
To all of those in our family grieving, I extend my support. I’ll not pretend to know your pain or even try to understand it.

Avery came over tonight, knocking at the back door in the dark.  She was wearing the tiniest little boots but had her pants pulled up past her knees. She proceeded to inform me that they may have gotten wet on the walk over. I opened it and she came in. “Where’s Ms. Barry?” she asked. “At quilting class,” I told her. “Oh, I came over to see you,” she told me matter-of-factly.
We had hot chocolate and played with Barbies. I had to be Prince Erik, but it’s alright. No less than three times did she say, “I love you, Katie.” I would be Prince Erik or even one of the “mean ones” forever to get to hear her say that or even to hear her chatter away.

Also, completely unrelated to most everything in the blog: Please don’t workout without a shirt. Especially indoors. This applies to all genders, races and age groups. yuck.

T H E   F O R E H E A D   D O T
>
> Finally, someone has explained this.
>
> For centuries, Hindu women have worn a dot on their foreheads. Most of
> us have naively thought this was connected with tradition or religion,
> but the Indian Embassy in Washington , D.C. , has recently revealed
> the true story.
>
> When a Hindu woman gets married, she brings a dowry into the union. On
> her wedding night, the husband scratches off the dot to see whether
> he’s won a convenience store, a gas station, a donut shop, a taxi cab
> or a motel in America .. If nothing is there, he must remain in India
> to answer telephones and provide us with technical support.
> 

I received the above forward in my Gmail inbox this morning and haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. It followed one that involved “brain tests” to see if we could spot something different in a group of the same. Guess which test was included? Spot the black president.

I won’t say much because I know that I too am guilty of letting these things slip by unnoticed, but this is unacceptable behavior if we want to consider ourselves people of the world.

The most intelligent professor that I have had in my four years of college is an Indian woman. Slender with long dark hair and a beautiful smile, she stands in front of us not with a little red dot but with the knowledge of cultures, languages and literature that I can only dream of.

So stop putting everyone you know or meet or even talk about in a corner based on their history, race, culture, religion, etc. It’s nasty, very un-neighborly behavior.

I think that this is a response to a comment I made at dinner the night about rape. I feel guilty. A sentence slipped out of my mouth that I regret saying, even thinking. And you know what, maybe what I was saying had some partial truth value but at the same time, it didn’t need to be voiced. Every woman has a right to the sanctity of her own body and no matter who she is or what profession she may have taken on, no one should ever take that right away from her. That being said, the truth is the truth and no amount of distortion should be allowed to create a situation.

I’m in town until next Sunday — I wanted to be able to get to Ft. Collins (which I now will be able to do!!) and get other stuff done. No real reason other than avoiding Chicago for the moment. Very mature, I know. We’ve got someone guesting on our couch and I am not in the mood to deal with visitors now, so hopefully that will all be over by the time I go back. I miss Simon, though, and desperately need to get him to a shop where he can be cleaned up. Apparently, Goo-Be-Gone (sp?) hasn’t helped with the spray paint. I swear, I want to find that kid who did it and spray paint him.

I couldn’t get a good picture of Lola as she scampered around the bathroom after she jumped in, nor did I want to take one while she looked so miserable trying to escape, so I scooped a very soggy bunny out of the tub and set her on the floor. (Only her feet and a bit of her backside got wet, no worries about any bunny health problems.) 

Trying to explain Dad is like trying to explain nuclear fission to a two year old. You can scratch the surface, basically, but without a full understanding of the essential parts, you’ll never quite grasp it. Nuclear fission may have been a bad example. I only understand the basics of that, so I certainly hope no two year old ever asks me about it. The little boys sometimes put me in that situation with parts of machines. Not being a four year old boy or a mechanic, I don’t understand how the combine works. They don’t want an overview, they want the in depth analysis. This is why I love Google.

Ah, but that’s not what lunch was about, not nearly.
We went nearby to sit somewhere quiet. On a Friday afternoon, nowhere is quiet shortly after noon. However, as expected, there was very little said between us. Things took a turn for the worse after some comments were made that offended me, so I responded. And the response went somewhere I wasn’t prepared for it to go: the past.

There are many things that should never been said to a child, not even to a teenager. There are many things that no child/teenager (for the purpose of this whole rant, a teenager is a child) should ever overhear or be forced to listen to. 

The plane flight might be delayed. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to stay here. It’s too bad I can’t spend the week tucked away somewhere warm or even flying from place to place. I had thought that this was going to be an easy semester to begin, but then again, I thought wrong. I think we’re 8/8 on that count.

Katie is coming!! We will be reunited tomorrow night!!

I’m also in the middle of emailing to get out of jury duty. I’m really bummed out that I won’t be able to do it yet, but there’s always another time.

My time left in Denver is drawing to a close, and for the first time in a long time, I’d say that I’m reluctant to go.

I feel as though this break has been exactly the push that I need to start taking advantage of the fact that I’m about to make huge life decisions in the next few months to a year. I’ve spent the last six months or so terrified of what comes next, and even though I’m going to lie and say I’m okay with it now, I’m not. I won’t be. But I’m going to shove ahead and hope for the best.
However, on the bright side, things have made me realize that everything will work out fine. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself; Chicago taught me that. I know what I don’t want. I am starting to figure out what I do want.

Anyway, I have a list in my head that includes things I’d like to do for myself this semester. Just for me. (I am hoping that this semester, albeit lonely, might be as pleasant as the spring semester that I spent in Denver.)
Yoga–studio like three blocks from my apartment, walking-in the freezing cold snow weather, more frequent trips down the bike path to the Peace Garden (I profiled it in one of my videos for production last year…perhaps you’ve seen it), sleep, homework –last semester I set foot in the library for maybe the fourth time since I’ve been at Loyola– this semester I have scheduled in breaks in which to concentrate on homework, de-cluttering (I put this on the list even though I know it won’t ever get done. I feel like it’s been on every list since my birth), and lastly, writing. The idea of freelancing is seductive to me. Somewhere in there I’d like to expand my babysitting career as well, but I’ll take what I can get.

My goal is also to write a more direct, thoughtful blog. And by that, I think I just mean more pictures. I’m going to embark on a journey to photograph the Chicago that I know and love, and the Chicago that drives me nuts. Perhaps that will be my writing assignment. I’m assuming I’ll be out and about a lot this semester since my Civic Engagement core requirement is being met with Advanced Reporting. I was really hoping to get out of Loyola without going any further down the Journalism path, but at least Connie Fletcher isn’t teaching it.

Even though it’s nothing like senior year of high school, when I was poised to make another big change, it is exactly like that. I feel a pull, something telling me I belong back here. The decision is so solid, has been, that I know that it’s the right thing to do. I think life is holding out on me. I just wish it’d tell me what it wants, but I’m off on that journey blindly. But I’m all or nothing, so here’s both all and nothing.