A decade of talking about feelings

Ten years ago, today, I was already up to my chin in what would be an absolutely life changing summer. I am known to throw around the hyperbole pretty loosey-goosey over here, but as I look back on my development into human-hood, the summer of 2004 stands out as a 1-UP-mushroom game changer for life.

It comes down to having the opportunity to invent myself. I had never really had the chance to be new anywhere where people cared. The person I was in high school was just a slightly taller version of the neurotic, precocious asshole third grader I had been, despite the fact that I now had boobs and a quickly developing dry wit. No one cared if I had become a better human, they all knew me and had written me off (except for my friends. You four are the best).

In New York, I had time to perfect the version of myself that I had been cultivating. But I was also busy cultivating keeping our electricity on and learning how to be a functioning roommate instead of a slobby asshole. The summer of 2004 was where all the practice of being a person paid off. I was not the best version but I was finally, a version of me that I liked more than any of the other previous iterations.  It was nice.

Also, let's be real, it was a summer of hedonism. Booze, pasta, lack of pants.  I subsisted off of alcohol and whatever other people would feed me, with the occasional peanut butter sandwich. I lived in a room with a girl who I delighted in despising. She was a fine person, but it was more fun to hate her and make drama (though, with that in mind, we got along great for two people who shared a 10'x4' cell that was only ever 100 degrees F). And it was a summer of shitty things too. Some not-nice things happened. There were so many tears, and not-nice words. But even those moments are tucked away with, "I am happy these happened, they made me a better version of me."

I learned that life should be lived, if for nothing else, "just for the story." Most of my favorite, best, oft-retold stories are from those brief and shining months free from responsibility and left to make choices that felt right in the moment. So I almost drove a car into a house, and made my friend do a shot of cooking oil, and poured hot wax on another friend's chest by accident.

I lived with people that, somehow, to this very day are in my top 10 of favorite people. I also lived with people who I have never seen since, and that is just as awesome. They came into my life for this one shining moment, with their kittens and their Mormonism and their ginger boyfriends.

It would have been totally different if I went to actual college, if I had four years of what I got all in one summer. I probably would not hold this summer up on quite such a large and sparkley pedestal, but I feel like I almost prefer it that way (which is good because our time machine is in the shop).

Since the end of May, I have been thinking about this post, and these memories. I have been reliving it with some of the cast of characters but mostly alone, enjoying reflecting on a time that feels so far away, and yet, not that long ago. I also am grateful/wistful/thoughtful that this all happened before facebook was even a twinkle in our eye. So the only picture I could find online of it is this one.

Which is pretty perfect (despite the fact that my shirt looks really weird). I am fairly sure I had no idea how that camera worked. It is only because of this turd nugget of a magnificent human being this even happened. Stupid Mikey Pits putting ideas in my head and instigating dumb shit like this.

While it is only in retrospect, I am always and forever (ie- never), tryna hang out.

TBIF: Iceland is my friend

Last night I had the delightful opportunity to talk to my most favorite Teeny on the eve of her trip to Iceland. I made so many demands of her Iceland time (rye ice cream was at the top of the list) but mostly I just wanted her to love it for me because I'm so far away and busy.

Anyway, I spent most of the day wishing that I could just drop everything and get on the next flight to hang out with her, but since I couldn't (being a grown-up is the worst), I revisited some of my favorite Iceland internet finds.

The Iceland on Tumblr (Iceland wants to be your friend) blog is one of the best things on the internet. It is happiness in Tumblr form.

This Inspired by Iceland music video might be the best tourism video I have ever seen. Also, the Holocene video from Bon Iver makes my heart hurt in the best way.

Of course, feel free to read my entire Iceland saga.

Think about how much fun Teeny is having and wish you were having it too. Then book your trip to Iceland.

Plan-nerd

So, my goal to use a planner to blog isn't working out, not because of any fault of the plan itself, but because I have not committed to carrying the planner around because it is just one.more.thing in my always-full bag.

Which leads me to believe that my brain may have gone completely electronic in the past year. The act of writing things down only applies to work to-do lists. I'm starting to do my second-best writing in the notes app of my phone (my first-best writing will always be up in my head).

It's a bummer because my commitment to the system that is failing means that I find myself struggling for blog topics.

So today, because I'm sick and haven't showered and am still wearing my pjs (classy lady) you get a blog about how I am failing to blog how I want to.

Also, here is one of my favorite old blog posts: Moral of the Story. I was 21 and I had what I thought were actual problems. But they were no more "actual" then the lame complain-y white girl problems I have now.

My childhood with Marcella

Once upon a time. When boyfriend was not quite boyfriend yet, just a boy who made my chest hurt, he was trying very hard to impress me.

We were swapping memories and I told him I was going to make him one of my favorite meals from childhood - pasta with bacon, peas and ricotta. He said it sounded gross. To which I replied, you sound gross. 

In an attempts to win my affection, boyfriend went to the store to purchase all the things I said I needed for this meal.

"Why did you get black-eyed peas?"

"For your thing. You said you needed peas."

"Yeah. I need peas. Actual peas."

"Oh."

In an attempt to look like I handled crisis and change well, I went ahead and made the dish with the (eventually very incorrectly cooked) black-eyed peas.

When we sat down to eat, I could barely hold back my emotions.

"This is kind of ruining my childhood."

He stoically ate all of it, leftovers included.

Eventually, I must have made the dish correctly for him, and he was not impressed. He said he couldn't really taste the difference between this and the other version. 

Once again emotions rose up in me and I tried very hard not to punch this still-not-boyfriend in the nose.

This dish, and many others that came from the pages of Marcella Hazan's kitchen were such huge parts of my childhood happiness, it was hard (still is hard) for me to understand how they don't evoke the same emotions in others.   

The food of Marcella Hazan is the food of my favorite memories. This dish of everyday-excuse-for-bacon joy, rice salad of Nantucket summer nights, pasta al forno (with homemade bolognese) for birthdays and welcome homes. Any and all of these things, eaten the next morning, a bonus dinner for breakfast treat.

Boyfriend managed to stick. So did these meals. Every one now cooked in my kitchen too. 

Thank you, Marcella, for a delicious life.

Other people wrote about her too: In the New York Times, and the New Yorker.

Pictured: my first ever made all-by-myself pot of Bolognese.

 

All the words

Five years ago, this August, I pretended I was a photojournalist for 4 days. I won the right-place-right-time-right-parents lottery and got to "cover" the 2008 Democratic National Convention for a regional newspaper's blog.

Those four days were some of the most overwhelming, eye opening days of my entire life.

I cried, I barely slept, I fought and lied and sweet talked.

After those four days, I was ready to hang up this particular dream. Professional photographer had always sounded ideal but when I got down to the nitty-gritty, I realized I didn't have the patience, the stamina or the raw talent to do this day in and day out.

And if anything, it made me treasure amazing photojournalism more than ever. Not all amazing photojournalism wins Pulitzers (although, seriously? THIS). Some of it is never seen beyond the circulation of people who walk out to their driveways in the morning to pick up actual-physical-make-your-fingers-grey paper. That's fine.

Stories don't need to be widely circulated, or mass produced, or bought by AP to be well told, beautiful stories. They just need to keep existing.

Which is why this news from the Chicago Sun Times (which is actually from Gawker, because Chicago Sun Times won't cover their own story) breaks my heart and fills me with rage.

This will never work. They'll think its working but the adage about photos and thousands of words is absolutely true. Everything will be fake and shallow. Newspapers are going to die way faster if they continue to punch themselves in the face.

Seriously, what kind of dbag looks John H. White in the eye and say that he's been replaced by something teenages use to take dick pics?

First position

If you happened to be on State street between Lake & Randolph tonight and looked up, you may have seen me attempting to reclaim a small piece of my childhood.

Last year, on a whim I bought a groupon to the Joffrey Academy for 5 classes. And of course, it is expiring in two weeks so I figured I should probably use it.

I didn't have tights or a leotard, but I did have my shoes. I've easily had these shoes longer than I've had most people that read this blog. Dating back to the late 90's these shoes have traveled through many states and even to South Africa with me. I haven't worn them probably since 2006 or so, but they travel light and there was no reason to throw away one of the very last pieces of my childhood.

I kept meaning to take a dance class in Chicago, but circus class sounded like way more fun, and then improv was something I was actually really good at (rather than something I just loved) plus I got to drink beer afterwards. So it was put off.

And now I am in a place of grouchiness where my body is concerned. Turns out you can't live on cookies and pasta for two months without working out and not gain all of the pounds. So this was not the ideal way to get back in the game. But I toughened up and did it.

First, I felt like a dbag for showing up in gym capris and a tank top instead of my black and pinks, but I felt slightly better that I was the only one not committing this terrible, terrible fashion faux-pas. Also, I wasn't late. So basically, we're even-stevens in the faux-pas department.

I made it through class. And more heart-filling, I found myself smiling in the middle of class, smiling for messing up the degage in the back, for a perfect inside pirouette, a high grand jete, and doing 36 changements in a row without stopping. All these things I didn't think my body was capable of doing and I was managing it, despite my busted, janky shoes.

I have four classes left on my groupon - all that I'll do in the next two weeks (next time read the fine print, dummy) and after that, we'll see if I still love it as much as I did tonight. But one thing is for sure, its time for these shoes to go. Good-bye childhood, you hurt my feet.

I'm finna talk about my mama if yall don't mind

Its Mother's Day. And I would be remiss not to mention the most important Mom I know. The one who ever so patiently waited two weeks past my due date for me to make my grand entrance. And then loved all 10 pounds of me even though I was sickly and required lots of special attention (typical).

There are a billion reasons why my Mom is the bees knees. But my Dad (who is also pretty great) reminded me of one of my favorites this morning. 

When we were all a lot younger we lived in Washington D.C. in a townhouse with a yard and a toy room in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood which had its share of problems in the mid-1980's.

Just down the street was Our Church. It looks like this.

Image (via)

Some day I will write more about how much this place and the people who came with were game changers in my existence. But this was not only just Our Church - my Mom worked here as the Parish Administrator (a two-fer, if you will)

And in 1988 - when things were really bad, and people were selling drugs literally on the steps of the church, two young men were killed on the sidewalk in front of the building.

Something had to be done. So my Mom decided to have a vigil.

She sat on the steps of the church, every night, with some other amazing folks, as the sun set. And people didn't sell drugs. Were they being sold somewhere else instead? Maybe - but my Mom was doing her part to keep her family and community safe.

Every time I think about this story - it makes my heart burst with pride. And I recognize where my fierce determination to do good comes from. In the same situation, I hope I would find the same spirited stubbornness. A "Hey you kids, get off my lawn," mentality with a "let's change our corner of the world," mission.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Thanks for keeping me safe.

(You can read more about this story and Our Church here)

Book 10, 10.1, 10.2 - If I Were in Charge of the World and Tamora Pierce books

That was an excessively long title, but I need to catch up a little on these.

 (image via)

I read If I Were in Charge of the World two months ago.  It took about an hour.  But it was a delightful hour.  Kids poetry is so unassuming and I don't really have to guess at the meanings or read between any of the lines.  Adult poetry sometimes takes more trouble than its worth - kids poems are like a glass of Sprite.  Clean and refreshing and with some bubbles.

Buy a kid you know a copy of this poetry book.  Read all the poems together and then write poems.  Go.  Do it now.  You will be surprised at how inspired you are.  No seriously, I'll wait.

The reading of Pippi and of this have really reinforced my determination to get at least one or two kids who hate reading to come around to it at some point in the next...ever.  I don't know how I'm going to do it - but I'll figure it out.  You can't hate reading.  You just can't.

Also, in the dropping off of letters that my Mom did, she also left behind some books.  Per my request, as I thought that my bookshelves were not looking overstuffed enough.  Some of the books she left behind were a sampling of Tamora Pierce offerings.  So of course, rather than read something new - I immediately had to read Lioness Rampant and Wild Magic in quick secession.

 (image via)

(image via)

I cannot remember the last time I read either of these books all the way through so I had some new thoughts on them.

One - Dang.  There is a lot of sex.  I am all for girls being heroes and getting their swerve on but, Dang.  And while I would never call someone who had sex with exactly three people a slut, for some reason when I read this book I am lead to believe that she is a little bit of a ho (fo' sho'). 

Also this book is for kids - I guess maybe there is the hope that 12 year old girls won't understand what, "sharing a bedroll," means, but kids are way smarter than we give them credit for.  Or maybe Ms. Pierce just wants girls to know that its okay to get Biz-ay - as long as you wear a charm around your neck that will keep you from getting from pregnant, because we all know those are 100% affective.

Boyfriend kept trying to read over my shoulder as I was reading so that he could make fun of me (he sneaked a peek at the back cover and was full of judgement).  When I refused to let him read it he would invite ridiculous text for the book that was, embarrassingly, not that far off from the actual.

These books are super ridiculous and yet, I love them.  I totally dig 'em and I am a big fan of Tamora Pierce as you can tell from this lovely sepia tone photograph.

Fun fact, right before this picture was taken, my good friend McKim was very mad at me because I had just dropped the F-bomb in a children's book store and McKim doesn't really approve of that sort of behavior.

Musings on Being Burgled

This is not a fun post to write and for the past four days, I've avoided writing it.  I kept telling myself it was far too cliche to blog about getting robbed but I keep writing it in my head.  The sentences are swirling and they won't leave me alone until I put them out on the internets (stupid sentences).

My life has become just a series of lists.  A list of lists.  Of things that were taken of value, of things that were taken but are worthless, of things that weren't and should of been, of things that weren't and could of been.  The past few days I have not really felt like a person, but rather just a zombie with things.  Or rather, without things.  Without a little camera, without a rolling suitcase, without a TV, without laptops, without nearly every piece of jewelry I've ever owned.

Its not so much the things, its the memories that they inspire.  My heart is broken that I won't be able to wear my big pink ring for T-bone's wedding.  The rings we bought to cement our love, and because we could.  Because we were young and stupid and we could do whatever we wanted.  The ring that means just that. The cuff bracelet from South Africa.  The ruby slipper from Granny, which every one thought looked like a letter from the Hebrew alphabet, that reminded me I was never far from home.  I'm even going to miss all the stupid lightship basket jewelry.  While I never wore it - just seeing it hanging there reminded me of my favorite place.  The bears bracelet.  The bracelet from when Boyfriend got mugged in Jamaica.  My gorgeous Murano glass ring and new Turquoise necklace - things that barely had a chance to become memories.  

I do have to make a confession, I have been telling everyone that I am now, "a girl who does not own a single pair of earrings." which is delightfully hyperbolic but not entirely accurate.  They took my jewelry box and jewelry out of various little boxes on my dresser (I am a girl who loves little boxes, I take after all the women in my Mother's family that way) but they did not take my necklace tree (so I have like 10 necklaces to my name).  Just the earrings in the basin of it.  There were ones hanging from a branch of the tree that both managed to hold on through the terror.  So I have one pair of earrings.  The pearls my Big Cuz gave me when I was in her wedding.  I haven't worn them since.  Maybe I should start?  Meh, I don't really wear earrings anymore because my lobes are crazy sensitive.  It doesn't take away from the fact that I feel so strange not owning earrings or bracelets or rings (I now own exactly one of each). 

While I am a pretty big failure as a girl, I am quite proud of my jewelry collection.  Its weird to know that as of Wednesday I'm starting almost all over.  Its all just very weird.  To feel as though a part of my ladyhood - a superficial silly part to be sure is just kind of not there anymore.  Earrings.  Who knew how much I attached them to femininity.

I learned a lot about how my brain works.  First of all - I cry a lot when there is no one near by to calm me down.  In terms of fight or flight - I still maintain (though it has never been truly put to the test) that I am hands down a Flight, but with the caveat of post stress fortitude and determination.  Once I got home and knocked off the waterworks, I could not just sit and wait for things to happen.  I needed to be doing - even if that doing is going through all the dumpsters on my block hoping that the robbers had realized that the things in my jewelry box that they had taken were (to them) valueless, and had abandoned them not too far away.  There was some calmness in the dark alley by myself.  The moments that I felt like I was doing something, were far preferred to sitting and waiting for someone else to take action.

Also - let's be totally effing serious.  My cat is fine.  My stupid, noisy cat did not take this opportunity to escape in to the great big world.  And for that, I am beyond thankful.  I am curious how she handled these intruders.  She is not one to shy away from anyone, really.  She has learned that the click of the deadbolt means there is someone home to snuggle and feed her and so she tends to jump off whichever piece of furniture she's on and run to meet you.  Did she do that when they pried open the deadbolt with a crowbar (PS, we got a better deadbolt)?  Did she meow at them because she wanted food?  How does that not humanize you?  How does that not make you think twice? How far gone into the depths of ambivalence that a cat trying to show you affection doesn't stop to give you pause?

What about pictures?  I've always (and still do) wonder how seeing family pictures and scribbled notes on yellow post-its does not affect the need to steal.  Does it make them more angry perhaps?  "How dare these people have happiness and a television?  It is my right to have at least one of these things that belongs to them?

The truly scariest thing was seeing our bedroom torn apart in a quest for hidden treasure (which they did not manage to find - a fact that fills me with bittersweet joy).  I am not a modest girl by any means, and I used to pay people to do my laundry (this is not weird, btw, everyone in New York does it - its normal and awesome, like most of NYC).  But the thought of someone touching my clothes gave me this sensation of exposure and discomfort that I wasn't really expecting.  For the first day and almost a half I couldn't even go into our bedroom because the feeling kept returning.  

And there are silver linings to every cloud.  For years I have been begging Boyfriend to have a sleepover party with me in the living room.  We own two fold out couches and I had never slept on either of them.  I have often mentioned how much fun I think it would be to pull out one of the couches and get out the sleeping bags and fuzzy throws and watch TV and sleep in the living room All Night.  Why I want this, I cannot actually tell you - but I do.  And Boyfriend refused to oblige (why sleep on an uncomfortable fold out when your actual bed is about 60 feet away is his far-too-logical thinking).  But the night after it all happened, he gave in.  Neither of us got much sleep - with every noise jerking us both awake - but it was a small glimmer of happiness.  Also, we left it out of the rest of the week.  As Boyfriend quickly discovered how awesome it is to have a bed in the living room.

We're going to be okay.  They just took things.  They did not take how much we love each other, or the strength we find together to get through the bad things.  And they certainly did not take away my ability to write in really hokey cliches.  Thank goodness.

Little City State of Mind

My heart will always belong in a big city.  Which big city is up for debate but I feel the most comfortable wrapped in the anonymity that these places provide.  That being said - my heart strings are being tugged, hard, for my little-big hometown right now.

One of the top 5 things Frederick, MD has going for it is the Maryland Ensemble Theater.  Truly, truly one of the most wonderful things that's been part of my life.  Anyway - in my time hanging out at the MET, like a stray hoping for scraps, I got to know Rona.

Rona is just...awesome?  I mean, pick some compliments out of a hat and they all work for her.  In her real life she was a DJ for a local radio station (she was Rona on the Road, if you will).  She's been on the same station for 17 years - up until just a few days ago when she "Left." Which is the PC way of saying the weenies running the show (which has a "new format" and a new "parent company") kicked her to the curb, but said they were sorry.

This is not the story to me though.  People lose jobs all the time - especially in radio (an especially with all that "new format" business), even people who deserve their jobs, who have been doing them forever and are very good at them lose their jobs - losing jobs is just a part of life.

But the outpouring of love and support for Rona is what makes my heart rise up into my throat.  How amazing to have a whole city of people shouting from the rooftops how much they love you.  Especially, this city which is full of people who all seem to spend most of their time complaining about each other (don't believe me?  Spend some quality time reading the reader comments on the Frederick News Post - particularly any article focused on housing developments or helping poor people - two things this town cannot seem to agree on). 

This is one of these things I miss about small town living.  This sense of true community - of knowing the woman who does the traffic on the radio station, of seeing people that you know on the street and not having it be a strange anomaly, but a lovely addition to the day, and to know the people who serve you coffee and work at your bank - and not just know them in those roles, but in their roles as parents and musicians and soccer coaches.

Its almost enough to make me go back to that world.  That love and support cannot truly be replicated in the world of public transit and .  And while I do revel in walking down the street and knowing that no one knows my business, I can see the benefits of the grass on the other side.

And to Rona who deserves whatever the eff she wants - You're a gem.  And you're loved.  No matter what happens tomorrow or the next day, you are truly loved.  I feel like that may be better than a job.

green city

I had this fear, possibly somewhat irrational but not totally unfounded, that in two or three years (or six or seven) that when I move away from Chicago I will suddenly realize that I had never seen the river dyed green for St. Patrick's Day.  Its one of those things that are kind of touristy, and yet I feel - an important part of Chicago tradition.

The rich culture of tradition is one of my favorite things about Chicago.  And some traditions are stupid and annoying, but they never fail to make me feel like a part of something.  And its the dumb songs, and the inside jokes and the nonsense that I love so much.

I have been told that the true amazing thing is to watch the river actually get dyed (as opposed to just seeing it all green) but that was not something that worked with my schedule this morning - so this will do for now.  I wish I had brought a real camera.  I also wish that downtown Chicago was not the epicenter of inebriated girls wearing too-little clothing, if only because it makes me feel very, very old.  Also, I don't like stepping on/near vomit (also, its NOON, learn to pace yourself).

Friday night, over too many drinks, I wondered out loud to a few of the friends I was with - if with the new Mayor coming in - the green dye budget was going to be cut.  And they assured me that people, many who would never bother to vote would be Up in Arms if their river did not get dyed.  They don't care who is in charge - they just want their more-green-than-normal.

Book 5 - Quite A Year For Plums

We are just humming right along.  Thanks public transit!

To be completely honest, I never would have picked up this book if it hadn't said "Author of 'Mama Makes Up Her Mind'" on the cover.  That was one of my most favorite books when I was 11 or so (I had NPR nerds for parents).  I loved Bailey White's short-possibly-some-what-autobiographical stories and hoped that Mama might make an appearance in this one.

Sadly, there was no Mama.  There was a whole bunch of other characters that I could never keep straight.  Ms. White provides a handy who's who list in the front of the book - but I was switching back to it so much that I got impatient.  Ultimately, not quite knowing how all these people were related did not really affect my enjoyment of the book.

And I enjoyed it a fair amount.  The tone was remarkably different from MMUHM - in a way that kind of disappointed me a little bit.  Part of the reason I loved MMUHM was because she was so frank and immodest about these crazy people, where I feel as though in this book - she was very delicate with these people who were pretty nutty.  It seemed as though she was worried she was going to offend, maybe? I don't know.

Anyway - Its an okay book.  At the end of it I was kind of meh - but also in a good mood and not sobbing my eyes out, so we've made some progress since the last book.

my turn

Hyperbole and a Half has a new blog post up which is enough to totally make my week most of the time.  If you aren't reading her you're making a huge error in Internet judgement.

My favorite post is this one for the very selfish reason that it totally happened to me (sort of kind of not at all)...

During my junior and senior years of college I was living in Prospect Heights in Brooklyn.  It was a lovely little neighborhood that bordered on one of the swankiest BK neighborhoods and one of the most dangerous.  I would get off at my train stop and I could see a White Castle just a few blocks down Atlantic Avenue but I never went there (despite my deep and insatiable love for small food) because it was, in general, a poor choice to go to places that, "Jay-Z talks about in his early work."

Anyway- my neighborhood felt safe enough but I heard plenty of stories of robberies and other stuff you don't tell your parents about so that I always was very aware of my surroundings (you don't not spring from the womb in the District of Columbia without some solid street smarts).

SO - at some point in that time I contracted a very serious case of the flu.  Having been a fairly healthy kid, I am not very well versed in how to be sick without being totally pathetic and ridiculous.  I was feverish and miserable and stayed in bed moaning.

At one point, around 10 or 11 PM I decided I was feeling better and decided I needed some ginger ale and orange juice immediately.  There was a 24-hour diner catty-corner to my building that delivered, so I called them.

"Hi, can I get a bottle of orange juice and a bottle of ginger ale."
"We don't have bottles, only cups."
"I can't get a bottle?"
"No."
"How much would a cup cost?"
"It would be $6 total."
"For a cup of ginger ale and a cup of orange juice?"
"Yes."
"That is ridiculous."
Click.

Even with a 102 degree fever I am a bargain shopper.

After I hung up I put on my coat.  Down the block in the other direction there was a bodega that was also 24 hours and I knew would be able to make me a better deal for more of the liquids I so desperately craved.  I had been wearing the same clothes for about two days but made no effort to do anything except put on outerwear and find some money.

I made it down the block and into the bodega just fine, but something, I don't know if it was the smell of the slightly rotten deli meat or the hundreds of virgin mary candles but I knew something was not going right.  I found my juice and ginger ale and tossed some dollar bills on the counter.  At this point I could not hold myself upright without leaning on the counter but I took my purchases (because we all know that the best thing to do when you can't handle your own body weight is add a quart of OJ and a 2 liter of Canada Dry) and walked out.

This is where things get hazy.  I know I made it across the street before I faceplanted.

As a kid I was always epically jealous of girls who fainted.  It was the way to get attention.  I used to wish that I could do it just once so that when I faked it it would at least look realistic (I was very method in my pretty, pretty princessness).

I don't quite know what happened when I really did faint - I do hope that there was an instant where I was having my teen-queen-movie-first-kiss moment where it was like, "This is it!" but I spent most of the way to the ground unconsious so there is no way to know.

Once I hit the asphalt I regained as much consiousness as can be expected pretty quickly.  At this moment, this could have taken a very SVU turn.  A smelly-ass 20-year old, with no identification on her, is passed out on the street corner at like 11:30 at night, and when I first opened my eyes I was totally disoriented (probably because I was lying on the ground) and so I kept saying, "this is not where I am supposed to be."

Luckily, the first person to come upon me muttering to myself wished me no harm.  Once he realized that I was still talking about not being in the right place he probably wished himself away from this sketchtastic scene.  But he very nicely asked me if he should call an ambulance.

"No, I'm fine."

Like I said- not super good at being sick.

I managed to stand up, fall back down and then stand up again while still insisting that I was totally fine and that I just needed to go one block and I would be home.

He was super wary about all this so, naturally, I negotiated, "listen, you can watch me walk to my apartment and then if I fall down again, you can call an ambulance."

He seemed fine with these terms so I stumbled home as fast as I could with the thought that the faster I walked the less likely I would be to pass out.  This logic managed to work as I made it in and up two flights of stairs, through my unlocked door and into bed before passing out again.

But Rachel, what about the orange juice and ginger ale?!

Don't worry.  They made it all the way through this journey unscathed some how and were incredibly restorative, making this entire adventure totally worth it.

RSVP

I, as you may have discovered from reading anything I've written, suffer from hyper-paranoia and crushingly low self-esteem.  This is never more evident than when I am planning a party.

When I was a kid, birthdays were easy.  You invited your eight best friends and they all came unless there was some sort of horrible girl scout camping trip scheduling snafu.  No one did not come to your birthday party when invited.  Looking back on this, it may be that all of my friends in grade school had parents who raised them right and made them RSVP yes even if they didn't want to go - but I was blissfully optimistic when I was young.  

In middle school things got dicier but it wasn't until my sweet 16 that I was worried about attendance at a party in my honor.  Luckily, lots of people came and I had a great time but there were moments of abject fear that no one was going to show up and the Braddock Heights Community Room was going to be barren wasteland of uneaten pizza and my tears.

In college I didn't really throw birthday parties for myself.  My 21st birthday had a moment where I thought no one was going to ever show up and considered just drinking myself into oblivion and becoming a homeless, drunk bum on the spot.  But people showed (eventually) and it ended up being one of my most favorite birthdays.  

And since moving to Chicago, for some reason, it was expected that I would throw myself a birthday party every year (with the exception of the first year when I could count the people I knew on one hand - that is a birthday story for another year).  And every year I have dealt with the fear that no one will come to my birthday party.  

It starts right around the two week prior mark where evite/facebook invites have gone out and only two or three people have responded.  So I invite about 30 more people, most of whom I am not actually friends with, in the hopes that they will all say yes and then more people will think that this is going to be a fun party and decide to come.  Then the paranoia hits its peak the day before the party when people start backing out like dump trucks in narrow alleys.  Parents are in town, or there is a rehearsal or they are getting their hair did.  I realize that no one loves me and I should give up now.

Has this ever been the case?  No...of course not.  My birthdays may have their fair share of drunk tears, but I always have fun.  But that doesn't make the fear go away.  

This year I am not having a party.  Instead I am having a benefit.  The organization I work for is having its annual gala the friday before my birthday.  Last year (my first year with the organization) there was no gala, so this is my first one.  And I am TERRIFIED.  The gala was not my idea and my hand is not really even in the planning of it, but since my whole life is wrapped up in this place, if this gala fails - it will ruin my birthday.

I have no idea if its going to fail - or succeed.  I've never done this before...but right now, three weeks out, its not looking good.  And every day I check the mail - and the picture does not get any brighter.  Again, this maybe normal, but it feels like it could be a birthday gone wrong that could turn me into a homeless, drunk bum.  

so nice

I recently had a very nice boy purchase a ticket for each of us to fly to New York City next month to celebrate the fact that I'm a year older. Even though it doesn't really matter because the next few years are kind of a hazy blur of attempting to get your crap together before you turn the big three-oh.

I am over the moon to be spending a significant amount of time in my favorite place. Last Christmas, C-Sea and I spent exactly 24 hours with Annie-Belle, walking around, shopping, and being cold. We also saw some of my most favorite people, ate some food and just enjoyed being in New York, which - I could do for hours. I could just enjoy New York for days. And so I plan to.

Here is a list of a few of the things I really want to do.

Please note - some of them may seem super touristy and there is a very good reason for that. Boyfriend has Never been to New York (he says he has, I say that everyone knows a layover in the airport doesn't count). So there are some things that you just can't skip (despite the fact that I will probably kind of want to).

New High Line Park on 8th Ave
Delicious BBQ from Brother Jimmy's
A huge, amazing Jackson Hole burger
Fat, Black Pussycat for a mind eraser and some cartoon network
Juniors Cheesecake (from Actual Juniors)
Central Park mostly the statue of the characters from Alice in Wonderland
The new playground at the South Street Seaport
Hot and Crusty for breakfast, or a solid midday snack
The Statue of Liberty, preferably the cheapest way possible (Staten Island Ferry)
A walk across the Brooklyn Bridge
Times Square for the very briefest of seconds.
A visit to my first apartment (and college)
some playtime in AnnieBelle's hood (its adorable despite its lack of proximity to anything)
Belgian Bar for some pomme frites and a classy beer
A bacon egg and cheese sammich from a street vendor
Dylan's Candy Bar (mmm. clodhoppers)
A 4 AM slice of New York pizza
Chelsea Market (mostly for a fatwich brownie)
And possibly, if we're feeling super classy - an Opera

Its slightly embarrassing that a vast majority of this list is food-related. But at least there is some activity in there to burn off the calories. And naturally I want to see some of the tens of people who still live in New York who remind me of when I was nineteen and dumb and full of confusion and promise. And I cannot wait to introduce Boyfriend to the place that shaped me and helped me grow and start on that journey to figure myself out - which I think is a lovely thing to revisit the week before my birthday.

What else should I do??

right here

So...my friend Anniebelle put the question out there. Where were you?

Luckily - I already covered this in a post - long, long ago (and yes, that is my very first blog...when you really have nothing to do some day you can read my spazoid, self-involved ramblings from freshman and sophomore year of college, its pretty humiliating for me, and for you for caring that much).

But as I read Annie's post I realized that this day, while always a day of remembrance, and of thanks for the people who devote themselves to making my life safe and blissfully naive, it is also a day of reflection.

Sometimes I think of September 11, 2010 as a mile marker in my life. Every year I take a moment (or two) to think about how I live my life and where I am going.

Naturally, I am a person who cannot conceive of a moment beyond next Thursday (despite what my planner, and flight schedule will tell you) so its somewhat impossible for me to make choices about what my life is going to look like next year (with the exception of I would like to be skinnier next year, that's about all I can come up with) but I can make sure, once a year to look at my life and see that I'm still doing good, trying hard and continuing to help make other peoples lives better.

This post is a little small orbit for today - but I think what I mean to say is - perhaps we should all take this day to think about how we live our lives, and if we're truly trying to make the world a better place for others, or even one person...and then try harder for the next year.

Can we all do that together?

Thoughts on Nantucket - Part 2 - Bread

These thoughts are taking much longer than I wanted. Work is taking up far too much of my blogging time.

Food on Nantucket is obviously delicious, because, for some reason, all food tastes better on vacation. And on Nantucket my family is blessed to have unlimited opportunities to eat on the front porch of Granny's house. The front porch overlooks the Atlantic ocean and is right on a public walkway - its basically an opportunity to make complete strangers incredibly jealous (my favorite kind of opportunity).

Anyway - the BEST part of Nantucket is eating your breakfast on the porch. Preferably after 10 AM to get the full hedonistic feeling.

When you are a kid - Nantucket is the only place your mom lets you eat sugary cereal. So you spend HOURS in the cereal aisle at the Safeway trying to find the best/worst most sugary disgusting you can find. This is not an easy task, until you're 12 and too cool to look and just get Reese's Puffs and Cinnamon Toast Crunch (which were always the best anyway). And that's what you eat.

Once you get to be a grown up - the only really acceptable breakfast is portuguese bread toasted with your choice of toppings. You can add fruit if you like, or juice or a cup of coffee - but the toast is the most important part. There are people in the world who think that portuguese bread tastes just like regular bread. They are obviously idiots who do not understand the finer things in life.

Again with the either or - there is Something Natural's portuguese bread and then there is Bake Shop portuguese bread. And you have a favorite. If you know what you're doing you have a favorite. Sure, you'll suffer through the other bakery if you absolutely must, but if someone really loved you - they'd have your preferred bread at the house.

And this is the kind of thing that can divide families. Example - Granny is a Something Natural kind of lady. Mom is a Bake Shop gal as am I. This makes things complicated - when I go with Mom, I am assured to have Bake Shop bread because apparently once you get to a certain age (mid-30's?) you can demand bakery products. At my young age - I am at the mercy of the matriarch of the house. But I suffer quietly.

Naturally toast is totally different from other bread needs - I would eat either as the outer perimeters of a sandwich. And they both have their bonus points. Bake Shop - Short bread cookies. They come in these huge squares and you break them off. Oh man... perfect boat food. Something Natural - oatmeal biscuits. Don't question it. Just accept it.

The fact that there is an epic battle over who makes the best bread is (of course) ridiculous. But, I think thats part of the fun. As if all you have to worry about when you're there is if you have the right brand of bread.

Also if you're out of Reese's Puff cereal. That is the kind of catastrophe from which the only escape is a trip to the dreaded Stop and Shop.

Thoughts on Nantucket. Part 1 - Transportation

So I am on Nantucket for a woefully brief time this Summer, and I've been looking at it with a more critical eye. Not for any particular reason, but just to help me understand the Why of "Why I love it so much."

First off, for my first thought - let me start with I had very romantic ideas about posting one of these a day for the 5 days that I was here, but then I remembered I am on vacation, and that just seemed a lot like work to me. So I have just been brain writing this week and I'm hoping to get them all out and in the world by sometime next week.

What I've discovered about Nantucket is it is an island of paradoxes, of "this or that's" of "what kind of people are you?" It permeates every part of your stay. For most people who only go once or twice - it probably doesn't register, but once you can no longer count the visits on both hands you realize just how picky/a jerk you are.

Getting to Nantucket is no easy feat. That's the problem with an island 30 miles out in the Atlantic.

When I was a kid, and when my Mom was a kid (which is as far back as this train goes) we were slow boat ferry people. It is about an eight hour drive from the D.C. area to Hyannis and depending on a variety of factors (age of children, boat reservation, traffic, sanity etc) this drive can take one to two days. If you're on the two-day side of things, then you stay in a hotel in Hyannis. Its almost always a Days Inn, and on very rare occasions it has a pool. Sometimes your bike gets stolen. Every now and then you get a cheeseburger or a doughnut.

We are Steamship Authority people. This used to be the only game in town, but then the Hyline showed up with its fancy seats from this decade and its speediness, but my family are staunch supporters of the Steamship Authority. When we were kids, and my Great-Grandmother was alive, we used to take our car over, because otherwise we would be stranded, but even once we stopped driving and walked on the boat - the first choice was the slow boat from the Steamship Authority.

The slow boat takes at least two hours (if not 2 and a half?) depending on the weather its a bumpy and monotonous ride, but it is the beginning of vacation. In fact, I've already waxed poetic about it.

Occasionally the fast boat becomes a necessity and it is fancy pants...but not the same.

Since moving out to Chicago, my only realistic option has been to fly over (normally on JetBlue - which I have a very tumultuous relationship with - because its almost affordable). This has been, for the most part, incredibly stressful what with tornadoes in Brooklyn, lost pilots and (of course) fog. Fog makes flying into Nantucket the most inexact annoying science every and leaves me longing for the days when I could get there by boat - as it should be.

two years ago...

Two years ago, today, I changed my clothes in the bathroom on the lower level of the Harold Washington Library.

I was coming from work, where I was required to wear jeans. And I didn't want to be wearing jeans for tonight (two years ago).

Because I wanted to look nice.

And the bus let me off downtown. On State and Van Buren.

And I didn't have time to go home.

So I went to the Library. And changed my clothes.

And then I left the library and felt slightly ridiculous about myself, but knowing it was worth it.

And that feeling?

Of absurdity that makes sense?

It hasn't gone away.

old/new thing

"I saw my first dead body." I announced to my Mother as the train pulled out of the station, making its way back to Chicago.

"No, you didn't. And what?"

I explained about the day. The day that felt so long because of the standing and the sadness. Sadness made the second hand on his watch stop.

And if the sadness wasn't enough to fill the room, she took up the rest of it. This complete stranger who dominated the space, and made me more nervous than any of the other strangers, even though she never asked me an awkward question or looked at me as though she had maybe met me before (No, that was someone else).

"Grandma Payton was your first dead body," Mom explained.

Grandma Payton who lives on in over-told stories of swivel stools and potty training.

"Really?"

"Yeah, you were three and you rushed right up to the casket and stared down at her. You thought it was the coolest thing."

"Mom, what kind of sick fuck kid did you raise?"