Praise the Lord! Pass the Peas!

My first impression of organized religion was fairly discouraging.  My mother attempted to take my autistic brother and me to Sunday school when we were wee folk.  We were turned away by many churches as my brother was deemed to be “potentially disruptive” and we certainly wouldn’t want anything like that happening in the house of our Lord, amen.  I remember this was one of my first memories of feeling indignation, which is a strange sensation to feel as a youngster.  My tiny mind couldn’t grasp being judged by people who didn’t know us at all….and didn’t God make my brother exactly who he was?  Why would He deem him unworthy of hearing Bible stories and being part of all the hoopla that the people who took over Sunday morning TV went on and on about?  Why were we excluded automatically for something that was completely out of our control?  My mother explained that it wasn’t God who was judging us, but the mere mortals who were in charge of the churches that didn’t get it.  At which time, my immature, completely confused mind came up with “Well, screw them then."  (Turned into a bit of a recurring theme….)

Fast forward to my teenage years.  I met my first gay friends in high school and I recognized that most religious organizations did not accept their lifestyles, often proclaiming them as “evil”.  My somewhat older, slightly wiser mind said, yet again, “But God made these people this way!  And they are the nicest people I know!”  Welcome back, indignation.  The only other exposure I had to church was when I spent the night at my Catholic friends’ houses….I ended up at the Sunday morning service, sitting in the pew while everyone else took communion.  Now I was indignant AND excluded.  Not a fun combo.  But at that age, I felt excluded and indignant in a lot of other arenas, not that unusual in my tumultuous adolescence.  In my twenties my only church visits were when my friends got married, which almost always involved middle aged know- it-all ladies shushing me.  At that point, it was official.  Religion, church….we’re through.  And bullshit from folks like Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist nutcases continued to seal the deal.

As I grew older and (hopefully) wiser, I met lots of folks who opened my heart to concepts I’d previously rejected.  Many members of my ex-boyfriend’s family are religious and they have proven themselves to be some of the most kind, tolerant and accommodating people I’ve had the pleasure to know.  I’ve never had a problem with spirituality (defined as: of, relating to, consisting of, or having the nature of spirit; not tangible or material, you’ll notice that higher powers not mentioned, just an idea that there is something bigger and brighter than what we understand as regular folk)…in this current climate of war, injustice, economic lopsidedness, and Kardashian worshipping, I’m grasping at anything that provides comfort and peace and keeps me from getting hammered and kicking garbage cans.  A friend and I recently had a heavy discussion about spirituality/religion in terms of it being a source of inspiration and motivation that NO ONE can take away from you.  This last part is a big deal in my book.  I firmly feel that happiness is derived from our connection with the rest of the world, however, our romantic relationships and friendships are dependent on other people…you cannot control the rest of the world’s behavior or feelings, regardless of the nature of your relationship.  They can decide to leave you or treat you in a manner you find to be unacceptable and there’s nothing to be done on your part but suck it up and drive on.  In an attempt to continue my quest to open my mind and my heart to concepts that provide solace that aren’t dependent on others, I agreed to attend a church service this last weekend.

I had a great deal of time to kill before the service started at 5:30 pm.  I opted to go to Big Star to have some lunch and people watch.  If you haven’t been to Big Star, it is a fantastic place with top notch tacos, a stunning selection of single barrel bourbons, and classic country and rock played on a turntable.  They have mastered the oxymoronical concept of an upscale honkytonk.  As the place does kick ass, it is where the cool people of Chicago go to see and been seen.  Tattoos, piercings, heavily made up high heeled hottie girls, Lou Reed’s Perfect Day cranked to vinyl perfection.  I ordered some fish tacos and a margarita and took a look around.  As I am someone who often drinks and eats alone, I’m pretty accustomed to sitting quietly and taking it all in.  But I was very aware, that although I was surrounded by Chicago’s coolest cats, I was most definitely alone.  After finishing up a fine repast, I decided to meander over to the church and wait outside for my friend as it was a beautiful afternoon.

Urban Village Church has their Sunday evening service in Wicker Park.  I arrived early and was greeted by many encouraging signs outside….one read “Church that is INCLUSIVE!  Gay, straight, tattoos, suits, Cubs fans, Sox fans”.  Okay, I already dig the humor.  I sat on the steps waiting for my friend, reading a book.  Every person that went by to go inside stopped and said “Hello!” or “Hey, how’s it going?” or something similar, in a genuine, sincere, no weird vibe sort of way.  Inclusive, indeed.

We found spots inside when the service begin.  Started with some “gathering and singing”, very pleasant hymns, followed by some interpretive dance that the usually haterish me would have been judgmental of, but my heart had already grown three sizes under some sort of off season Grinch clause.  Some discussions of their small groups (They have a running group! A LGBTQ specific group!  Music!  Couples dinners!)  Some scripture (read by a guy named Madrid St. Angelo, you know a guy with a name like that means business), then to the main entrée sermon.  Trey Hall started with the word of the day: hermeneutic.  Defined as the theory and methodology of interpretation, especially of scriptural text.  As a self proclaimed word nerd, I was pretty jazzed to start on this note.  Trey explained it as a portal, a way in, a key to understanding and connecting to the scriptures.  Then he launched into the topic of the day, FOOD.  You had me at hello, Mr. Hall.  Interesting discussion of a Michael Pollan article about how we are all fascinated/transfixed with watching people make food on the television, yet people are cooking less than ever.  We have no time to cook, yet we have time for television, a puzzling state of affairs in our processed food laden, socially disconnected world.  Discussion of cooking for the hungry, the power of cooking and eating together, food blogs of interest, all fascinating topics to this non-religious yet somewhat spiritual super foodie gal.  Followed up with more singing, the Eucharist, and some plate passing and we were out.  I have to say that even as a skeptic, I felt a powerful sense of community, an authentic friendliness, a feeling of NOT being alone, in stark contrast to my hipster lunch.  Surprising and delightful.  I left the church with a sense of calm, like my brain had taken a much needed hot and soapy shower.

I received a handwritten card from one of the pastors of the church a few days later in my mailbox.  Not promoting anything, just thanking me for attending.  Call me old fashioned, but a handwritten anything in this day and age knocks my socks off.  Am I a religious nut now?  Hardly. Will I go back?  Not regularly, but probably so.  Would I go to other churches?  Sure.  I can see now that there are people who are striving to make religion accessible and inviting to ALL people….that’s a concept I can get behind.  And if you want to talk food, I say HALLELUJAH.

On another note, I am currently in story writing school on Tuesday nights, which is taking up all my free time and writing energy….I hope to post some updates about that in this space if my head doesn’t explode from having homework for the first time in decades.  Thanks to all who support my nonsense from near and far.  I couldn’t do it without you.

Scenes From An Airport Neighborhood (Unpack Your Bags And Make Yourself At Home)

Does enchantment pour out of every door or just on the street where you live?  I currently live two blocks from Chicago’s close and convenient Midway airport.  I’m sure your mind automatically went “BLECH” when you read airport, but hear me out (okay, read me out). 

Some airline lingo 101 for those of you not in the biz, airlines write their flight schedules for their various “base” cities, cities where all trips start and end, generally speaking.  As many people choose not to live in their base city, they must commute to work, often using their flight benefits to get there.  These commuters require a place to stay before/after trips as the trips and flight schedules don’t usually allow for people to fly in/home the same day their trips start/end.  Hopefully you’re still with me.  These places are commonly known as “crashpads” and every neighborhood near an airport that operates as a crew base is full of them.  They come in all shapes and sizes, apartments, houses, hotel rooms, you name it.  The concept operates under the idea that many people will split the expense of whatever residence they share as no one will be around very often.  The crashpad experience is as varied as the people involved….sharing domestic space with other people that your only common thread is your employer can yield some unpredictable results.   Imagine the person you dislike most at your job.  Now imagine listening to them snore at night.  Imagine them in the bathroom when you really need to go.  Imagine coming home to them after you’ve had the world’s shittiest day.  But what if they listen to you bitch and moan?  What if they’ve made dinner and they share it with you?  What if they offer to wash your clothes while you take a nap?  What if they don’t end up being as dislikable as you’d once thought?  It’s all a pretty fascinating social experiment, one that the makers of reality TV should seriously consider.

I started my career ten years ago, commuting out of Seattle to Oakland.  I shared hotel rooms with other flight attendants before and after trips, as that was the Oakland way, often sleeping in the same bed with people I didn’t know at all. Not as fun as it sounds. When hotel rooms were too much dough, I slept in a sleeping bag in the flight attendant lounge, another sucktastic experience.  When I came to Chicago not knowing a soul, I lucked out on getting into a great crashpad, one that was dropped into my lap by someone in the Fate Deals You The Right Cards At The Right Time department.  I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say everyone involved took a leap of faith trusting that I would be worthy of a top bunk bed in a house with eighteen other people, none of whom had ever laid eyes on me.  Sleeping in a twin bed where you can touch the ceiling is a real blast from the past, let me tell you.  I slowly got to know everyone, and unlike most of my other crashpad situations, I developed a bond with a lot of my roommates.  It’s a strange job for friendships, mostly people are away more than they’re around, you can connect with people and not see them again for years (handy when you don’t hit it off), often the gig is a blur of nameless, faceless people, with your nights spent in generic hotel rooms where your love of miniature shampoos has run dry.  To be at home tends to be your greatest pleasure when you travel for a living….but to have a crashpad that acts as your satellite home away from home is a rare treat and makes the job much more pleasurable.  I enjoyed that scenario for five plus years.

I moved to Chicago permanently almost two years ago.  I picked a tiny convertible loft in the South Loop area of downtown Chicago as I thought I needed the Urban Experience.  I loved the allure of walking to cool shops and bars and certainly walking home wasted from Lollapolooza after mashing with a boy half my age was something from a wish list I hadn’t yet written.  I enjoyed my slick digs, assuming I was exactly where I needed to be.

Slick digs, however, proved to be expensive.  When my lease came up for renewal, I ran into a friend who was moving out of her two bedroom joint by the airport who suggested I check out her place….more divine intervention from our friends in the Right Place/Right Time department.  I opted to make the move purely for financial reasons as it cut my bills in HALF.  Half is A LOT.  Half means less airplane, more time to write, or spend time with friends or WHATEVER.   I moved all my stuff into the two bedroom with no lease, thinking only of the cost savings and the joy of having a guest bedroom and an office to write my nonsense in.

My old crashpad is a short walk away from my current apartment.  When I moved back, I started seeing my crash family all the time again.  We make dinner, we go to the store, we bitch about work, we drink wine, we borrow clothes, we sleep over, we do STUFF.  Stuff that makes life worth living.  Stuff that I missed out on living downtown in my slick digs.  I don’t regret starting there; I had a great time.  But I am now a happy resident of Westlawn, a neighborhood filled with a wide range of immigrants and transient airline workers alike, a neighborhood packed with kids on bikes and ice cream trucks and pictures of the Pope in the windows and taquerias and little to no slick action.  When I walk around my neighborhood, I see dogs barking, kids practicing cheerleading routines, people hanging out on their stoops and doing yard work, which brings me unexplainable joy.  Something I didn’t know my life was missing.   And when people ask, “Why on earth would you live near the airport?”, I now answer, simply, “I have family here”.  Family are the people we choose to be in our lives, people who support you, people who celebrate your triumphs, and console you on your dark days.  People who put their faith in you and trust you will do right by them.  ‘Tis powerful stuff.

Should you ever find yourself at Chicago’s close and convenient Midway airport, drop a line.  I’ll buy you a taco if you bring change for the ice cream truck.

Get Your Poem On, People!

April is National Poetry Month.  It's also Jazz Appreciation Month, National Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and National Stress Awareness Month (are we not aware of stress the other 11 months?  hmmm.....) and probably National Eat A Cashew While Taking A Bath Month, who knows.  But I wanted to give a special bloggy shout out to the poets.  I'm always awed by good poetry...to me it feels like the most amazing way to make mere words into art.  The first poem that really rocked my world was "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot, pretty hilarious to think of myself as a big haired, overly made up, leather jacketed tough girl being bowled over by the story of man dealing with growing old.  It was recently replaced as my top poem by "Privilege Of Being" by Robert Hass, a poem that is a compelling combination of sex, loneliness, angels, and magazine articles about intimacy.  Check it out if you're not familiar.  For my personal salute to my love of poetry, I opted to go with a few poems from poets not as well known, one from a woman I used to work with, one from a pen pal, one from a friend of a friend.  Enjoy.

Words for the Waltz by Kary Wayson (commissioned for the Roethke Readings)

All night long I've resisted his help.
What is the opposite of fast?

Forcing a kid who's throwing a fit
--you standing thing you never sit!
You'll run us all aground!-- Help

has water
just like this: to get us
turned around.
But this kid kicks when you pick her up so

there: throw her down.

***

--and we have arrived.  We have
arriven.  My minions
push down the plank of my neck
and back.

We stand on four legs like a makeshift table
until all hell's dispatched.
So into the itch!  Into the thicket!
The careful course is cast.

We make emotional revisitings.
On the hills of impassioned ants.

***

Snail snail glister me forward
bird my back to the wall.
God begot me from my father
and delivered the hospital home.

***

All day long I've resisted that red
while I tried to make it match.

I've taken the ax of my effort like a paddle
and I'm hacking at the shadows
of my feet.

I've taken the ax of my effort like a paddle
and I'm dragging this raft
through a lake

made of concrete.

***

Oh hell, oh well.  Admit
you made a mess.
Now you must tear up the carpet.
Now you must repaint the walls.
The color says nothing but there is a judgement:
everything but the garbage can must go.

***

Often stranded in the middle of a feeling the feeling
of wanting so many is more.
Snail snail glister me forward trail the trailing
translucent cord.

***

Think of it!  A sycophant!
A guttersnipe!  A gripe!
Good help has rivers
filled with fish--sidelong pickerel

smiles.  Would with the river and would
with the fish.  His red face

the same from behind.

***

All day long I've insisted on help.
In the basement
I'm like a bad cramp.
The sun is against me the moon would not have me
my tantrum matches the lamp.

***

I've taken
the ax
of my effort
like a paddle
and I'm hacking
at the shadow
of my throat.

I have taken the ax
of my effort
like a paddle
and I'm dragging
this lake

through a hole
in my boat.

***

There's a mirror

next to the window and a window
on the wall.  Smile, he says
in the middle of the fuss.  Eat it.
Now swallow.

***

"Twas a lovely dive, my lively dove
What's winter for?  To remember love.

Good help has daughters
just like this: "My father
invented water."
God help us daughters just like this:
I with no rights in this matter.

***

The body's a closet
with cats in the back.
The seas's grown woolen
and white.  I am
his consolable widow
now--one syllable
bigger than wife.

Kary has two books of fabulous works, Dog and Me, and American Husband.  She is also foxy and a super nice person.

Running from sleep in a country town by Tom Woolery

The last lightning bugs go

homeward to their sleep

replaced by stars

replaced by clouds

replaced by dark sky

that holds the new moon

in its belly.

In the night pastures, the corn

dreams fitfully of the coming tractor.

On the porch, a farmer is drinking tea

 *

Now, it is exactly three in the morning

and my feet are guessing where the road lies

in the dark miles between street lights

and though I run this route every night

each step is a faith leap

not knowing if a next will follow so I become

faster, each stride is faithfulness

to the stride before.

Things have come to this —

drinking warm milk with Sominex, playing Ella

and anything to idle this engine that howls of the hair

of my graying head, the engine that quickens knowing coyotes

are still in the field, behind the trees where crows sleep,

tracing the perimeter of my eyelids, waiting as they waited

for my father when he slept on Christmas Day, dreaming

of tubes to relieve cranial pressure through the end of times—

until I shift gears, dress in darkness, lace my running shoes

and force them to stumble down roads that need repaving

have needed repaving for a dozen years or more,

passing barn shadows

cast by porch light.

*

A single lightning bug glows near a barbed wire fence.

After short darkness, I see it flicker, again

again

in the exact space, so I stop running,

wipe the sweat of my face

with a soaked shirt, rest

my hands on my knees,

listen.

At the fourth flash I see the legs of the spider

edging the light, soothing the fire, singing the storybook

spinning a sleep

At the fifth light I see that the spider has wrapped

the package entirely, it moves

its legs quickly over its prize,

wrapping the silk one hundred times more strongly than necessary

as if the light itself might allow it to burn free--

It is the love of craftsmanship.

It is the love for completeness.

The sixth flash of light,

like a flashlight beneath bed covers. 

The spider has retreated into the edges now,

waiting as if at a campfire perimiter

counting the seconds

and waiting for the thunder of darkness.

I do not wait for seven--

my feet are already running

muscle memory retracing the route to my drive

while I think of in particular nothing.

Tom lives in Springfield, MO and although we've never met, he never fails to blow my mind.

Lastly, "The Problem With Politics" by Danny Alexander

You came to me
After conceding to give
Stephen King another try,
Well into Salem’s Lot,
You were excited by the character of the priest,
His sense of loss,
Living in an era with no clear lines
Between black and white,
No tangible demons to kill.

So much we could have talked about
But I had to quibble
With the idea of one era versus another,
With the idea of black and white,
With the concept of demons.

King was smart enough to hand
His character
And you
What you needed
I could have said something useful
Or I could have just listened.

Instead I talked polemics
And killed that life-saving conversation
As I did so many times before
And after.

Danny is a friend of a friend, and although I don't read Stephen King, the self awareness of this poem speaks volumes.

If you're of a mind, discover a new poem before April is over.  I'll be back with more original nonsense soon.

The One Where She Stops Being Polite And Starts Getting Real

I had intended for my next post here at WWYN to be a salute to Poetry Month, featuring poets that I enjoy and in some cases, know personally.  Still working on that one, but I had a few big ass thoughts to share in the meantime.

As I figured out with the last post about Facebook, a vast majority of those that I am virtual “friends” with I don’t talk to very often.  Perhaps you are a friend of a friend, perhaps I flew with you once and we hit it off and the wheel of scheduling fortune hasn’t put us together again, or maybe you live far away as I’ve lived a few places.  Well, sit right down because I’m going to get all interpersonal on your asses.

My life is currently better than it’s ever been.  I just agreed to be involved in an eight week course in storytelling, which is my creative passion, and I’m really thrilled about it.  Spring is FINALLY showing itself here in Chicago, and there is always something fun going on.  I am surrounded by friends to enjoy the city with and I have a job with amazing flexibility that provides me the time and the dough to really dig in to my new hometown, to go to school, to not just survive, but to really LIVE on a level I never imagined possible.

In trying to make the above scenario even better, I’ve assessed the relationships in my life.  I have been in Chicago almost two years and I’ve been putting a lot of effort into building a support system here.  My work friends are fantastic, but the job puts people away from home a great deal, which makes spending time together challenging.  I’ve opted to try to cultivate relationships with people who are here all the time, and I’ve been pleased with the results for the most part.  But starting new relationships has been an exercise in “What do I want in a friend….what’s really important here?”  Heavy stuff.  Here’s what I’ve figured out.

I was raised with one sibling, my brother who is autistic.  My parents were divorced early on, leaving my mother with some serious responsibilities.  She remarried, but from day one the message sent to me was loud and clear…..DO NOT NEED ANYTHING.  EVER.  It’s inconvenient, your brother is already a huge burden, you need to be part of the solution and not part of the problem.  I received this message and acted accordingly.

Fast forward to my adult life, I've gravitated towards situations that were all take and no give as they felt like what I was accustomed to.  It’s just with this latest era of awesome that I’ve had to assess what I really need out of people in my life and the answer is RECIPROCITY.  I’m not saying the people in my life cannot have problems, in fact, quite the opposite.  I will talk to you until we’re all blue in the face, I will make dinner and bring wine,  I will hold your hair while you barf, I will put you in bed, I will make you breakfast.  Over and over until you are better.  I have had my share of problems; I’ve struggled with depression, and have attempted to fill up the empty place in my soul with booze (FYI as it’s a depressant AND a liquid, this is an automatic FAIL) and have had copious amounts of reassurance to get me where I am now, self confident and ready to take the world by the balls, most days.  But there are still some people who I only hear from when they want things, that are all talk and no action, that have a lot of redeeming qualities but reciprocating friendship is not their strong suit. 

I’m putting these people on notice.  I have no time for those with no time.  As I mentioned, my current life climate has never been sunnier, but firings will continue until morale improves.

Much like everyone thinks they have great taste and superior driving skills, when we all know that can't possibly be true, not many people realize that they are emotional vampires.  It’s just a blind spot we all have in ourselves.  I’ve had favorable results from being honest with people (a VERY recent phenomenon) and that’s how it will be handled, case by case, person by person.

I’ll close with a poem from Langston Hughes...April is Poetry Month!

Advice

Folks, I'm telling you,
Birthing is hard
And Dying is mean
So get yourself
Some loving in between.

Life’s too short to not have it be filled with the kindness and respect that you deserve. It's more important than brain power or material crap or a perfect ass. Oh, and Ice Cube says check yourself before you wreck yourself.  That’s some smart advice as well.

Time to Facefacts!

I recently saw “The Social Network”, thought it was well written, well acted, but certainly not as good as all the hype.  My love for Justin Timberlake is embarrassing and ridiculous, but that’s not really what I came here to talk about.  What’s compelling about that story is that a guy fired up on wanting to get revenge on a girl who snubbed him used his computer brilliance to make a website that, in theory, brought people together.  He made friends along the way, friends that he would eventually betray and get sued by.  The last scene of the movie with Zuckerberg, alone,  looking at the Facebook profile of the girl that started the whole thing, was strangely chilling and got me thinking about this thing we call “social” networking.

Originally I thought FB was one of those things that only idiot twenty somethings did, I chalked it up as Myspace 2.0.  My former boyfriend was on FB years ago as many of his students told him it was their preferred method of communication, which sealed my disdain.  I used to tell him that he had to be the oldest person on Facebook and that the whole thing was stupid.  One of my shittier qualities is that I pass judgment on things without getting the facts, which I will readily admit to.  A few years back I got a Facebook invite from a gal I knew in my twenties and figured, all right, let’s see what’s going on here, in an attempt to not fall into my usual hater hole.  As time went on, I found loads of people from the past, most of whom I was thrilled to see to get the current scoop on, and I took some satisfaction in seeing that people I chose as friends long ago were still really wonderful people currently leading (seemingly) happy lives.  But what lies beneath?  I feel the need to BREAK IT DOWN.

Things I enjoy about Facebook:

1)    Fun quips from fun people.  It’s a snark circus and I enjoy an opportunity to have a sass volley.    Plain and simple, I like to make people laugh, it makes me happy.

2)   Music videos.  I love tunes, old and new, and I don’t listen to the radio currently, so I get a lot out of my musically inclined FB friends.

3)   Seeing photos/getting updates on people who live far away, as well as people I work with that I don’t see enough.  It does make them feel a bit closer.

4)   Asking a wide range of people’s opinions on practical matters, like buying a new blender.

5)   Getting info about goings on around town, etc.

Things I seriously don’t get:

1)    Checking in everywhere.  I’m happy you’re getting a burrito/working out/going to work, but unless you are someplace really impressive, I’m not sure I need to know about it.  Again, there may be some bigger picture answer to why people do this, and my mind is open to hearing about it.

2)   Bitching/looking for sympathy.  I am not against either of these things, I do a good deal of both of them, but I really feel that you need real people in real time for this.  Again, your mileage may vary, I suppose if you don’t have access to talking to someone on the phone or meeting them, then FB solace is better than nothing.  I just don’t feel comfortable reading people’s private matters in most cases. Those who know me know I am the queen of TMI, hell, I told a hundred plus strangers about a one night stand I had recently….I really have no shame.  But it was person to person, I guess that’s the distinction I’m making here.

3)   The weird friend collector people.  I have three people I have blocked on FB, one of whom I considered to be a friend until he did something unspeakably douchey (in person), the other two I didn’t know, got sucked into discussions of music (oddly, in both cases, discussing David Bowie) and ended up going down some weird interpersonal friendship/romance rabbit hole that crashed and burned.  No major repercussions as in both cases our relationship wasn’t based in reality, just a general waste of time and energy, fueled by loneliness/boredom.  But it was an eye opener to what’s out there, people who spend their time in some strange fantasy life….apparently it’s not enough to play Farmville or Mob Wars, they need to play emotional games with other humans.  Creepy.

Here is my friend breakdown.  I have 193 Facebook friends as this moment….a pretty standard amount.  There are very few people I don’t actually KNOW in real life, at least to some degree.  I am “friends” with one Top Chef, one member of the Fastbacks, one fabulous lady comic who used to be married to a guy I worked with….that’s the extent of my FB starfuckery.  Oh, and I’m friends with a friend’s dog.

 

Friends from work = 84

Friends from elementary/high school = 28

Friends from my past life as an adult = 46

Friends of friends that seem great but we don’t actually hang out = 20

Other folks of Chicago that I’ve met through 2^nd Story, etc = 11

Family members = 4

That brings us to 193.  I put a star by everyone that I talk to regularly; either in person, or by phone/text/email, if that’s not possible.  Stars = 19.  People of those 19 that I would feel comfortable calling at 2 am with an emergency = 9.  I used to refer to this as people you would call if you got a flat tire, but I no longer own a car, so let’s just say there are 9 people who I would feel comfortable contacting with one of life's metaphorical flat tires.  Then there’s the real world.  My BFF is not on FB, she tried it and proclaimed it was a party she didn’t want to be at, that it didn’t make her world better, just louder.  I recently made her the beneficiary of all my assets in the event of my death, and she is the person I list as an emergency contact when I do things that require such a thing.  Should I ever find Mr. Right and get married, I guess he can have all my dough when I kick the bucket, but until then/if that doesn’t happen, the girl who has loved me unconditionally for the last ten years has earned every cent of that money if I were to be hit by a bus tomorrow.  Although she might be secretly trying to poison me….that’s why I always switch drinks with her when she’s not looking.  The only person I seriously dated over the last two years wouldn’t be on Facebook if you put a gun to his head, and since his house is full of guns, this wouldn’t be hard to prove. 

Am I bashing Facebook?  No.  I like what it provides.  But in some ways, it’s relationship junk food, to be enjoyed in small quantities, in addition to real quality human interaction.  As my super wise friend Colleen says, “it is what it is, and it ain’t what it ain’t.”  Food for Facethought.

Is There A Nonstop To Suffragette City?

Over the weekend I took a writing workshop where when I was done reading my story, I was asked the big question, “So what is this story REALLY about?”  When putting down an actual event from your history on paper, you are forced to ask yourself (or in the case of the workshop, answer to others), “What do I want others to get out of this?  Why THIS story?  What’s the fucking point here?”  Getting to the meta of the matter, perhaps.  My reply was that EVERY story I write seems to lead to the same place, my desire to express how powerful it can be to be a woman.  I’ve been concerned about burning out this theme, but then I pondered, what else is more important to talk about?

Today is the 100^th anniversary of International Women’s Day.  From internationalwomensday.com: International Women's Day is a global day celebrating the economic, political and social achievements of women past, present and future. In some places like China, Russia, Vietnam and Bulgaria, International Women's Day is a national holiday.  I wouldn’t have known about it if I hadn’t been a fan of Annie Lennox on Facebook, which shows how much I was paying attention.  I appreciate that it is a celebration of women’s achievements, and there are so many to celebrate!  But women still make less money than men, violence against women is still a major concern (according to Amnesty International, at least one out of every three women worldwide has been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused in her lifetime, with rates of domestic violence reaching 70% in some countries), and rape is a weapon of war.  From a Time magazine article on IWD of 2010: “What does it tell us that female soldiers deployed overseas stop drinking water after 7 p.m. to reduce the odds of being raped if they have to use the bathroom at night? Or that a soldier who was assaulted when she went out for a cigarette was afraid to report it for fear she would be demoted — for having gone out without her weapon? Or that, as Representative Jane Harman puts it, "a female soldier in Iraq is more likely to be raped by a fellow soldier than killed by enemy fire."  I could continue to quote sources and get myself into a lather about this, it makes me so fucking pissed off.  Which leads us to, what do we do?

Good question.  There are many good organizations that support women on all sorts of levels, if you want to make a monetary donation or volunteer with them, I’d leave it up to you to research which ones you really feel good about.  There are cool campaigns like NOW’s Love Your Body, WeAreEquals.org, Change.org has many worthy causes, your neighborhood no doubt has a women’s shelter, and again I could go on and on.  But let’s talk about things on a smaller level.  Do you know someone who’s in an abusive relationship?  Can you lend an ear?  We all figure that adults can take care of themselves, but have you offered your opinion and your support to help?  Do you have women in your life that have low self esteem?  (If you’re saying NO, you either know no women or have amazingly evolved friends and I’d like to hear your secret)  Have you told these women how beautiful, how smart, how important they are?  Do you know someone with an eating disorder?  I’m sure you see what I’m getting at here. 

But what if you got to the heart of the matter and looked at yourself?   I had plans to spend some time with a gentleman friend of mine this coming weekend;  he’s a nice enough man that I’ve encouraged myself to hang out with even though we have no long term potential as he’s nice, good looking, he bakes pies, plays the piano, and means well.  And the world at large would tell me at my advanced age (44), that I should be happy with what I can get in that department.  What I was ignoring in this equation is that this most happy fellow doesn’t particularly care about what goes on in my life, has no interest in my friends or family, and often makes remarks that convey his insecurity about the fact that I make more money than he does, a fact that means nothing to me.  I’ve just been accentuating the positive, eliminating the negative, latching on to the affirmative and spending time with Mr. In Between.  I thought it over carefully, realizing I’d rather be alone than trying to make a half full glass more than it is.  Even for one weekend.

Years ago I saw Maya Angelou speak in Seattle.  She was, of course, charming and lovely and moving with every well chosen word.  Before reciting “Phenomenal Woman”, perhaps her best known poem, she told us all that a man had recently stopped her to tell her how much he loved and admired the poem, HOWEVER, what about men?  They are strong and sensitive and have love to give and can be great husbands and fathers.  They deserved to be acknowledged for their accomplishments as well, no?  Maya’s response?  “Write your own damn poem.”  So there you go.

Before you think I’ve gone all feminazi/man basher on you, I do feel that some man, perhaps even more than one, holds the keys to my heart, which is currently closed for repairs.  But he’s going to have to dangle them in my face, because for right now I’m busy.  Busy trying to make every day a better place for Team Vagina.  I would LOVE to hear any input you have on this subject, or any other, if you’re reading this.  Happy International Women’s Day, friends. 

PHENOMENAL WOMANby Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing of my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

There's No Place Like Homo

I recently did a reading at Webster’s Wine Bar in Chicago for 2^nd Story, where I was honored to have a good turnout of my fabulous friends.  The second night one of the other storytellers remarked, “I’ve come to the conclusion that any good looking guy who comes up the stairs is here to see YOU”.  Yep, it’s true…..all of the hot boys of Chicago came to see yours truly, mostly paired off with other hot boys.  Since I was old enough to sneak out of the house and drink Zima, I have attracted more homos than you can shake a dick at.  Before the term “fag hag” jumps into your head, let’s replace it with my friend Heather’s kinder, gentler, “fag mag”….as in the fags are magnetically drawn to me.  For thirty plus years now, I’ve had instant chemistry with dudes who quickly ask, “You know I’m gay, right?”  Bitch, please.  I saw you checking out the waiter’s ass.  And I noticed your ears perk up when they started playing Culture Club.  And you’re wearing your sister’s Jordache jeans.  And if you found me in a sea of people for no apparent reason…. wait for it….YOU’RE FUCKING GAY.

Why do they find me?  I’m not completely sure, but most likely it has to do with the peace I’ve made with my masculine side….I often run around disheveled, I like vulgar jokes, I get loud after a few drinks, generally speaking my mind in a voice so low that customer service people refer to me as “Sir” on the telephone.  I don’t really follow the “Nice Girls Act Like This” rules, mostly because I’ve perceived them as being NO DAMN FUN AT ALL.  Sure, straight guys might be unamused.  But do I want to hang out with some guy looking for a prissy girl or do I want to talk shit and dance to Madonna?  Your mileage may vary, but I pick B every time.

Why do I love the gay boys back with all my heart?  Easy.  They hold the secrets of the universe.  They have better relationships than any of my straight friends for a good handful of reasons.  Among my gay friends, the following are true:  They have mutual respect for each other.  They like to have fun.  They are romantic and thoughtful.   And here’s a biggie, THEY ARE WILLING TO ADMIT THEY WANT TO FUCK OTHER PEOPLE.  Straight people seem to have this ridiculous notion that they are supposed to want to only screw one person forever and ever.  NOT POSSIBLE.  I’m not saying monogamy isn’t a great goal, but let’s admit that it’s difficult.  Seriously.  Everyone THINKS about getting a little strange now and then, gay couples are willing to put those cards on the table and even play them sometimes.  And I’d venture to guess that they cheat less because of it.  It’s like if you’re on a diet and all you can think about is the forbidden cake.  If everyone says you can eat the cake, somehow your obsession with the cake wanes.  Also they give a shit about what they look like.  I’m not talking six pack abs and manscaping here….it’s just nice to see a general fashion sense.  When I was in Paris, I thought “how can every man on the Metro be gay?”  Then I realized that was my assumption as they were all wearing dress shoes.  Kind of a sad state of affairs.  I’m all for being comfortable, to be sure, but if you’re going on a date with a gal, would it kill you to not wear a T-shirt you’ve had since high school?  If you even had an iota of an idea of the prep we do to ourselves if we even think we might sleep with you (plucking, waxing, shaving, moisturizing, perfuming, push up bras, Spanx, high heels, ETC!), you’d hopefully agree that you should put forth a little effort to be presentable.

They also are great listeners and great advisers on all things sex related.  No one’s going to tell you how to suck a dick better than a guy with a dick who sucks dick.  It’s like the Holy Grail of dick data.  I’m just sayin’. 

I did some work with some friends here in Chicago with It Gets Better Project a few months back, where the participants told stories of bullying and abuse that they were subjected to growing up because they were gay or even just "different"...we all know that still goes on today.  The fact that assholes like the Donald and Rush Limbaugh are against gay marriage when they themselves trade in their wives as often as they trade in their cars is hypocrisy on the highest level and Elton John should have to turn in his gay card for playing Rush’s wedding.  Or at least write “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word”  ten thousand times on the blackboard.  If you are a parent, you need to rail against this bullshit.  Quoting the fantabulous Maya  Angelou…” Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future and renders the present inaccessible.”   We all have to pick our battles, but those who espouse a bunch of ignorance fueled venom should not be tolerated.

Not sure if any straight guys have even made it to the end of this, but you can learn a few things from our gay friends.  If I can embrace my masculine side, you can embrace your feminine side.  It’s okay to smell good and like dumb songs on the radio and be a good dancer and talk about your feelings (I assume you have some) and let your guard down.  And for Team Vagina, if you’re feeling low, go out to the nearest gay bar you can find, order a drink, and start dancing.  You’ll soon be surrounded by hot guys who love you enough to tell you that your ass does indeed look fat in those pants and you are going NOWHERE with that hair.  And you will love them for it.