thatmakesmenervous

iPad Cat Face Awesomeness

2012-02-02T19:18:00.001-05:00

I've written a couple new posts, but i'm experimenting with some new platforms for the ipad, so thanks in advance for your patience. :)

for your pleasure.

a cat drawing.

Working, Writing and Waiting

2012-01-26T15:18:00.002-05:00

In the time since my last post, I've mostly been in California on an extended work trip, but I've also been thinking a little more about what's to come in 2012. Before the end of January I'm shocked by how much I already have on my calendar for the next 12 months. Birthdays and birthday trips, vacations, weddings, races. Wowza. I've been a really successful procrastinator lately (including permitting myself to act as if the new year starts february one rather than Jan 1!) And, even if we pretend that's true in my tiny universe, I better get my act together - I only have a couple days.

Although I'm not so big on resolutions (or, rather, I'm not so big on making resolutions at the New Year - I am fond of constantly resolving to be better) Ive accidentally made a lot of promises to myself and I have to see what I can get done.

To begin, my body is falling apart. Since I began my new, excellent job in November, I have been practically out of commission in yoga and running. February I'm planning to partake in a 30 day yoga challenge (30 classes in 30 days) to get back in action and also to start conditioning myself for half marathon training (the half is in early September). Im a little scared because I'm been having some back pain for the last two weeks, but I'm planning to push through it.

As I'm working on getting my body back where it should be, I'm going to return to the art of exercising my brain as well. My dino blog got a strong start in September and then I abandonded it like yesterday's latte cup. Sooo, in February, im climbing back on the dinosaur and hope to do an official launch before March. I'm guessing no one will read it, but it will be lots of fun for me to write.

I'm also going to pair a little personal and professional development with a focus on picking up some of my old Spanish textbooks. I think its silly that I dont have a second language - even conversationally. So I'm picking that fun back up, too.

I'm not sure when im going to have time to do all this, in between all the other events on my calendar this year, but its worth a shot. I'll keep you all updated on my progress.

On New Year's Eve

2011-12-31T20:42:00.000-05:00

Forgive the poor typing. I'm still getting used to the iPad, and although I've borrowed a wireless keyboard, I'm not tech savvy enough to know how to set it up at this time. Like everyone else in the blogosphere and in the real world, I'm thinking about the new year tonight. It honestly thrills me beyond words that I have this newfound capacity to blog when I feel like it, without descending the stairs to my apartment building, bearing whatever the weather might be, entering my neighborhood Starbucks and ordering something I don't want just so I can utilize their free wifi. I blog from home, tonight.Although it probably doesn't intrigue my readers much, I'll still give a quick shout out to the successes of 2011. Among others, I visited 6 different states, read all off the Harry potter books (and before midnight I will have seen all the movies), got promoted at work - into a career that I think is truly a good fit for me, spent lots of time with my niece and nephew (whose mere existence fills my heart with so much joy),practiced lots of yoga,ran my first 15 k in 4 years and PRd a 10k. I was a guest writer in the classroom of a truly awesome professor. I helped raise a beautiful black puppy into a handsome black dog. I kept loving and being loved by my serious sweetheart. I spent lots of time watching NOVA, drinking beers, or having text chats with my besties. I also found my footing in Chicago, began to start planning ahead again (after a brief period of trying and failing at being a day to day type gal). I started working on my Dino blog, which will officially launch in February. I became a field museum member. I also met, shook hands with, and received the signature of, one of my greatest literary heroes, Roger Ebert.Overall, I stayed largely the same - which for some reason is comforting. Maybe because I think the years of seeking drastic change, of remaking myself whenever I have the chance, or seeking to be a different me, are behind me. These are the years of becoming a better me. A happier me. A settled and full me. I expect 2012 to be full of change. Of growth. Of faster times, longer distances, focussed intentions, and stronger relationships. Here's to continuing to improve the parts we like, cast off the parts we can do without, and seek the parts we desire. Here's to 2012.Namaste, my friends.Ps: I forgot to factor in "cats perpetually desire to walk on iPad" when I started typing. Love from Shake and Eli. (I also cleaned up a lot of cat puke and broken glass in 2011!)

Bitten by the Apple

2011-12-28T09:59:00.001-05:00

I can still very clearly remember the fist time I saw an iPod. It was the original, classic white machine - owned by a techy Apple-file classmate of mine. I think I knew two people who had them sophomore year of college, but for me it wasn't until much later. Even though I like technology, and was raised with a surprising amount aof access to it, I'm a bit of a grandma at heart. I did eventually get on iPod, and then a MacBook, and then a tiny pink shuffle for running. All in all, however, I still spent a great deal of time thinking and talking about how downloading music cuts out an important part of the user experience, about how the first draft of a story is always better in pen and ink, and how I don't want to read a book that I can't feel and smell and dog-ear and write penciled notes in. All those things are stills true. This grandma is still holding on, but I also share these words with a couple of grains of salt (this is a phrase I need to look up. I dont reall understand the meaning), because the blog post you are reading is my very first from my iPad. Regardless of my nostalgia for the past, I'm living my greatest blogger dream. I'm riding the train to work, tiny computer on my lap - the whole interwebz at my finger tips. It's almost hard to believe. I remind myself, in moments like these, where I leave behind a part of myself that would hae scoffed at this image, that the reason humans have gotten this far on this earth is because we put down the familar and moved into the unknown. Because we never decided who we are, and instead focussed on who we could become. If this little computer enables me to write more, there's not too much I can complain about.Post script: thanks mom. It's a wonderful gift.

The Unfinished Life

2011-09-27T12:20:00.003-04:00


Strawberry Heart has no relation to this post.

In the dark medicine cabinet of my charmingly outdated blue tiled bathroom,a ¼ tube of Colgate toothpaste lies in wait. Beside the Colgate, practicallybragging about its superior performance and obviously preferred status, a new nearlyfull tube of a different formula boasts. The ¼ tube has been waiting to becradled in my hand since the new tube arrived, but like the iPhone 2, its worthdeclined substantially when the replacement arrived. This sad relationship isreplicated other places in my apartment - the miniscule remnants of a containerof Smart Balance resting a shelf below a recently christened tub of CountryCrock; the un-pumpable inch of Vaseline Intensive care lotion, deemed uselessat the arrival of St. Ives creamy relief.

My preemptive purchases of replacement household items almost always resultsin the abandonment of the last 15% of its predecessor. I don’t want tofinish the first item, and find myself without. I buy in advance.
Worst of all, this habit spills over into my relationship with books. As apublic transportation commuter, with a busy extracurricular schedule, I'moften carrying yoga clothes and mat, breakfast, coffee, lunch, a book forwriting, and a book for reading.

I try to eliminate unnecessary items from my luggage. Sometimes, when thebag is too full I forgo lunch and opt to buy. Or I leave my two-inch hard cover writing book at home and carry a smallermoleskin. Sometimes, if I’m in the last 20-40 pages of a book, and I know I’mgoing to be on the train for and hour or more, I have to make a decision. Ieither bring a second book to replace the first when I finish it (and increasemy load), or I leave the denouement on the coffee table and start fresh with anew book. I promise to return. I promise to finish those remaining pages andreturn the book to its subject matter- arranged crate having fulfilled itsjourney.

In full disclosure, I usually leave the book behind. And I usually don’treturn. In at least half of the books I have read in the past year I left thelast 20-40 pages unread. Those books eventually get returned to their spaces,like the butter that eventually goes in the trash when I determine it’sprobably not safe to consume.
Those 20-40 pages will still be there if I ever decide to return, but thetoothpaste and lotion won’t.

Which behavior is more wasteful?

127 Hours Part 2: The Closet

2011-09-09T11:21:00.001-04:00

Every time I open my front room closet door, to retrieve cat food, a winter coat, a reusable shopping bag, a sombrero, or my Bacon and Egg themed Halloween costume, Shakespeare The Cat bounds from his meal, nap or hiding spot to try to sneak in the closet before he misses his chance.

There's nothing especially intriguing in there for him. I don't hoard a secret a pile of fish or yarn or frosted mini wheats (things I'm told cats like) in said closet, but regardless of what he would gain by accessing the space he races to the door like it was a shrinking portal to the future providing his last opportunity for survival in an early 90s sci-fi film.

Usually, I just scoop him up mid-cat-jog and toss him gently away. Some days, when hes too quick for me and gets in, I have to leave the closet door open and go about my day.

Sometimes, amid all the smoke and mirrors, with a sleight of hand or whisker, he darts into the closet without my knowledge. He is sadly unaware that this trickery can only be harmful to himself.

Such an illusion on Shakespeare's part resulted this week in his spending the night locked in the closet. I was dog sitting, and did not sleep at home - or I surely would have heard his scratchy voiced cries. When I returned to my apartment and called for the two felines to greet me at the door, I was slightly alarmed that there was no sign of Shake.

I cased the apartment, checked the bedroom closet, confirmed that there were no ropes made of bed sheets hanging from any of the windows and then, finally, heard his tiny cat cry coming from the closet.

He emerged from the closet a little startled. As I snugged his face and led him to his water dish, images of James Franco and a pocket knife filled my head. Maybe he thought about ways to escape, or contemplated what items in the closet were edible and what could be poisonous. Maybe he thought about me and his brother and hoped to chocolate that we would still eat salmon flavored treats without him. Maybe he closed his eyes and imagined his favorite toy - the rainbow fleece - floating dreamily against the rising sun in a field of cat nip.

I was thankful that he emerged from the closet with all four paws, but I hoped that the experience wouldn't scar him forever.

I'm starting to think that Shake lacks the brain capacity to hold on to this fearful experience for too long because this morning, as I opened the closet to retrieve a plastic bag, he sprung to his feet and darted for the door - determined to revisit the place where he so recently almost met his maker.

Brave little man.

Edward Hammerhands?

2011-09-05T16:48:00.000-04:00

I love my apartment, but my building is almost 150 years old and my appliances might actually be even older. Especially be fridge/freezer combo. When I moved in, Moses' baby picture (basket and all), was stuck to the refrigerator door with fossilized tree sap. I found an abacus in the freezer. This thing is old.

Its also not grown-up sized. I don't know if Americans were between 13 and 18 inches shorter 100 years ago, but a race of mini-Chicagoans occupying the Lakeview neighborhood when my building was raised would really be the only legitimate reason for the minute size of my fridge/freezer combo.


Surprisingly, this is the "after" shot.

I'm not ageist or sizeist, even regarding appliances, but I am functionist. I mean, a fridge is meant to keep food and drinks cool and a freezer is meant to keep food frozen (and liquor crisp). So on this level I discriminate against this "machine" on the basis of not-workingness.

In my fridge things spoil or freeze, in my freezer the ice wall creeps around and engulfs all of my food items and, yet, some how ice cream still melts and meat spoils. Usually I just get around this by buying very little food and eating it quickly before the ancient fridge beast has time to claim it as a victim. Or I buy no food and eat Subway twice a day.

Sometimes the massive encroaching iceberg in my freezer makes me flip my grid and get a little crazy. On that special day, once a year, I calmly walk over to my tool box, carefully remove the hammer from its hammer-shaped slot, and return to the kitchen. I open the freezer door, and like a coked up Edward Scissorhands I swing the back of my hammer at the ice wall over and over again with all my might. As ice chips and chunks fly at my face, body and kitchen walls, I break a sweat and begin to see the edges of what might be a bag of frozen corn or a bottle of Jagermeister.

Eventually, my bare feet are covered in an inch of ice on my kitchen floor, and the freezer looks more like a storage space for food and less like the ice-cave of a Yeti.

It most likely still won't freeze food, but at least I feel better about it.

Its Politics Time!

2011-08-15T16:39:00.004-04:00

I can't believe how long its been since I've been able to use this blog as unfettered liberal propaganda during an election cycle!! But its that time, again, folks, and there are some great characters out there in the republican party* for me to quote and comment on. I'm pretty darn excited!

Today, I'll join the ranks of everyone else on the internet to talk a little bit about Michele Bachmann the Minnesota congresswoman who is running for president and who won the Ames Straw poll in Iowa over the weekend. Here's a short round up of good commentary on Bachmann from the past couple months:

Jezebel had a great short piece this week on how Bachmann's win at the Straw poll pretty much guarantees she won't be president, including this great little nugget, "before you find yourself having nightmares about her delivering the State of the Union, take heart in the fact that the Ames Straw Poll often means approximately shit."

In June, Think Progress gathered a great selection of examples in "10 of the Craziest Things Michele Bachmann Has Ever Said" such as a warning the "The Lion King" was gay propaganda, or when she likened the war in Iraq to visiting the Mall of America. Some real gems in there. Think Progress also posted a list that same month of Bachmanns Top 10 Attacks on the LGBT Community that includes simply devasting quotes about how telling a child about homosexuality is child abuse. Seriously. Is this really a person who should lead our nation?

I'll post more about Bachmann and the rest of the presidential candidates over the next year and a half. This is just an appetizer!

*I'd like to make it clear that its not necessarily Republicans that I have such a problem with, its any one who specifically campaigns on the promise to take away the rights and freedoms other other Americans, any one who encourages and supports descrimination, people who don't believe that protecting the environment is worth their energy, and those who think the rich deserve more breaks and special favors then the poor. So, no offense to Republicans who do not fall into those categories!

Is it Crevice or Crevass?

2011-08-11T20:09:00.006-04:00

There is a crevice between my pressboard counter-top and my aging, sloping gas stove into which I constantly drop bits of food that are impossible to retrieve.

A blueberry muffin flavored frosted mini wheat.
A c-shaped sliver of fresh green pepper.
A single piece of wheat bread, slathered in mustard.

I’ve come to think of this crevice as a metaphor.

Some days, the lost food item is a metaphor for acceptance – a reminder to accept the things I cannot change and …whatever the rest of that inspirational phrase is.

As I watch a portion of my meal disappear into the darkness, I think to myself, "what will be, will be." As that rogue piece of aged white cheddar takes flight from the blade of my knife in the direction of the black hole of snack foods I know it will be lost – I find myself feeling thankfulness. I am thankful for the remainder of the cheese left on my 6x8inch yellow cutting board.

I realize that there is some sacrifice coupled with all pleasure.

As I feel this realization, I can feel the Catholic indoctrination of my youth flexing its muscles. I ask myself, “Do I really think that sacrifice is unavoidable??” That’s weird.

Other days, when I’m feeling less positive or less at peace, the crevice is more enemy than it is teacher. I’m sure it’s punishing me, or trying to push me over the edge. Taking from me. Inspiring me to fear a a future odor that might radiate from its depths.

I don’t know how such a small opening can consume so many perishables. It’s like there is a magnet in there intent on destroying me.

When I move away from this apartment, I hope no one checks the crevice for remnants of my residence. I can’t imagine that whatever beast the primordial crevice ooze has created can have good intentions.

I Found A Horcrux

2011-08-05T10:37:00.003-04:00

It’s so late in the Harry Potter game that even I have read all the books, so I'm not even going to bother protecting you people from spoilers.

In HP 7.1 our young wizards find themselves on the most challenging journey of their sheltered-from-public-high-school-devastation-but-not-from-constant-life-and-death-struggles adolescence. They are seeking a series of horcruxes - a portion of a person's soul which has been split, by committing the act of murder, and stored inside an object to ensure immortality. They are seeking these soul pieces from the original bad-ass Lord Voldemort (a word that I am truly shocked my mobile blogging device doesn't recognize!) and, since he's super evil, his soul slivers are equally as nasty.

When one of the horcruxes is found it must be destroyed to bring V one step closer to death. But they aren't easy to destroy, so, in HP 7.1, Harry, Ron and Hermione are carrying around this locket they know is a horcrux but they aren't able to destroy. For safe keeping, they take turns wearing the locket, but it becomes clear rather fast that the locket effects the behavior of the wearer, inducing anger, distrust, and general bad vibes. The others have to be on the lookout for these effects so they can relieve the horcrux protector of his/her duties for a bit and rid them of the negative emotions that come with the job.

Now that everybody is clear what a horcrux is, and how it effects someone who possesses one, I'll start from the beginning again.

I found a horcrux.

Its the extremely talented Adele's sophomore album entitled 21. Now, I'm not saying that this powerfully voiced Brit killed anyone to create this horcrux. She is, after all, a mere muggle - I think - but there is without a doubt a piece of this woman's soul stored inside this album. Which is impressive unto itself because I'm not totally sure what kind of Steve Job’s computer jargonese you'd have to master to convert the mythical human soul into binary and upload it onto iTunes.

The album is melodic, passionate, powerful and soulful (pun intended). The lyrics mostly describe lost love, broken hearts, and reminiscence. Overall, it is an honest, beautiful, enchanting, impressive bummer of an album.

Like the young and fearless wizards of the Harry Potter series, I did not know the affect of the horcrux. I heard through the social media grapevine that the album was not to be missed and eventually I broke down and downloaded it.

I like to listen to an album on repeat for a while to really get a feel for individual songs and also how the artist weaves them together to create an overall message, emotion or theme - one time through just wont get you that much of a sense. But after a 3 or so hours of listening to 21 on a Saturday morning, I found my usually busy-bodied weekend self sprawled out on my tiny love seat, holding a sleeping cat, staring off into the middle distance, wondering if I was happy.

Is my job good enough for me? Should I have moved back to Chicago? Does my girlfriend love me? Near tears, I posted on Facebook that I was laying around, listening to Adele and feeling down.

Within moments there were multiple responses to my post - encouraging me to slowly step away from the Adele. I mournfully pried myself from my sedentary state, and changed my Adele iTunes playlist to a Justin Timberlake medley.

Immediately, the sun came out, the birds started chirping, and my heart was suddenly light. The good feelings about my job, my life, and my girlfriend came rushing back. The somber cloud that had enveloped me was lifted.

Once out of my melancholy, I was able to lucidly reflect on what had happened, and to realize that the horcrux’s strength was far greater than my own. In true Harry Potter fashion I would have been required to destroy the album, perhaps with the venom of a basilisk, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

The album is just too damn good.

The Sounds Make Wrigley a Different Place

2011-08-03T17:15:00.000-04:00

"First Bird" Competition Heats Up

2011-08-02T13:56:00.009-04:00

Fossil freaks are chatting up and down the Internet this week about a "new" fossil that will potentially shake up how we view the history of dinosaurs/avian-dinosaurs/birds. Readers might know that in addition to being a dino-gal, I have a very specific affection for Archaeopteryx, pictured right, the current holder of the "First bird" title, which it has boasted for 150 years.

Might Archaeopteryx be usurped as Urvogel ("Original Bird" or "First Bird") by this new fossil, Xiaotingia (pictured below)? Maybe. Maybe not. Researchers are agreeing that the fossil may change the way we see this evolutionary process, but it also might be a fluke, or a minor change of course. The "new family tree is statistically weak," says Xing Xu, the fossil's identifier/promoter/manager, and these things are usually theoretical for a long time before anything is "proven" - if it ever is.

It is amazing that we are uncovering the history of our Earth every day. Our knowledge of what came before us is and should be constantly changing -evolving- or our intelligence and knowledge is wasted. With each new fossil we learn more about where all of these amazing life forms came from, and where they are going. Where we are going.

The new fossil doesn't change the fact that birds evolved from dinosaurs, and doesn't eliminate Archaeopteryx's huge role in supporting Darwin's theory of evolution, and demonstrating that what we know is not what always was. Darwin told us that life forms are constantly evolving, that the relatives of species took on different forms in the past - and Archaeopteryx still shows us either a bird with teeth, or a dinosaur with feathers - or something beautiful in between, whether or not it loses its place at the base of the evolutionary tree branch.

For more about the battle of the birds check out these two great articles at NYT and iO9.

The Post-Storm Commute

2011-07-12T17:59:00.002-04:00

Chicago had an eleven minute storm on Monday. I wasn’t actually timing it, but the time between the moment that the brightness in my 7:30am apartment slipped from baby shower to gay bar like someone leaned on the sliding track lighting switch after too many cocktails, to the time I was standing soaking wet on the train platform, watching the sun peak out from behind the receding clouds, wasn’t long enough to defrost a chicken breast.

The rain shot sideways like a compressed garden hose in a summer backyard. Its trajectory rendered umbrellas useless and spurred joggers and commuters alike to hit full speed on their run for cover. It was messy.

This storm not only soaked the space inside my open apartment windows and my already sloppy clothes, it also wreaked some serious havoc on Chicago public transportation (and left 852,000 without power).

I made a mad dash from my front door to the train station one block away: pants rolled up, golf umbrella held in front of my body like a shield. (I later heard from the internetz that my sister and her little ones got caught it the nastiness as well.) I climbed the stairs to the train platform, and was notified by our state-of-the-art, and often inaccurate, Scrolling Time Arrival Notification Marquee that the next train to my destination apparently didn’t exist. There were other trains in 5, 6, 7, 10, 12, and 14 minutes, but, alas, my train had disappeared into the abyss.

Thankful that the 11 minute storm was over, I stood on the platform reading Charlotte’s Web, recognizing my total lack of control over the situation. My only possible plan of action was to stand on the platform and wait for the train. It would not help to pace, or glance at my watch, or post all over Facebook how annoying this was. Just wait.

And I did.

And after a few minutes, the marquee announced that my train would arrive in 17 minutes. Wow. 17 minutes. In commuter time, that’s like saying, “You’re train will arrive right after Harry Potter 9 hits theatres.”

This delay would certainly cause me to be a few minutes late to work, but no big deal. I read until it arrived, standing patiently with countless other soaked individuals. It eventually arrived. On the train I noticed the extent of this short storm's damage – trees fallen everywhere, backed up traffic, and an extremely slow train pace. I don’t know how many horsepower an L train has, but this one was for certain being pulled by a single donkey.

After about 40 minutes, my train arrived at its first scheduled stop, approximately 5 stops and 10 minutes from my office, and the conductor politely let us know that this train would go no further. And, it wasn’t just this train whose travel was arrested – it was all trains. A hidden, metallic voice intercom’d to us to exit the platform and catch the buses to our various destinations.

In the crowd of tardy, dripping wet commuters, I shuffled along looking for this mythical bus that would take me to work. I glanced at my watch and noted that I was already about 20 minutes late and not quite near it yet.

I eventually located the correct bus, lucky to watch people push and shove their way beyond its maximum capacity from a safe distance. I waited. Another bus arrived with similar results.

The third bus had space for me, although the space was a sliver standing between a couple of heavy breathers. We inadvertently spooned. Er, at least, I can say the spooning on my part was not a choice. The bus navigated the fallen trees, traffic and stop signs, and after a while came to a full stop, swung its mighty doors open, and allowed us cattle to escape our transport and scatter off into the free world.

By the time I arrived at work, close to 10 am, my clothes were actually dry and I was in a decent mood.

In a city like Chicago, sometimes an 11 minute storm means a 2 hour commute.

The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth

2011-07-02T19:18:00.001-04:00

There is really nothing better than quoting the Bible when writing about dinosaurs. I adopted this little darling yesterday from Chicago's Field museum of natural history. I had a bit of a rough week and made a gloriously selfish decision - to take a vacation day and spend some time in a place, to crib from the brilliant Sarah Vowel, that is the closest thing that I have to a church.

I had no real intention of buying anything from the store of a museum I had visited so many times, but his absolute minuteness struck a chord in me. Not just the part of me that coos and whimpers over tiny things, but the part of me that loves dinosaurs for their extreme existence. Their larger than life sizes and abilities. For their 160 million year reign of this planet. Sue, the largest and most complete TRex skeleton ever found, lives at the Field. Her fossilized remains tell us that, in life, she was over 40 feet long and weighed more than 7 tons. She was huge (and, possibly, a he).

This tiny guy, in his diametric opposition to the real TRex, just reminds us: in a world where dinosaurs once ruled, anything is possible.

Not all News is Bad News

2011-06-25T12:20:00.004-04:00

For every person who advocates for Americans becoming more aware of current events and more involved in the political process, there is an equal and opposite voice that, almost as loudly, tells Americans to turn the news off. To stop buying the newspaper. News and current events, they say, just bring us down. Our sources for this “important” information often only bring us death and scandal and rarely celebrate success or positivity. News depresses us, and it could be argued, maybe connects directly to this national crisis of obesity.

If you watch enough news, or follow Twitter regularly, or pick up the paper every couple days, once in a while you are going to be shocked with some good news. Yesterday was one of those days. In the midst of all the political gore smeared in front of our faces, the state of New York legalized equal marriage. Marriage for everyone. New York is the biggest of the states who have legalized equal marriage, and we can hope is a tipping point for other states (especially those that support large urban populations).

This news comes at a good time for me – the weekend of Chicago Pride – a weekend that has unfortunately become more and more agitating to me the older I get. On my way to work yesterday I picked up the Red Eye (the Chicago Tribune’s commuter short) to check out the reporting on Pride events. I almost didn’t open it after my eyes slid over the cover: a cartoon of a woman in a tight blue and pink outfit and a muscley man in a speedo with a caption about “Beads, Booze and Bods.”

To me, this is like the newspaper encouraging everyone to go out on Martin Luther King Jr. Day and listen to rap music, get corn rows in their hair and eat fried chicken.

Seriously. Equating Gay Pride with rainbow beads, getting blasted and taking your clothes off is totally insulting to what pride SHOULD be. Its degrading. I’m not saying that the Red Eye is uniquely misappropriating the meaning of this event – quite the contrary – the media is simply choosing an angle that will interest its viewership. I’m not pissed that people drink and party over pride weekend – that is certainly part of a celebration. But maybe be a little more considerate about WHY you are celebrating.

I’ve heard people say, “I don’t have white pride parade” or “I don’t have a straight pride parade.” Lets remember, the reason Americans celebrate things like gay pride or black history is because we have come a long way in regards to equal treatment and visibility in these communities. You don’t need to celebrate being a powerful majority since the beginning of time. Celebrate growth and change, and improvement. Celebrate the world being more opening and accepting then it was last year, or even yesterday – thanks to New York.

I did learn from the Red Eye that for the first time teachers from the Chicago Teachers Union would be marching. And that there are 48 entrants in the politician’s category. And that there will be 250 kids and their parents marching from my neighborhood elementary school.

I guess not all news is depressing.

Happy Pride.

Time To Drive

2011-06-23T10:27:00.003-04:00

Don't worry, nervous friends. This post has nothing to do with me getting behind the wheel of a car and everything to do with driving. Where else does one drive that is not in a comfy leather pilot seat navigating 2 tons of steel and plastic? Why, on the range of course! Last night I had my first official non- lightsaber-related experience with a golf club at a far flung suburban driving range (the only one of its kind in Illinois, I hear).

Now, I want to start by taking back everything mean I’ve ever said about golf. OK, I’ve never said anything mean about golf, but I have flipped through TV stations on a weekend afternoon willing to watch reruns of the Andy Griffith Show before I'd watch even one hole of golf. And that’s pretty mean.

At the range you don't even have to master complexity of score keeping for 9 or 18 holes, or need the reasoning skills important in picking the right clubs. A rookie like me can just put down her beer, swagger on up to the little green patch of Astroturf, drop that little pocked ball onto its platform, and swing out into the abyss.

And miss.

Or almost kill the semi-pro donning official looking glove and Easter colored hat in the bay next to you.

Or let the velocity of the club take over, lose your balance, and almost fall into the safety net.

Or, if you are lucky, and you focus, maybe you hit it 50 yards. Or 80 yards. And you feel awesome. And then you see why people like golf. Because it’s hard. And it’s rewarding. That's a good combination in any activity (a combo of which I've only obtained part one in writing)

I’m not good at most sports. I have poor hand-eye coordination, I’m not fluid or smooth, and I have a short little span of attention. I usually give up after the 3rd frame in bowling (or 2nd gutter ball, which ever comes first) and plop my self down in the hard plastic seat encouraging anyone else to play my turns, but I liked the driving range enough to swing that club until my two buckets were empty.

To be clear, I made contact with the ball less often than the Loch Ness monster has skulked up on shore and auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent, but I had fun!

How Archaeologists Make Jokes

2011-06-23T09:09:00.001-04:00

The Mayan conference is at the beach. Those silly archaeologists!

Chicago weather.

2011-06-20T09:52:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I rode my bike down to the beach and read the newspaper by the water. Rain had been threatening for 48 hours, but had not followed through on its promise. Today? Its a dismal as it comes. Dark, rainy, people commuting underneath umbrellas up and down the streets. The bottom four inches of everyone's slacks are wet, and messenger bags bulge with Ham and cheese sandwiches - today is the kind of day you eat lunch at your desk.

At the very least, its still pretty warm, and the closest Chicago ever feels to London.

Nothing really to complain about, I suppose.

Yoga, Running and Gratitude

2011-06-16T13:16:00.003-04:00

Like a desert wanderer, my vision was obscured by the blurry, hazy horizon of hopelessness, savage heat, and hunger. Seeking an end to my suffering that was more than a mirage, my legs shook as I pounded out each step. The sweat dripping from my brow stung my eyes and my aching lungs stressed against my ribcage ready to burst like the lungs of a deep sea diver.

I remember the pain like it was yesterday. Running the mile each spring in high school was torture.

How funny is it that ten years later I could run a mile in high heels after devouring a 72oz steak – if I had to.

I’m not the best runner. I’m not even a good runner – I’m not fast, I wimp out often and I rarely run more than 5 miles. Eliminating all that, though, I can run.

Any one can run.

Running is still hard for me. It is a challenge - but thats one of the reasons why I do it.

Only one in a million of us will become a Lukas Verzbicas, a runner from my hometown, coached by a family friend, who recently became the 5th American high school student in history to break the 4 minute mile with a time of 3:59.71 . A stat like that might actually put Lukas in a smaller group than 1 in a million.

His accomplishment is amazing, and a true testament to what the body can accomplish.

I’ve been running for about 5 years (a timeline assessed by the moment I moved exercise on the treadmill to outdoor running – and when I ran my first race.) I’ve been practicing yoga for about a year. The two activities come together harmoniously. One reason I first began yoga was to improve my running (and to protect myself from the flair up of a back injury) but it turns out the two activities have more of a symbiotic relationship.

Running lets me get outside, and lets me play with the push and pull of my physical ability. It allows my mind to traverse even more exotic routes than my sneakers. I think, I sweat and I observe and exist within my environment.

Yoga demands my concentration. It builds my skill, my patience, and requires that I keep my mind focused and present. Yoga makes me listen and follow rules.

My runner’s body feels leaner and stronger from the conditioning of near constant yoga, and I can withstand the 60 minutes of heat and demand on my muscles in a yoga class because I am a runner.

The most important thing that I have learned from my practice of yoga is gratitude.

There is something inherent in our bones, our blood, and our psyches that challenges our ability to feel good about our bodies. We stress about our weight, our shape, our ability. The colors of our eyes, hair and skin. The perfection of our smiles. We are always criticizing ourselves for not being perfect.

Yoga has given me an opportunity to be thankful for my body for enabling me to eat, to drink, to hug, to do downward dog – and to run. I am thankful that my body listens when I say “faster” or “one more mile.” I am thankful that my body will grow stronger and learn new things. I am grateful for yoga and how I’ve learned through my practice to be grateful for my body and all that it does for me.

Do you remember to be grateful for your body?

The War of the Window Unit

2011-06-10T10:46:00.002-04:00

Because Washington, DC is built on a swamp (with the fill in remnants of drudging the Potomac River to increase its depth and create a more viable shipping industry for the region) the summer months are a hot, wet, buggy mess. It's one bad combination - the humidity of heaven's waiting room, Florida, and the blurry chemical and exhaust-filled thickness typical of an urban concrete jungle.

For residents, one moment of relief from living in the government’s very own inferno is that most rental properties come complete with air conditioning. This fact came as a delightful surprise when I moved from Chicago to the District in 2005. In Chicago, A/C is found less frequently, and the War of the Window Unit is familiar to Cubs and Sox fans alike. There is some dreaded weekend waiting quietly all spring for all of us when we have to dig those units out from storage and attempt to move, lift and secure the 40 lb beasts into a window space as ill fitting as the best pair of ladies khakis.

The inevitably poor fit results in the use of half of a roll of duct tape, and the MacGyvering of common household items to fill in gaps and to secure the beast for the summer. One of the challenges includes completing this task on a tight rope, or, rather, over a busy street some 2,3 or 4 stories up. Passersby are often blessed with falling lead-tainted paint chips from the windows of century old buildings, stagnant water dripping from the unit’s last use the previous summer, and probably an array of curse words falling from the lips of the installer. Another challenge is finding an appropriately sized item to wedge between the heavy-in-the-rear unit and the window ledge.

Last summer, I helped my girlfriend duct tape a perfectly sized piece of her best Tupperware, an item which was certainly being groomed for the most important role in its plasticine life. Weeks after witnessing her ingenuity, I tried to use the same method, only to find some of my Tupperware was too big, some was too small, a few pieces were too feeble - none was just right. I then had a moment of my own brilliance.

Searching the apartment for an item that could weather the summer weather, and most likely something that would not survive the feat, I remembered the entire drawer I kept of old CD cases and booklets (a collection that for certain is the beginning of a hoarder’s existence). I selected some cases that I could easily sacrifice, duct taped them together and crammed the creation under the weight of my dangerously wobbly air conditioning unit. Perfection. The success of this project is only heightened by the fact that from the street level, its extremely clear that Fiona Apple, All 4 One, and Green Day are working tirelessly day and night to keep pedestrians safe from being crushed by my window unit.

Today on my way to work, I saw from the L a unit held up by two soup cans. Pretty clever.

Have you ever had to fight the War of the Window Unit? Who won?

Think Yourself Thin (Or At Least Relaxed)

2011-06-08T20:02:00.002-04:00

Some 15 years olds panic in the moments before the curtain rises.

Standing in the cafetoriums dark wings, some students quietly run their lines waiting for the one word or character decision that will ignite the 3 or 4 minutes of stage time for which they have been rehearsing for months.

Other 15 year olds stand in those same wings and recite the lyrics to The Beatles' Rocky Raccoon. As one of those Rocky loving teen actors, I have to admit that I don't know how RR became anxiety go-to. I just remember that the lyrics took enough of my focus that the nervous part of my chest started to relax AND that I could remember every word to the song. This dependence only grew in College, but also took on a different purpose.

My freshman year it was very popular to go to parties and dances 20 minutes or 30 minutes away at a rented banquet hall. The all-you-can-drink model was a large contributor to why we attended these banquet hall parties, but the bigest draw was really that you also got to drink on the bus on the way to the party- and everyone knows there's no fun like drinking-on-the-bus-fun.

The problem with this seemingly ideal set up, a problem that some how always slipped the minds of me and my 18 and 19 year old co-ed friends, was a simple equation.

Booze + booze + booze + bus = sick party animals.

The midnight ride back to campus, complete with rocking and rolling and pot holes, was often a very rough trip. When my best friend would inevitably start to feel sick, I'd press my head against the green plastic seatback next to her head, and softly slur Rocky Raccoon from beginning to end - distracting us both just enough from our nausea that we'd make it home without losing our (liquid) dinners on the well traveled floor of a yellow a school bus.

There's something about being able to distract yourself from anxiety and illness - feelings which seems unavoidable.

Why am I remembering the gifts that RR gave me in high school and college on this day? Because I spent my lunch hour almost completely horizontal with my dentist's responsible hands and buzzing tools all up in my grill. It's scary to be so vulnerable, and scary to not know if physical pain might win the battle of the Novacain. It's scary to think about your teeth falling out or how much it costs to put them back in. The dentist is scary no matter how nice or easy it is. Luckily I'm pretty good at calming myself down.

This time it wasn't Rocky who slowed my heart rate and lowered my blood pressure - it was Vinyasa. Closing my eyes and running a simple sequence of yoga poses, remembering the often well rehearsed lines that accompany each pose, imagining those poses perfect on my body in a way that I can't actually wear them yet. I can get a lost in my imaginary practice even with the tugging and the taste of blood in the back of my throat. It's cool to be able to separate your mind from your body, to distract yourself from what you are feeling.

What tricks help you manage your anxiety or control your fear? What else can you gain from having a mind over body connection?

PS: I originally blogged this post from my phone, and felt like there were too many errors to ignore, so this is a corrected version!

Is anybody out there?

2011-06-07T09:40:00.001-04:00

I'm always sort of freaked out when someone mentions to me something they read on my blog. Of course, of the reasons people like me start blogs is to be read, but I find I'm so embarrassed of my low budget blogging for the last 5 years that I almost wish the select handful of you who opted to be notified that I've posted would just quietly remove yourselves and no longer cause me the tension of having your audience. In all likelihood, if I wanted to maintain a blog on which I might actually be encouraged to write on it would probably be dedicated to the following subjects: dinosaurs, cats, running, yoga, music, and public transportation/delights of urban living. While staying on these few subjects might be kind of fun for me, I don't really know how much fun you all would have. The other option is to do Readers Choice and take suggestions for posts. I'm happy to write on any subject. As my voice echoes out and back from the blogosphere I ask- what do you want to read about?

Mediations on Writing

2011-06-05T20:23:00.002-04:00

What causes the desire or capacity to write change for some so much from day to day? There are days, admittedly rare ones, in which I cover page after page, or post it after post it, or perhaps napkin after napkin- tangential thoughts, complex story lines, snapshots not fully formed. Sometimes these words and phrases flow the way we imagine Bob Dylan composing in bursts of perfection and timeless clauses that have the power to change a generation (it really does feel that way sometimes ). Other days I can try to force my hand to move. Try to feed my brain story leads. Try to reflect on old ideas which I captured briefly to later expound upon, and, yet - no writing appears. Nothing. Not one joke. Not one familial anecdote. Nothing that will.change anyone. These days, it's rather hard to feel like much more than a nonprofiteer. A cat owner. A yogi. Certainly not a writer. Certainly not.

I'll Take "Home" For $2000, Alex

2011-06-01T17:58:00.007-04:00

The instant my foot crossed the threshold of my apartment after almost two full weeks out of town for both work and pleasure, those stereotypical words drifted unconsidered into my mind: “It feels so good to be home.”

Even with those words in my head, within minutes (or maybe minute) of dropping my suitcases, loneliness crept in.

I picked up my cell phone and found no texts. I perused my emails only to be met with advertisements and offers. I sunk into the tiny green loveseat near my street-facing windows and watched the summer heat beat down onto un-acclimated Chicagoans. My sunburned and dehydrated body had no interest in exercise. The cats were still at sleep-away camp until a ride could be arranged for their return. The fridge was bare, my girlfriend was 40 miles away and after 2 full weeks of constant social interaction I found I didn’t remember how to be by myself.

2 weeks of constant business with work, or constant easy chatter with my best friends, or continuous phone calls to folks at home...it was too quiet.

Without my love, my friends OR my cats – how could this place be considered home?

After a few hours (reconnecting with my books, NPR, and cheese and crackers) I started to feel more like a local in my apartment, but the gap was harder to close than I had expected.

What makes your house a home?

Gay Marriage Vs. Cousin Marriage

2011-06-01T16:24:00.000-04:00

This is Americer.

It's not Harry Potter, but it will do.

2011-04-29T10:37:00.001-04:00

Since I finished grad school I have tried to rededicate myself to the hobby of reading for pleasure. I've always loved to read, but I'll be honest in saying that it was a little challenging to remind my brain that all reading wasn't exhausting and demanding. When I got over the damage higher ed had done to me, I started reading everything I could find, including, finally, the Harry Potter series. For the record, I loved it.

A few weeks ago, I encountered one of these "100 Books Everyone Should Read" lists on Facebook and felt wildly unread. After sifting through the list and deciding that making a dent in it would be one of my summer goals I started the first book on my list- Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.

Like practicing yoga, reading the Bronte sisters is something that I thought I would never do. Turns out, you totally aren't done evolving when you are 22, 25, or 28 - I'm a little under halfway through with Jane Eyre, and I'm loving it. I don't really know why, yet. But I do. Who knew?

Most of my reading is accomplished on my commute, and while I feel a little bit nerdy (or undergrad-y) reading "classic lit" in such a public space, I like to see (and judge) what other people are reading on the train, too. From text books, to Manga, to Russian lit, to John Grisham - Its fun to look at the book, look at the person, wonder why he or she is reading said book and if he or she likes it. I wonder what people think of me and Jane Eyre (or, before Jane, me and random paleoanthropology books). The sad part of this game, however, is that people are all using Kindles/Nooks/iPads these days so their texts are a mystery.

I have more to say about the Kindle/Nook/iPad - but that's for a different post.

The 30 Day Yoga Challenge

2011-04-28T17:30:00.001-04:00

I've taken up the 30 Day Yoga Challenge.

This is not a challenge that raises money for sick kids, nor is it a challenge that raises money for my own personal indulgences. Completing the challenge does not enter me in a raffle or get my name on a faux gold font printed list. All it does is begin to prepare my body for summer (swimsuits and summer running season) and produce street cred among my social circle of fellow yogis and yoga enthusiasts.

All I have to do is complete 30 yoga classes in 30 days. I don't have to actually take a yoga class everyday - I can double up some days in a row, and then skip days if need be (and I'll need be, because I'll be going on a 10 day journey to New Orleans with work where it will be difficult for me to get my Namaste on.) I like it. I like yoga. I like the challenge. I like how my body will feel all beaten and bruised and strong and limber at the same time.

This yoga challenge has got me thinking. If I look forward to yoga challenge, in this way - to committing at least an hour average a day (without travel, prep, shower) why have I never been able to complete a 30 day blogging challenge? Why have I never been able to blog every day for thirty days? Are my expectations set so high that I freak myself out? Do I demand a level of interest or creativity from each post that I have a hard time reaching? Have I convinced myself that I "don't have time"?

If May is 30 Day Yoga Challenge, maybe June should be 30 Day Blogger Challenge. If I can dedicate that much time to challenge my body, I should find the time to challenge my mind, too. Want to join me?

Shakespeare is ready for his close-up.

2011-04-27T17:34:00.001-04:00

Attempt from interwebz phone

2011-04-27T17:32:00.001-04:00

I'm guessing there's a Blogger app. Maybe that's something to look into.

Re-Learning How to Mobile Blog

2011-04-27T17:25:00.001-04:00

In this iteration of Nervous Blogging, I'm planning to try some short form mobile-blogging. If I can remember how to do it, that is.I didn't get me an interwebz phone for nothing.

Stay Tuned.

Post Script: Happy Administrative Professionals day from your favorite Administrative Professional.

--

If righting is wrong, I don't want to be write.

Martin's Curious Camera - Part 2

2010-10-26T16:44:00.002-04:00

     Martin had told me three months earlier, over lunch at a corner sports bar, that his bank account was a little stretched. It was Friday, and I dared to order a pint of cool and delicious amber ale – assuming Martin would take my lead and indulge as well.
     “Eh, going out to lunch is already pushing it,” he sighed, dipping the third and final section of his crispy fry into a depleting pool of BBQ sauce, “I can’t throw a 5 dollar beer on top of it.”
     “It will just have to be on me,” I said as I flagged down our server and ordered Martin an amber as well. “It’s Friday!”
     He talked about how his grad school loans were painful to pay each month, and how his landlord has recently raised his rent. I listened, but only half-way, feeling bored by the conversation I had shared with each and every 25-35 year old I knew. We enjoyed our cold one and went back to our favorite conversation topic – how much work sucks, how we don’t make enough money, how boring it is to sit in a cube from day to day.
     “We should have gone to art school,” I suggested, “Computer Science seemed like the right idea at the time, but that’s just because I was unpopular in high school. It’s really not worth the boredom.”
     “I know. When I was 17 I thought that being able to calculate angles and distances in my head meant I was like some kind of super computer. I thought that I was going to be writing video game code or working for the Pentagon. Not writing code for some software company. Man, I’d do anything to get a cooler job.”
     We cheersed the final swallow of our beers to the sad and distant idea of having a super cool job, grabbed our colorless suitcoats from the backs of our chairs and exited the restaurant. It wasn’t until about a week later when he started acting funny.

     “Remember when we were at Hemmingway’s? And we were bitching about work, and you said that we should have gone to art school?” he asked me one afternoon in front of the tiny kitchen fridge as he cracked open a Diet Coke.
     “Yeah, that would have been awesome.”
     “Are you good at art? I mean, have you studied art?”
     “I took a couple of electives in undergrad – just an Art history and an Intro to the Nakeds or the Classics, or something. But I don’t remember shit about it; accept that Leonardo Da Vinci was gay.”
     “Gay? Really? Huh. I guess that explains the Vitruvian Man.” Martin deadpanned.
     “The what?”
     “Never mind,” he laughed, “you don’t remember shit, do you?”
     “No Hablar espanol either.” I said, “If it wasn’t in my major I just tried not to sink, you know? The art stuff was cool, though. I maybe should have paid more attention. What’s your interest?”
     “Oh, about the art? No big interest, I was just reading some stuff about an international art auction in New York. Wondering how much that stuff goes for.”
     "I don't really know anything about it,"I said,"but I feel like everytime there's an auction like that the numbers are just crazy - millions of dollars for some painting of flowers or of some ballet dancer or something. Money that I can't imagine spending on a home, let alone a 10X10 canvas to hang on a wall!"
     "Yeah. Millions. That much money only exists in suitcases handcuffed to the arms of bad guys in the movies, right?" Martin's eyes drifted off to the floor. "That's why people steal art. Millions of dollars for some little picture. Millions."

              ---To Be Continued---

A Night At The Movies - Part 1

2010-10-25T17:58:00.003-04:00

      “I could have avoided all that trouble if I had only remembered to roll those car windows up.” Sarah’s dad started, with a wide-eyed look on his face that made it hard to know if he was telling the truth.
It was pretty common for Mr. Olson to tell us old stories as he sipped on what he said was a soda, but, even at 14, I suspected was a booze drink. I slept over at their house all the time, and even when Sarah rolled her eyes and asked him to leave us alone, I nodded attentively, eager to hear him tell stories about his childhood in a way I had always wished my dad would.
      “I was exactly your age,” he said through the heavy sighs of his daughter, “12.”
      “Dad! I’m 14!”
      “Oh right,” he said, “that’s right. I was 14.”

      Mr. Olson told us a story that began with basketball. He said that he and his best friend, Skinny Mitch, were shooting hoops outside the community center with a kid called Joey Arnold. Mr. Olson said the boy’s called him Timmy back then, sometimes Tiny Tim. Mr. Olson told us how Joey Arnold wouldn’t stop bragging about how he was going to see The Faceless Man, the newest horror flick to reach their local cinema, that Saturday night. The little Mr. Olson, Timmy, and Skinny Mitch knew that Joey couldn’t get into a horror movie, and they called his bluff.
      “Yeah, right, big man,” Mitch taunted, “you don’t look 12, let alone 17!”
Joey paused mid-three pointer, arms posed in the air dramatically to make his point.
      “Oh yeah, losers, my brother Scott works the ticket booth. All I have to do is buy a ticket to Fantastical Mr. Turtle, and my brother will let me sneak into The Faceless Man. Take that!” On the exclamation, Joey went for the shot – forcing all his coolness into the hope for a swish. He hit it. Mitch and Timmy were beyond impressed.
      “No shit, Joey! Are you for real?! That’s awesome. Come Monday, you’ll be the only kid in the whole 9th grade who’s seen it. Man, that’s SO awesome.” Mr. Olson touched the palm of his hand to the Nike Swish on his t-shirt. He said he could feel the jealousy swell up in his chest as he passed the ball to Mitch, but he had an idea.
      "You don’t think Scott would sneak us in to the movie, too, do you?"

      The deal involved Mitch and Timmy doing Joey’s math homework for a week. But it was a deal.
      Back at Timmy’s house later that afternoon, he knew he had some work to do. His parents had plans to go out that Saturday night, so that was a plus. Since they were close friends of the Stewarts, Mitch’s parents, he planted some seeds to get them to go on a double date.
      The double date plan went better than expected. A new restaurant had opened in town that only served family style meals – servings of 4, 6 or 8 – and Timmy’s parents really wanted to go. On that Saturday afternoon, he sat down at the kitchen table where his dad was prepping the dinner their son would eat after they left for the evening. Timmy brought got his plan in motion.
      "You guys should totally go to that new place, Mario’s, or Luigi’s, or whatever."
      "Gregorino’s Trattoria.” His dad corrected. “And it’s only for groups, unfortunately. Your mom and I have been interested in going there for weeks.”
He knew he had his in.
      "Oh really? Just yesterday I heard Mr. Stewart saying how much him and Mrs. Stewart wanted to go there, too. You guys should ask ‘em.”
The older Mr. Olson hesitated in peeling his carrot for a minute, and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose with his finger. He called out to the Timmy’s mom.
      “Sandy…Have you talked to Tom or Marcia today?”
      She had.
      Were they busy tonight?
      They weren’t.
      His Dad suggested that he give their friends a call and invite them for a nice evening out at the Trattoria. His Mom thought this idea was lovely and thanked him for being so thoughtful. Mr. Olson laughed when he told us that his Dad peered over his mom’s shoulder and winked at him.
      “Later,” he said “my dad told me that the trick to keeping your wife happy was the element of surprise.” Before they left that night, Mr. Olson said, his dad slipped him a five for a pizza in case he wasn’t interested in the casserole they had left for him.

      “Wait a minute,” Sarah stopped her dad. She was incredulous. “5 Dollars? For a whole, pizza? See, Jamie, I told you he was lying.”
      “Lying? No way,” Mr. O. quickly rebutted, “you have to remember this was 1972. Thing were a little different back then. You know I had a job stocking shelves at the market when I was 11…”
      “I know, I know,” my best friend laughed, “up hill both ways, right?”
      “Oh, have I told you that story before?” Mr. Olson winked at Sarah, I guessed just like his dad winked at him that Saturday night in 1972.

--To Be Continued--

Prompt: Begin a story with the following sentence: “I could have avoided all that trouble if I had only remembered..."

Questions: I'm having trouble keeping the frame in tact. I like the story as "Mr. Olson telling a story to Sarah and Jamie" but I think its really awkward to keep referring back or calling the narrator Mr. Olson. Any advice for how to rearrange so I can keep the frame without all the awkward? Check back for more of the story...

The Voice of Reason

2010-10-15T17:54:00.002-04:00

Eliot's slanted eyes glinted like 24 carot gold in the thin band of morning sun which peeked in through the blinds of my bedroom window.

"They won't notice you are gone, anyway." he says.

I was more offended by his wry comment than I was surprised by his eloquent speech. I always knew Eliot had it in him.

"No, not those jeans," Eliot purred as I grabbed the first pair I saw from my laundry pile, "the dark ones. From the Gap."

He had always had a sense of style.

"Now, in your backpack load the following items:
Two apples
Two zip lock bags of Purina cat chow
A bottle of water
That soft blue sweater
Your iPod
And your CTA card."

"I understand that we need food and water, and I'm guessing we are taking the train somewhere, but whats with the sweater and iPod?" I asked.

"I'll need somewhere soft to take a nap in about an hour and I like to fall asleep to Justin Timberlake." Me too, I thought. Me too. "And Jean - please be quiet when you go into the front room - I've kept this plan a secret from Baby Shakespeare. He can't get involved in all of this."

I followed Eliot's orders and packed my red backpack with the necessary supplies. I thought about how Eliot's English sounded vaguely British. I wondered if he was just in a James Bond kinda of mood. Eliot followed me back and forth across the apartment on his dainty soundless paws. I asked if I should bring my beret and headlamp, just in case. I think he rolled his eyes at me. He hopped up in the cat tree and nodded toward my bag, I held it up and he slinked his 11 cat pounds inside. I slipped the bag on my shoulders.

"Give Shake a kiss goodbye. He really likes it when you do that." Eliot whispered from the bag. I felt like the chef from Rattatouie and felt happy that all my lame cat kissing was not for naught. I said goodbye to sleeping Shake and kissed his little face. He rolled half way, tucked his face into his paws and fell back to sleep. As I left my apartment with Eliot in my backpack, I quickly questioned my sanity. He HAD actually woken me up this morning telling me to turn off my alarm, right? He had told me to call into work and pack him in my backback…right? I paused briefly at the top of the steps, looked down the flight out and out the window the street below, double blinking my eyes to ensure clarity.

The anxious little voice from over my shoulder reminded me that this wasn't the work of my imagination.

"What are you waiting for? We're going to be late!"

Prompt: One day you wake up to find your dog/cat waiting for you at the side of your bed, sitting on your briefcase. Cocking its head, it tells you, in perfect English, that you won’t be going to work today. Why won’t your pet let you go to work, and what happens?

When You Visit New York City

2010-10-14T15:43:00.004-04:00

When you visit New York City, you try your hardest to not look like a tourist. In the morning of your first day in this new(york)city, you pick your clothing piece by piece from your knock off Louis Vuitton suitcase, and whisper inside your head that no one can tell that it isn’t real. You search for an outfit that says “I live in Chelsea.” You return some items to the brown and brown bag, deciding that the sweater or shoes are too Midwestern. Too comfortable for a Manhattanite.

Once you are on the street, starting your big day, you aren’t sure that you are walking toward Times Square. You can’t remember if it was left or right. You refuse to pull out your map. You hope that the direction you are walking, even if it is wrong, is not dangerous. You have seen your fare share of CSI episodes. As your heart begins to beat faster, you wish that you had looked up which neighborhoods in New York aren’t safe to walk alone. Scolding yourself, you think how typical this behavior is for you. To be so concerned about an outfit that you didn’t care to find out where you are most likely to be killed.

You begin to make a plan to turn around, to walk back the 6 or 8 or 10 blocks to the shineless doors of your budget hotel. You want to return to your room and double check your directions, to maybe ask someone at the hotel to help. You want to call your best friend and admit your stupidity. To admit you’ve been walking at least 15 minutes in what you think is the wrong direction. To be wrist slapped through the phone for almost getting yourself killed by wondering into a gang-infested neighborhood. For being too proud, or cool, or stubborn to pull out your map. You recognize that even being told that ignoring your helpful, colorful, fold-out map is stupid, you would rather be lost than look like a tourist. You might rather be mugged, too.

As you cross the street, the first step in your perfectly calculated plan to check your watch, check your phone, dig through your bag, look frustrated, and turn around in a huff (hopefully signifying the fault of someone else in your need to backtrack), you look up and into the visual cacophony of the Times Square billboards. You smile to yourself, silently congratulate yourself, and continue walking on in the direction that you knew was right all along.

Question to writers: How does the "you" form (2nd person?) benefit a story? What do we gain from using it? What do we lose?

Martin's Curious Camera - Part 1

2010-10-11T16:23:00.002-04:00

Martin didn’t look tan enough to have vacationed in Cancun. Nor did he look sufficiently relaxed to have spent 7 days and 6 nights strolling white sand beaches or sipping Coronas in a palm tree lined outdoor bar. Martin didn’t seem relaxed at all. In fact, when he came into the office about 15 minutes late Monday morning looking pasty and twitchy, he barely said a word to me or to Matthew, although we had worked in the same department for almost 4 years and enjoyed a routine of morning banter.

“How was the old South of the Border!?” Matthew inquired, spinning his rolling office chair away from his desk to face Martin’s meagerly decorated cubicle.

“It was nice. Hot.”

“Long flight? I bet your arms are tired,” Matthew laughed, like it was the first time the English – speaking world had ever heard that joke. He was so proud I was afraid he was about to request a high five.

“That’s all you got?” I tried, “Any girls? Any crazy stories? Or is this like a ‘What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico” sort of thing.”

Martin didn’t turn around. He didn’t make eye contact. He watched his computer boot up and shuffled around the week-old papers on his desk.

“No, no…none of that. It was just uneventful, that’s all. Quiet. Relaxing.”

Matthew and I took his brevity as our cue to go back to the spreadsheeting and analysis that occupied the majority of our average workdays, but minutes later my thoughts returned to the weird interacting with Martin. He usually wasn’t so distant. And now, as I quieted my hands on my keyboard, I couldn’t even hear him at his desk. No phone call, no typing. I leaned back in my chair with the sort of fake stretch that usually signifies a low budget attempt to romance a girl at a movie theatre. From my backbend, I could just see Martin’s back as he hunched over something – his “Trees of the Northwest” computer screen saver replacing a Word or Excel file.

I couldn’t tell what he was doing, but he had been doing it for long enough for his computer to lock up. Because it was a departure from his normal office behavior, this clear distraction from work intrigued me even more. I rocked back up to an upright position in my chair, contemplating my next investigative move. Then my ears focused in. Beyond the typing, beyond the hushed phone calls, I heard a beeping. A patternless, high pitched sound that didn’t take my 21st Century ears long to diagnose – the clicking through of pictures on a digital camera. That was Martin’s engrossing activity – clicking through pictures from his “uneventful” trip to Cancun? Something about this Monday morning seemed off, and I was going to find out what.

-To Be Continued-

Prompt: Write about a roll of film that has been obtained surreptitiously.

An Exercise in Idea Response

2010-10-10T14:12:00.003-04:00

Jot down (quickly) the scenes you would expect to find in a film with this premise:

Two childhood friends unexpectedly fall in love during a trip to New York.

Laughing and accidental touching in Central Park surrounded in fall leaves and autumn colors
He has a dizzying moment (he can't take his eyes off her) when she spills mustard down the front of her shirt near a hotdog stand, and then cracks up laughing. He wipes mustard off his hot dog and rubs in on his face to keep up the laughter.
She pulls strings to get tickets to a Broadway show he thought was sold out – the hug and he accidentally says “I love you” and she laughs and says I love you, too (but its clear she’s wondering in what way he means it…)
Her shower explodes and floods her whole room, but the hotel is sold out so they have to stay together in his room. (Or, they are staying together already but at check-in the hotel doesn’t have their two double beds available! They have to share a King?!?)
The two get really drunk at some fancy Manhattan restaurant and confess that they always wish their significant others could be more like the other one.
She almost walks in front of a cab, and he pulls her back and into his arms.

These were just some of my first, semi-obvious ideas. What other scenes come to mind when you think of this typical Rom-Com premise?

Prompt from Dennis Cass Wants You To Be More Awesome

A P.I. and His Ride (A shot at fiction)

2010-10-10T12:07:00.003-04:00

Mac Davies, PI. Full name Joseph MacDonald Davies Jr., son of Joseph MacDonald Davies and Bella-Joy (McAllister) Davies.

Mac Davies plants himself at coffee counters. Flannel shirted and John Deere cap wearin', he looks like a truck driver or construction worker sipping coffee at a neighborhood diner (pretending to read the Post, but possibly just looking at the headlines). His unkempt, hard workin’ appearance says he likes his coffee steaming, and that he usually opts for pie. Today, he’s removed from his diner counter hangout. Today, he leans contemplatively against the wall of 100 Financial place, pulling deep drags of a cigarette, thumbing his belt loop and squinting into the hot sun. When he stomps his cigarette out with a surprisingly clean Timberland boot, swivels left and steadily follows Jason Wrightwood on his way out of the building, Jason becomes uneasy. Jason does not become uneasy because the flannel shirted follower looks particularly menacing, but because he knows he's in trouble. He's received two calls today; anonymous enemies notifying him that his secret could no longer be considered so. Jason Wrightwood is paranoid. As he flips back his long spring Armani coat, he pulls the blackberry from his belt and tosses it into a waste-can. Without breaking stride, he reaches into the pocket of his well-pressed slacks, extracting the keys to his M500, and hits the double beep that opens the doors. To his relief, the follower does not follow. He crosses the street, lighting a new cigarette, and climbs into the unlocked red Cherokee parked a quarter block down the street. "Not a cop." Wrightwood breathes aloud. For the first time today he feels the pressure in his chest release. "Cops don't drive 15 year old hick-wagons. I bet he parks that thing in front of a trailer in Indiana" he laughs to himself.

What Wrightwood doesn’t know is that the Cherokee is the car of a loyal and adventurous PI - a PI who would plow through trash cans, over curbs and through dog parks to reach an assailant. The Cherokee says this guy means business. This guy is knows what you’re up to. This guy likes mud.

---

Prompt: from Dennis Cass Wants You To Be More Awesome

1. Create a P.I.

2. Pick a car for said P.I.

3. Identify what the car says to the people in the fictional detective’s fictional world

4. Identify what the car secretly signals to the reader

Vroom, vroom.

Before I Ever Arrive at Work

2010-10-06T12:36:00.003-04:00

Most mornings I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock at least 4 times. Its not even an alarm clock, it’s a cell phone, which I hold in my hand through the early hours of the morning just to be sure that I can hit the snooze as quickly as possible. Eventually, I wake the cats from their tiny cat slumber, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Although it’s not even a bed, its futon I bought more than 5 years ago, which I resent but still refuse to replace with a real sleep center. I shuffle across the beat-up wooden floor of my apartment and open the lid of my aging Macbook. Clicking on some arbitrary music I scoot the 2 or 3 yards to my blue tiled bathroom and indulge in a quick and purposeful shower. Barely dry, glasses fogged, I select arbitrary clothing items from my closet and layer them on my body. Sometimes, I take a picture of my face and text it to my girlfriend so that she knows I’ve started my day. I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, packed with reading and writing books (books that are more good faith efforts than they are functional), and lock the cats inside the heavy wooden door. I scoot down the single flight of stairs and cross Clark street at whatever light blinks “Walk”.

I usually miss the train. I then stand and wait; sometimes I read or write. When the Purple line train eventually arrives, I herd myself with the crowd to an available seat, and make the first important decision of the day: Do I cross my arms and try to sleep on the 25 minute journey, or do I challenge myself to write some words in my hard backed fake-leather notebook? Most days I try to write – slurring down mis-spelled words with a purple pen stolen from my office like I’m inebriated rather than just sleepy. Some mornings I surprise myself with the ease of my pen’s flow, with the appearance of words on paper that I didn’t know were inside my head, with the profundity my 8am brain can achieve. Other mornings I write the date in the corner and think a little about all the things I should write about. I then stick my purple pen between the pages of my hard backed fake-leather notebook, cross my arms over my chest, let my eyes close, and hope for 22 minutes of sleep.

Prompt: Write about a less than remarkable aspect of your life.

Shakespeare the Cat

2010-10-04T20:01:00.004-04:00

When I key though my apartment door after a day at work, or a night out, or a weekend away, Shakespeare the Cat squawks. He persists, pushes and demands. His surprisingly rough and scratchy little cat voice both irritates and soothes me. As a two-pound kitten, when I first brought him home from the Humane society (along with his quiet and calm brother), he spent every night standing against my single studio alley-facing window crying. This devastated me. Panicked as any mother or creepy cat young adult would be, I laid awake night after night trying to soothe him. I guessed he had contracted a disease, suffered from a hidden injury or dealt with an overwhelming amount of anxiety. Now, 6 years after his birth, I've assessed that he is just needy and bossy, but this conclusion was not reached quickly. It was not reached without traveling first by taxi or borrowed Camry to the vet seeking diagnosis. Shakespeare the Cat, the polite vet explained gingerly, suffered not from a mysterious illness or injury, and was not anxious. Shakespeare the cat had most likely not digested a portion of the most likely not poisonous plant sample I clutched desperately in a blue and yellow makes green zip lock bag. Shakespeare the Cat suffered from nothing, besides, perhaps, a lack of attention. The cat-printed shirt which peaked out sabotagingly from under my v-necked sweater sadly punctuated the $200 vet trip for the squawky cat that just needed a hug.

Prompt: Write about a noise-or a silence-that wont go away

Ray Bradbury: 90 and Awesome

2010-08-02T18:01:00.004-04:00

I read a lot of science fiction as a kid. I had a few old books I had picked up at thrift stores, dusty and stale with age, in the deteriorating medium of paper pages and spine - hardly giving away the endless possibilities and human capabilities supposed between their covers.

Most of the stories that I read I no longer remember the book title, the author, the characters names. I just hold a moral, or what moral I took. An image conjured, stored in my mind, and viewed through like stained glass - coloring my perpectives as I have grown. I remember a story about a man in the far flung future who learned to do math by hand, after years of computers completing all calculations, to the fear and amazment of his community. I remember a story of a puzzle fallen to Earth and found by very young children--who played with it, understood it, and solved it in a way that their parents couldn't understand. (The take-away here was that we are born with a certain unique and real method of thought, an ability to process that is negated by grownups who think we are just baby blabber and cooing - and that we lose this important way of thinking through conditioning to think like everyone else.)

I have leaned away from science fiction as I've leaned away from all fiction - but today I was wrapped back into that world of possibility and futuristic perspectives that I held as a kid. Both a fear of future and an optimism - as I read about the upcoming 90th birthday of the legendary science fiction writer Ray Bradbury on August 22nd. You've read or at least heard of some of his "big" pieces -Fahrenheit 451, Dandelion Wine or The Martian Chronicles but he's written endless amount of visionary works helping readers to look beyong their own experience into a place where anything is possible.

In the article Mr. Bradbury is quoted as saying one of the most inspiring things I've heard in a long time. A confession that truly speaks to a life lived extraordinarily.

"I jump off the cliff and build my wings on the way down."

This might be my new favorite quote (and I am known to dislike quotes, or things that attempt to evoke inspiration).

There are some surprising and unique aspects to the article -- such as Bradbury's repeated implication that his faith in God, or maybe God himself are responsible for his literary works. That his religious beliefs (although incredibly unusual in a scientific community) have actually served as a boost in his exploration of science and other worldliness -- not a hurdle.

I encourage you to read the article, learn about an amazing writer, pick up a copy of Farenheit and perhaps turn your eyes to the stars with a little more wonder.

Thursday Kitten Snack

2010-07-29T17:13:00.003-04:00

Two of my favorite things, Kittens and DC.

Look at that little guy's face. He's a therapy kitten at the United Cerebral Palsy center in DC. Good work little buddy!

Wednesday Night Meditations on City Living

2010-07-29T01:43:00.003-04:00

I feel an inherent dichotomy in my bones.

I am a girl raised in suburbs who thrives in city, but my city living has always been warmly flanked by opportunities to spread my wings in quiet places.

My growing up is a rolladex of camping trips, making secret promises creekside, plans to bike the vertical length of the Western coast. The semi-suburban 4 years of college life were softened by the green space, by the river, by the ability to escape into nothingness. Even life in DC was punctuated by a close proximity (in each stage, with each house-mate, in each apartment) to the alive and exhilarating Rock Creek park - the perfect escape for city-bound button-ups. Even now, I can admit that my interest in the location of the L, grocery and liquor stores, is really appreciated when compared to my easily accessible Lake Front Path. To the choppy quiet of the lake. The city is a place where I feel my most me, but it is only so because I can escape the noise and combat any time I desire with the solace of the lake.

The city provides me with the feeling of independence - the long desired need to feel unreliant on anyone or anything, but I mostly love the city because it provides room for comparison. I love extremes - I am not a "gray" person. I love the black, and I love the white - the gray is not enough of either. I cannot appreciate the vastness of black and white from the middle of the gray.

I think that I could give up my big lake for a small lake. I could live a life where my day to day was the Lake Front Path, and my escape was the city. Where I could see and feel and breathe the comparison from the other side. Where my Tuesday was a time for wooded trails and quiet, and my weekends were occupied with the cacophony of traffic and crowded bars. I think I could exist with the city as punctuation - as an exclamation mark - I think the black and white could remain just as starkly bright, contrasting, and mesmerizing from the other side of the line.

In the same way that I love the city, I think I could love being away from it.

Making Decisions about Memories

2010-07-27T13:44:00.004-04:00

I am not known to be neat.

Without making excuses, I will say that my propensity towards the sloppy is not because I don't care. It's because I DO care. I care about everything; I care too much. I have a hard time trashing a newspaper that I didn't read every word of, let alone one that contained articles that interested me, or writing that inspired me. I have a hard time throwing away anything that can possibly be reused, or things I think someone else might want. I always joke that this behavior originates from growing up in the depression (and I do certainly think my mother's thrift has had some impact on my problem) but at the root it is just my overemotional desire to hang on to memories - and usually memories are represented by things. I have a fear of things disappearing, of not being reclaimable, of letting something slip from my fingertips and being unable to remember what it felt like against my skin.

The easy way for people to help me clear up this problem is to just tell me no, to throw some of that stuff away for me, to help me find a way to reuse or recycle - its not a creepy additiction (yet). Its just an annoying habit. I don't really notice when stuff is gone, I just don't like getting rid of it myself. Specifically, I have a problem letting go of certain items like hand written cards, letters and emails.

There is something about a hand written card from my grandmother that just destroys me. Its a thing about words (which are obviously a passion of mine) - its notes, letters, texts and emails. The most touching and important things I own are just a few words shared with me - "Feel Better" cards from my 3rd grade classmates after my dad died, letters from high school friends tucked into my copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, a thankful text from my best friend the day after her wedding. I have kept this collection minimal, but its a challenge to not save every word written to me. I know I don't have space for it. I am realistic.

But in the e-world there are only vague limitations to the records I can keep. And keep I do. I almost never delete an email. I revel in my ability to go back through the last few months of my current relationship and read our sweet exchanges. To follow conversations with my best friends on the East coast about burritos and beer. To prove to myself or to another person that a conversation happened or that an agreement way made --I like to have proof. I like to remember what jobs I applied to each time I was unemployed. Luckily at this point I havent hit any of the absurdly high limits on my gmail account, for that will be a sad day. That will be a day when I have to make some decisions. Decisions about what is really important to me.

As for the physical things I have a hard time trashing, maybe its just time I start scanning documents and taking pictures of objects -- time to create an e-time capsule of all my memories so that I can continue into maturity and adulthood without closets full of useless "things" with which I am afraid to part. Or maybe I just start writing about them and then giving them away. I don't really need a closet full of artifacts to remember that I've had experiences - I just need to get better at documenting. Writing about those moments and what they mean to me. What compelled me to hang on to begin with. A half a page of my chicken scratch might be more significant than a business card or a bottle cap in the long run, anyway.

Diving Into Yoga

2010-07-22T16:34:00.004-04:00

Since I hurt my back in an unknown incident in March of 2009 doctors and fellow back injury sufferers have told me that if I want to keep running (like i do!) I need to work in some core building. Specifically, lots of people have told me to consider taking up Yoga. I will admit wholeheartedly, although a big part of me has always thought that yoga was "cool" I was still pretty sure that it wasn't for me. to me, Yoga is something slow, requiring concentration, a serious expression on my face, and 45 minutes of quiet. This seemed like the opposite of my vision of a workout. I like to workout sort of fast and furious. I like it to be measurable, 5 miles, 1 hour, 6.0 on a treadmill. Yoga didn't really seem to fit my image of myself.

However, I've come to terms with the fact that I need to stop relying on the "image I hold of myself" like its tattooed on my flesh. I have tried to stop saying "that's not something I would do" and just try to do it and see if maybe it IS something I do. I have been surprising myself.

So, when one of my besties trained for a million months and became a yoga teacher, I felt like it was a good opportunity to be supportive of her passion and lifestyle and perhaps generate an excuse to sign up for a yoga class.

This Yogi friend, who knows my all or nothingness, convinced me that I would only be able to make a real decision (which she was already certain would be favorable) about yoga if I dove in. head first. Into the deep end. (Safety of course, for in addition to one hell of a Vinyasa she also knows CPR). I liked her aggressiveness. :)

I began my dive into the world of Yoga both at Core Power Yoga in Lincoln Park but also at the Ray Meyer Fitness Center through Depaul University. This week I've taken three classes (2 regular beginner heated, one Yoga Sculpt - which is Yoga with free weights) and it has been rad. I really like it. I like the focus. I like the serious look on my face. I like the soreness in my muscles the next day. And, PS, its hard. Yoga is hard. Don't be fooled.

This week I'm doing Yoga 4 times, maybe five. And I feel like I could really keep doing it that often. I bike to yoga, so I get that in, too, but I haven't been running all week. I need to learn how to integrate it all together, and still have plenty of time to go to the bar.

I do not imagine that this will be my last rambling on yoga.

Tell me about your yoga experiences, or why you havent had them. Go.

Photo above is of my Yogi friend, Nic. She's a good teacher, even upside down.

Relaunch 57.0 (I'm back...Again)

2010-07-21T17:13:00.002-04:00

It happened again. My schedule got busy and I dropped my blog. It is so hard to believe a person like me, a person who has committed countless hours and endless amounts of money (or at least the promise of money via the federal government) to the practice of writing can’t seem to find the time or make the effort to post a few times on a blog that was designed to be fun. In elementary form its simple – I’ve spent the last several months going out for drinks, going on dates, going to the beach, going running, than I haven't been writing about those things. THAT, of course, is a preference. (To DO rather than to simply WRITE about doing). But I need to work on a happier medium for myself. And so this is the beginning of a relaunch of the blog again and hopefully this time I’ll stay active for longer than a few months.

Some topical commentary for today? Some personal goings on? Certainly.

One thing I’m thinking about lately is other people’s blogs. Clearly, people blog and write in a public manner to be shared. There is a sense that what you are writing is important enough that other people should want to read it, or that its informational enough that you think people SHOULD read it, or you are just looking for interaction that you aren’t obtaining in your life off-line. Maybe that means advice, or commentary and editing for your creative endeavors, or encouragement. The blogger gets something out of publishing their thoughts or their personal work online. But even though I know that bloggers blog for readers, I still end up feeling like a voyeur when I find myself reading the blog of some facebook acquaintance or a stranger who’s blog comes up on my Google search for “December 2012 Apocalypse.” Is it ok to read strangers blogs even if you think they are nuts, or horrible writers, or completely annoying? Is it wrong to read someone’s blog and secretly make fun of them? It makes me feel like all those trolls who slink around on liberal websites and leave comments about god and religion. I support reading things that may be outside of your normal sites – something that challenges you to think differently, but you should be there with an open mind. Not there to criticize, right? I know the bloggers put their stuff out there willingly (as I do!) but is it fair to sneak around and mock a blogger? Should you stay a silent observer or is it actually more fair to identify yourself and comment ?

Just thoughts on blogging from a recently relaunched blogger.

Reduce, Reuse, and Throw Glass and Cardboard into the Trash?

2010-01-16T18:01:00.004-05:00

I remember watching the Sean Connery film Medicine Man for the first time. I was so inspired by the jungle, by the fight to cure cancer through the miracle of nature, by Dr. Campbell and Dr. “Bronx” that I banded together with my fellow neighborhood young environmentalists and declared the day International Rainforest Conservation Day. We roamed around our neighborhood with our faces painted like the original Medicine Man paints Bronx’s face in the film, wore khaki shorts and hiking boots, and soapboxed about saving the earth to everyone we encountered.

Its funny how when you are young you have no real concept of time – six months is forever and the age 30 is ancient. But even if those lapses in understanding were present on the International Rainforest Conservation Day, somehow my underdeveloped brain processed the crisis of the environment an immediate. As threatening. They are cutting down trees?? Animals are dying? Species are going extinct? My soda can is pollution?

I felt the weight of environmental destruction on my shoulders as I built compost bins with my best friend and pestered my mother for eggshells and coffee grounds with which to fill it.

As I grew older, much of the world of the Lazy Layman’s Urban Guide to Saving the World became routine. Of course there is a blue recycling bin under my desk at work. Of course I turn the water off when I brush my teeth. Why wouldn’t I bring my reusable grocery bags with me to the store? The passion that trademarked the early stages of my relationship with the environment has morphed into a passive companionship. I do my part but never think twice.

I’ve recently rekindled some of the romance the green earth and I had once shared. It wasn’t a statistic about the rapid decay of our resources, or the upcoming release of Disney’s Oceans (a companion to Earth), or even a late night rewatching of the origin of my environmentalism, Medicine Man. It was the realization that my new apartment building doesn’t recycle. Doesn’t recycle? Doesn’t even play its part in the Lazy Layman’s Urban Environmental Action Plan? Doesn’t even passively protect the ground on which we walk? How is this possible? I’m supposed to throw my recyclables in the same bag as real actual waste?

Chicago has a sad history of fake recycling (remember the Blue Bag Program?) but 10 years after the beginning of this millennium, it is criminal to throw bottles and cardboard boxes into a landfill.

Any advice on how I get involve in this fight? Who controls local recycling programs? Who do I complain to?

In The Absence of Lunchmeat

2010-01-12T21:52:00.005-05:00

The location of my new apartment is ideal. Its right in the middle of everything. I have an international assortment of restaurants and all the shopping that’s necessary (vintage/independent stores and DSW and Marshalls). I am also a brisk three minute walk to the train (assuming I hit green lights), nearby clubs and dive bars, and right at the corner of cross town buses. My sister lives only a couple miles away and my work a quick ride on a reverse commute train. Seems pretty nice, right? There is really only one thing missing from my neighborhood. Lunchmeat. Yeah, seriously.

There isn’t a super grocery store, and there isn’t a little deli-type market nearby. There is a Whole Foods, but even in my most yuppie of moments I was still not in my element enough to navigate that place. If there was lunchmeat, I sure didn’t find it.

At first I didn’t think this was too much of a big deal – I mean, its just one item on my grocery list, right? Wrong. I find myself frequently focusing on my lack of sliced turkey. When I pack my lunch each day I skim the fridge—whats in there? Some leftover pasta? A few slices of frozen pizza? I guess I could throw some peanut butter between two slices of bread, but its just not the same. I didn’t know this about myself, but I apparently have one specific idea of what “Making my lunch” means.

Sandwich
Two Slices of wheat bread
One slice of cheese (preferably not government cheese, but willing to compromise)
Yellow Mustard

Side
Cheezits (or other similar baked cracker-like object)
Piece of fruit

Drink
Possible Soda, if I’m feeling generous.
Water from ye olde Nalgene bottle

I know. This is a post about lunchmeat—which is kind of ridiculous – but I think part of my desire to post about this predicament is how confused my daily life can become with just one switch up. I didn’t really notice my lack of lunchmeat when I was grilling out everyday in Austin, or when I was living out of my old bedroom at my mom’s house. I just noticed when I got back into 9 to 5ing, suddenly there was a gap in my routine, a gap that made me (for the first couple weeks) to resort to PotBelly sandwiches for lunch, but now, I’m trying to make my lack of lunchmeat cause me to be more creative!

2010 is a year of opportunities, a year of creating new routines, finding new passions. This is the Year of 52 Adventures.

Tonight for dinner I made what I’m calling a gourmet Jacks frozen pizza. I had a pizza in my fridge, it sounded delicious. So I added Andouille sausage, sliced green peppers and stewed tomatoes. It was rad, and in a world without lunchmeat- the second half will be lunch tomorrow at work!

A Cat Homecoming.

2009-12-22T17:35:00.001-05:00

I’m picking up the cats today.

I’m thrilled because I’m creepily obsessed with those little monsters, but I’m also sort of moved because they are the last part of my life to come back together. The last time I walked through my front door to be warmly greeted by Shakespeare and Eliot I was working at my old job, living in my old apartment, leading my old life. The two little cats were an unfortunate casualty to the vertigo that swept me up over the last several months; but I’ve regained my balance and perhaps have a solid enough foundation to put the books back on the shelves, restand the picture frames and carefully pick up the pieces of shattered coffee mugs from the kitchen floor.

The cats coming home just means that its really home, that I’m really here, that its real. I think they’ll like the new place as much as I do – the big, busy-street-facing windows that throw light (both real and manufactured) all over, radiator-warm places to sleep, and plenty of stuff to mess with. In these short months I’ve learned what its like to be a non-cat owner and my house has become un-cat proofed. A tube of chap stick sits harmlessly on the coffee table, plastic bags gather quietly near the kitchen trashcan, my scarves hang unsuspectingly from my coat rack.

Things will change when the cats come home, but mostly they’ll just go back to the way they should be.

On Living the Solo Life

2009-12-03T12:22:00.002-05:00

The last time I lived in a space that was not shared was a time so distant that it feels unreal in my mind, like the memory of a hilarious misunderstanding that may have been a part of my post-college experience, or, perhaps, just a really vivid episode of Friends.

The basic motions of day to day living are hard to remember on my own, I find. How much coffee to make, how many times to hit the snooze button, remembering to drop off my Netflix on my way to the train, checking to see that I don’t have last nights makeup remaining on my face.

A person normally certain at home, I find I have lost that aspect of myself living alone. Without a companion, I ruminate daily on the possibility of a break-in, a forgotten coffee-pot on-switch, a cat caught dangerously among boxes. In the past, the reassurance of a roommate or a live-in partner somehow has made me feel more sure of myself, more confident. It also provides that convenience “just in case” back up system for all my errors – if forget to close the window or blow out a candle, there is a good chance the other resident of my home will remember. I just seem to feel stronger when someone is there telling me it is true.

Living alone has plenty of benefits—which are also hard to cope with in their own way. I like listening to whatever music I want at whatever volume with no need for consensus. I like watching all the slow and sad biopics that no one else finds interesting. I like drinking a glass of white wine before bed. I like the quiet within my walls, especially compared to the cacophony of the intersection outside my window. (I like that when I am making no noise, there is none.)

Having your own space is a privilege that is not enjoyed in all places or by all cultures. Even here, in the US, in Chicago, some people don’t support a woman living alone in a city, but I am lucky that it isn’t forbidden and that I have the financial ability to do so. It is a way to change the way you see yourself.

It is hard to imagine, from where I contemplate, the commitment of two people to share a space for the rest of time. Not just a bed, but a kitchen, a bathroom, a sofa. To share a day, a year, the life of a possible child. To divide ones life into two for sharing. Committed people who share a space may enjoy the added benefit of space-sharing – a confidence that the home won’t burn to the ground while they work – but the decision is expensive.

We often think of selflessness in terms of service, giving, anonymous donations, but the literal use of the word – to be selfless, to not be concerned with matters of self – marriage/commitment is just that. An agreement to think of another person as often as you think of yourself – to share your life, to choose a shared existence over one dedicated to personal priorities. To give up a place where the noise you make is the only noise in the room. This seems generous to me.

I think I am learning to be selfish, learning to not share, and learning how many scoops of coffee are enough for just one person. It is as long of a process as the road to selflessness, breaking all those sharing habits, but it is necessary when you find yourself living the solo life.

About The Things You Want

2009-11-21T13:44:00.005-05:00

Although I have officially secured employment, I am still waiting on an apartment situation to come through, so I am still "staying" at my moms house. After a few suggestions about what this blog should become (thanks pals), I am still at a bit of a loss to discover the over all goal of what I type here. Perhaps, as with many good things, its purpose will be uncovered over time. As for now, I fantacize about what my new place will be like, what my new life will be like - how i'll do all the things I should be doing now, then. This is pretty classic me, sitting around, watching television or playing on the internet thinking about all the jogging/writig/guitar playing i will do when I have some free time.

My BFF Nick, over at the Grammar -Diarthrosis, recently wrote a little about this phenomenon as well. She asks herself, and us, as her readers, " if we know what makes us happy, why don't we do it more often?"

Although I have always acklowledged myself to be the sort of person who enjoys a little suffering, I was surpised to realize my response - because sometimes I'm happier with my cravings unsatisfied. I haven't always been a "do what I want" type of person, but I have been inviting a little more of that attitude in over the last several months. But even "doing what I want" leaves me still not doing some things that I know make me feel better - specifically writing and jogging. Some of this is laziness, as both of this activities require some sort of motivation, but that isn't the only reason why I hesitate. I hesitate because I know that if I have everything I want, and if I do everything I desire I won't know what to do with myself. What will be left? When you reach all your goals, don't you just have to set new ones anyway? Will I ever actually be satisfied?

You know how people always ask that question about winning the lottery? The "If you had all the money in the world, what would you do?" question? I've never had a good answer to that. I mean, I would travel, I guess, but I wouldn't want to travel alone, and everyone else probably has to work and pay a mortgage, so they can't come with me. Would I spend all my time running and writing? You'd think since I've been test driving this hypothesis since August (clearly without "all the money in the world" but with "a sufficient credit card limit that I'm not afraid to use") that I would have found the answer. But I haven't. If I decided to "write all day" I would be instantly frustrated and probably feel bad about myself for not writing a masterpiece. The running? Just because I have a million dollars and tons of free time doesn't mean five miles will be any easier for me...and its still cold out...and either way, it will still only take up an hour of my day.

The be all end all point really is this: Do what you can when you can. I think its ok to not accomplish everything you want to, or to not do all the things that make you happy -- just dont stull wanting those things or forget what makes you happy.

Photo: Nervous Blogger joyfully running a St. Pats 8k in DC.

How Swiftly Times Have Changed

2009-11-17T15:01:00.003-05:00

As some of you may have heard, vacation Nervous Blogger is officially retired and prompt and professional NB is here to stay.

That is correct, I am jobfull.

Now, I still have a couple weeks left to find an apartment, move all my stuff, and generally get my act together, but the big question is this: Where does the blog go now? I honestly thought, by the way things were progressing (or not progressing), that I would be an out-of-work blogger for quite a bit more time, but the tides have shifted.

What do you think I should post about?

On Waking Up...

2009-11-14T10:44:00.003-05:00

Growing up, my mother had a rule about weekend sleeping in – She let us. When we came rolling out of our bedrooms at 11, 12 or 1 pm she always said. “If your body didn’t need to sleep, it wouldn’t sleep.” From this late-sleeping-on-the-weekends habit, I grew into an adult who felt at a loss for free time. An adult who tried to get up early and state up late on weekends – to try to cram as much into those days as possible. I have become a person who is bothered by laziness and who would rather talk a walk around the block than watch one more episode of Project Runway.

When I was working in DC, I rose for woke at about 6:55am. Sometimes a little sleepy or whiney, I was always in generally good spirits about starting the day. My live-in girlfriend at the time woke for work even earlier than I did, so I often had an hour or so of half-awakeness during which to acclimate myself to morning.

When I first arrived in Austin, my two roommates and I often cruised, pajamaed out of our respective sleeping quarters around 9am to have tea together in the kitchen. Now THAT was sleeping in for us. Nearing the end of the Austin adventure, we all started sleeping later. I don’t know if we were partying longer or harder, if our days were more busy or stressful, or if our bodies were simply getting used to the idea of a life without a schedule.

Now, back in my mother’s house, under my mother’s rules, I fight to get myself out of bed each day. Even when I sleep from 11pm to 11am – I’m still tired. Because she is retired, my mom also sleeps when she feels like it, so I’m under no pressure to be extremely productive.

I know that it will be easy for me to fall back into a work-day routine. I know this primarily, because I will be so happy to be working. It’s just so odd that during a time of my life when I have so much free time, I sleep so late. The weather in Chicago has been an absolute miracle, but I wrestle to get myself up to enjoy the day. I’m not depressed, I don’t feel sad when I wake up – just tired. Just reeeeeealllly lazy.

This morning, I got out of bed at 9:30 and I’m temporarily alone in the house. I feel like the only person in the world. It’s nice. I’ll try to remember this feeling next time I’m tossing and turning alarmless well into the late morning…

Can You Sell Yourself Without Selling Out?

2009-11-11T09:52:00.002-05:00

It had been a long damn time since I last tried to sell myself; to push all my awesomeness to the forefront just hoping that I don't look desperate. I mean, I don't spend much/any time on the singles scene and I already have a great group of friends to whom I never need to "prove" myself. I just am me. Unfortunately, this sliding, gliding be who I am and don't give a crap what anybody thinks about it attitude has had to be wiped off my snug little face for the ultimate selling of oneself - the job interview.

Oh yes, when interviewing for a job my pomp-a-hawk becomes more of a mom-do, and my nose ring gets slipped into my front breast pocket. My Chucks are replaced with sensible slip-ons and my ego gets kicked right out the door.

Some people appear better on paper than they do in an interview, and others have the opposite problem. I don’t really know where I fit into the spectrum. I know that I have a lot to offer an employer, but my resume doesn’t really speak to all of my unique abilities. Conversely, the resume communicates a lot of experience in a field that I never really meant to get into. So in that one particular field, I’m doing ok – It just may not be the field I dreamed of. Isn’t that true of most jobs?

Is it selling out to "put on your best behavior" for an interview? To try to appear non-controversial? To quiet down your politics? I sometimes worry that I am doing a disservice to myself by calmly and coolly describing each detail of my past employment without revealing my real interests, causes about which I am passionate, and the blue-donkey blood that runs deep under my skin.

There is a common retort to this sort of argument: “If they don’t like me for who I am than I don’t want to work there.”

Sure, this is true in the big picture. I don’t want to work at a place where no one is concerned about equality, the environment or human rights. I don’t want to work at a place where I feel uncomfortable or unaccepted for my style (or my lifestyle), but this big picture becomes a little blurrier each day.

It becomes blurry because unemployment is not a good look on anyone. Because working, even if it is with an organization that doesn’t match my needs or my personality, is still working. I think as each day goes by I’m more willing to compromise. Does that make me a sell out, or just a realistic adult?

The Benefits of Stopping an Object in Motion

2009-11-09T14:31:00.003-05:00

In August, when I made the decision to leave my job, I did so knowing that I had a really strong support system (and a solid savings) to lean on while I got my act together. I think a lot about how this knowledge, this security makes my experience so much different from many other people's.

I also know that because of this break in my continuity I have time to evaluate my life in a way most people don't get the chance to. It was easy after I had decided to major in English during undergrad to just get a degree in English, like it was easy to stay in DC once I had moved there, and to stay at my job because I had been there for so long. An object in motion tends to stay in motion just as an object at rest tends to stay at rest.

What happens when you stop an object's motion? When you suddenly insert that huge piece of movie studio glass always being carried around by two glove-wearing handy men and the object slams into it with all the force of a lifetime of sacrifice and commitment? What happens to a bruised object, startled and stopped; surrounded by shock and all that glass?

I guess it suddenly has choices it never saw before.

I'm not saying I have a whole lot of "choice" out there in the working world. This is not a candy store job market will wall to wall choices for anybody with a nickle. This is a job market where choice/interest/preference might be completely dissolved into experience/persistence/luck. But that lack of actual choice means that the unemployed can spend some time thinking about where they would be IF they did have all the choice in the world. To think about what steps might be needed to change careers, to start new endeavors, to relocate or re-educate.

No one wants to be unemployed (not even writers and artists no matter how much they claim to thrive off of Ramen and distress), but at least taking a moment to start picking up pieces of that glass, and maybe blinking your eyes two or three times to get your environment in focus can help you figure out if your original trajectory was really on target to begin with.

Staying Vs. Living

2009-11-08T15:18:00.002-05:00

“Are you living back home, now?”

“No, I’m just staying there for the moment.”

I can not stop myself from distinguishing between “staying” and “living” in casual conversation. The words project from my mouth defensively erasing all confusion about my situation. Until some inquisitive fool asks the ultimate question, “Oh, how long are you staying?”

Damn it, friends and family, I have no idea.

I have no idea how long the job hunt will go on, how long it will be until I can get my ass in gear and get my own place. Is there a possibility I could be here for 6 months? Absolutely. Would I ever, I that time, unpack my suitcases and say that I’m “living” at my mother’s house? Not a chance.

The problem here is not a matter of embarrassment to live at home, nor do I have something against the suburbs in general or specifically the Golf Center of the World (as my hometown’s water towers proudly proclaim. Really.). Its not any of that. It is simply a matter of taking steps backwards. Of working hard to craft a life independent, a life without owing money or favors, a life in which you can do and be anything you choose – and then having to give it all back.

People “live” at home while they go to grad school, save for a condo, after a layoff, or divorce, because their perfect job doesn't provide enough support financially to make the move – because one part of their plan involves saving money for their next step. People also “live” at home because they have no interest in leaving, because they don’t have the experience or education to get a job that would afford them rent money, or because they are afraid. I don’t fit into either of these categories – I’m not an intelligent person who is utilizing the availability of a rent-free home space to get ahead. But I’m also not an almost-thirty who isn’t able/doesn’t want to have a life outside of the childhood home. I’m a person who quit her job in the midst of recession and now has to pay some pound-of-flesh price.

I am incredibly thankful of my mother’s generosity. I’m not just crashing in my own bedroom, and have full use of her car, but I also have a meal plan. I think she feels bad for me a little, knowing how happy it has always made me to pay for things on my own, to live in other cities, to know that no one is worrying about me screwing up. And, to be honest, the whole situation is my fault. I chose this path of unemployment and homelessness, but I guess I never imagined I would feel so helpless.

I can’t get over myself enough to “live” at my mom’s house for a while. I’ll just be “staying” here for the time being, an independent girl independently deciding to hang out at home for a spell.

Sun Bright November Days

2009-11-07T13:59:00.003-05:00

Today, the sun is shining in a way that recalls the first day of Spring, rather than the last day of Fall. On a day like today, the ultra green grass and SUV dotted driveways of the highly populated township retain a sort of appeal that I don't often attribute to the suburbs. Its open quietness is sort of pleasing and affects a part of me that I have long assumed dead. I guess an appreciation of slow and quiet was just dormant beneath my everlasting and unquenchable love for the "hustle and bustle" of city life.

Jogging outside - in this weather, in the suburbs - is different, too. With a Cubs cap pulled down over my eyes I can run, without turning, for more than 2 miles. I cross a few quiet streets and wait at one or two red lights, but it is nothing like the constant stopandgorightturnleftturn of city running. Out here, you can envision yourself on a rubber-soft track. You can maybe run forever. Your legs feel strong and heart stronger. In the bright sunlight of Chicago's early November, the race is just beginning.

Same Blogger, New Game

2009-11-06T14:32:00.003-05:00

Like Michael Jordan or Brett Favre, every time you think I'm gone I reboot (maybe with a different jersey). Yes, the nervous blogger is back again and this time more nervous than ever. In fact, more nervous in an entirely new way: I'm not only out of school, but I am also out of work and out of DC. Im back in Chicago seeking out a new path in life and, recently inspired by a friend who is starting a cooking blog, I've decided to get back on the blogger bandwagon.

I'm working on some writing pieces right now, and I think I'm going to use this blog as a place to air some ideas and to talk a little bit about life unemployed and in a weird life transition. Transitions have always made me nervous, but I always like to think about the "positive" side of wiping clear the slate. I need to remind myself that I can be whoever I want to be, even though a truly clean slate is something that we maybe can never really actualize, because our past (in one form or the other) will always follow us. We can change our careers, our hair style and even our names, but we end up with years of experience that color our opinions/decisions/actions. I wrote an article sort of about this recently for TNG, a lovely site you should visit where I am a weekly columnist -- about starting over in your home town.

I believe that you are created by your experiences, and are thus a constantly evolving being, but I also recognize in the simple world where we meet each other with our eyes and shared conversation, your new you will not always be visible. It's hard to tell an new friend about all the events that sculpted you without becoming a blathering idiot and probably still not getting your point across. It takes months and years for someone to start to know you - and when you move to a new place, try to start a new life, you best be ready to go through that trial.

So that's where I am. Back in Chicagoland, unemployed, single and still trying to learn to play the guitar. However, I'm always nervous, so while somethings have changed, others forever remain the same.

Who wants to learn this with me?

2009-06-29T21:16:00.000-04:00

The guitar chords and lyrics for House of the Rising Sun:

Am C D F
There is a house in New Orleans

Am C E
They call the Rising Sun

Am C D F
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

Am E Am C D F Am E Am E
And God I know I'm one

Am C D F
My mother was a tailor

Am C E
She sewed my new blue jeans

Am C D F
My father was a gamblin' man

Am E Am C D F Am E Am E
Down in New Orleans

My New Favorite Band. Seriously.

2009-06-26T16:21:00.002-04:00

Please check out Natalie Portman's Shaved Head.

These songs go with my Wayfarers and commute-ipod-swagger, and ALSO Brookes-Nike-Jogger-bobbing.

Love it.

Check out the rest of the music on youtube or myspace.

Re-Cykle Water Bottles

2009-06-13T11:52:00.002-04:00

I do my best to avoid buying plastic - water bottles, excessive plastic packaging, etc. - but it seems almost impossible. I also try to recycle and reuse all the plastic I do buy, but again, there's just not always a way to do that. Plastic is the biggest threat the environment has.

Some statistics on plastic waste from the EPA:

In 2006, the United States generated 14 million tons of plastic through containers and packaging.

The amount of plastic consumed as a percentage of total waste has increased from less than 1 percent in 1960 to 11.7 percent in 2006.

Soda Stats:

Americans drank approximately 14.7 billion cases of non-alcoholic beverages in 2004 (this includes both plastic and aluminum containers; note that aluminum cans are lined with plastic).

Of that total, approximately 10.3 billion cases were carbonated soft drinks.

More Statistics:

Americans threw more than 22 billion water bottles in the trash in 2006.

70 million bottles of water are consumed in the U.S. each day.

In 2006, only 7% of plastic waste produced in the U.S. was recycled.

Its just horrifying, isn't it?

I love hearing about breakthroughs in ridding the earth of waste and this is a great example:

An 18 year old high school student created a prototype of a water bottle that is 70% cardboard and only 30% plastic (which is needed to keep the water in). He calls his bottle "Cykle" and is looking for investors! Read more here.

Visit the Cykle website to read more and donate to the project.

Adopt a Pet in the Recession!

2009-06-10T12:25:00.004-04:00

A lot of us are hurting in these tough economic times, but the little spoken-about victims are really family pets that are forced out when folks can't afford to feed themselves AND Fluffy or Princess. There are plenty of places out there that are accepting these Recession Pets, but those places are running out of room.

For instance, down in Florida, the 10th Life Sanctuary is caring for 600 cats. They have a no-kill policy (which means they don't euthanize animals when they are not adopted) but they are running out of space and funding.

If you are currently financially secure enough to have a pet, perhaps adopting a loving animal who has lost its home due to financial hardship is an option for you. If you can't adopt a pet at this time, maybe you can make a donation to the 10th Life Sanctuary, or another No-Kill shelter to help these animals have a good life their families were unable to afford.

Photo Credit: Lara Koch Photography

1 Millionth Word Update!

2009-06-10T10:01:00.003-04:00

"Austin, Texas June 10, 2009 – The Global Language Monitor today announced that Web 2.0 has bested Jai Ho, N00b and Slumdog as the 1,000,000^th English word or phrase. added to the codex of fourteen hundred-year-old language. Web 2.0 is a technical term meaning the next generation of World Wide Web products and services." -- from the Global Language Monitor

Web 2.o? Ok. I'll take it.

Its hard to know exactly what word is 1 millionth, obviously. This whole deal is a little bit flimsy -- many scientists and linguistics specialists think the whole formula is questionable. Geoffrey Nunberg, a linguistics professor at the University of California at Berkeley says, "I think it's pure fraud ... It's not bad science. It's nonsense." And I hear what he's saying.

Our language is really incalculable, but I think it's really fun to think about how language is created, how it regenerates ( At its current rate, English generates about 14.7 words a day or one every 98 minutes.), and how it builds on other languages. We are lucky to have such an evolving language without the restrictions many languages have. A lot of other countries don't accept popularization of a certain word or phrase as a reason to affect its acceptance into the canon, but I think America understands itself to be a growing, changing place. We started seeing this when words like Homer's infamous admission of mistake, "Do'H!" was added a few years back (2001), alongside "Bling Bling" (2003) and Will Smith's "Jiggy."

Who knows, maybe one of us will coin a term that will end up in the dictionary, and stay forever like the Bard's many contributions. Any suggestions?

In Less Than 12 Hours!

2009-06-09T19:47:00.002-04:00

The English language is constantly evolving (who ever heard of the word Twitter before 12 months ago??) and there is actually a formula for counting how many words are added each day. According to the site, the Global Language Monitor, the language should hit its one millionth word at about 5:22AM Wednesday morning. Maybe I should wake up early and celebrate with a mimosa.

A million words is just an amazing amount, considering we are born without language at all and learn (primarily through experience and observation) words one at a time. I wonder if there are people who try to learn every word in the English Language, although I don't even really know how you would test that --because every time a dictionary is printed it becomes irrelevant.

A recent CNN article explains which words are considered:

"Words must make sense in at least 60 percent of the world to be official, he said. And they must make sense to different communities of people. A new technology term that's only understood in Silicon Valley wouldn't count as a mainstream word, he said.
His computer models check a total of 5,000 Web sites, dictionaries, scholarly publications and news articles to see how frequently words are used, he said. A word must make 25,000 appearances to be deemed legitimate."

I love that American's have an interest in words--jugding by the popularity of books and movies about Scrabble, Spelling Bees (1,2,3) and Crossword Puzzles.

Here's to the one-millionth word in the English Language. Maybe learning them all can be my next project...

Women Rock!

2009-06-03T11:46:00.003-04:00

Just a quick post today for all the gals out there. Todays heroes? Women.

Clearly women go through a lot of stuff unique to their gender from facing gender stereotypes that imply weakness and incompetence, getting paid less than men, and having to deal with some uncomfortable physical situations men really can't understand.

Although I did just find one guy who might have a little bit of an idea. New York Times columnist Dana Jennings wrote a piece yesterday about the 6 months he was on hormone therapy as a treatment for an aggressive case of prostate cancer. His eye-opening journey into the emotional world of a menopausal woman is funny and honest:

"Hand in hand with the hot flashes came the food cravings. I lusted after Cheetos and Peanut Butter M&M’s, maple-walnut milkshakes, and spaghetti and meatballs buried in a blizzard of Parmesan. Isn’t it funny how cravings very rarely involve tofu, bean curd or omega-3 oils?"

It wasn't JUST dealing with hot flashes and food cravings, he learned. There was more.

"Then there was the weight issue. During the six months I was on Lupron I gained about 25 pounds. That was partly a byproduct of the cravings, but it also stemmed from the hormonal changes triggered in my body. And I hated it, hated it, hated it. I had never had to worry about my weight, and I began to understand why media aimed at women and girls obsess over weight so much."

Although this experience was an unfortunate side effect of his treatment, Mr. Jennings chose to acknowledge the strength of all women by writing this article about how challenging it was.

So, to all the gals out there who just take whatever our bodies dish out: Woot to us!

Check out the rest of the article here.

Chimpo-habilis

2009-06-02T13:26:00.004-04:00

Today's hero is a combination of Early Hominid Ancestors and Modern Chimps.

Homo Habilis, meaning "handy man" or "skilled person" is an early ancestor of modern man who lived in the general range of 2 million years ago. This hominid was named as such because although he had many ape-like features (such as long arms and a short stature) his bones have been found accompanied by primitive tools. Earlier hominids (like most animals) didn't use tools, so this guy is a big step in human evolution, although it is still debated if Habilis was indeed the very first. He also had a more human-like face and smaller teeth.

Overall, we give a lot of credit to tool usage when we consider the approximate intelligence of an animal. A new study which has been accepted for publication in the Journal of Human Evolution compares tool usage by chimps and that of early man.

"Josephine Head and Martha Robbins observed chimpanzees at Loango National Park on the coast of Gabon, Africa. They identified at least five different types of chimp-made honey extraction tools used in sequence. The tools consist of pounders, enlargers, collectors, perforators and swabbers. Chimps, suspended in acrobatic positions on branches, might first pull out a thick stick pounder to break open beehive entrances. They then reach for another stick, the enlarger, to perforate and widen different honeybee hive compartments. Next comes the collector, used to dip or scoop out honey."

Way to go Chimps and Homo Habilis! I have seen animals (like cats!) learn strategies and use them repeatedly--which boggles my mind, but if i ever saw my cat use a knife to open its food bag I think I'd pass out. Luckily, even if they had a million years, cats would never learn to use tools -- because humans will always be there to treat them like tiny royalty. Isn't evolution grand?

Image courtesy of Wikipedia.com -- Reconstruction of Homo habilis

Octo-Not A Hero

2009-06-01T09:47:00.004-04:00

On this day, June 1st, 2009, I make an attempt to participate in NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. The theme for this month is Heroes. I often stumble upon people in life or in the news who I deem to be heroic in one way or another, but today I start this game with the opposite. Unfortunately, this morning I have already encountered someone who I think is NOT HEROIC. Who should not be considered a hero?

The Octomom.

I read this morning on cnn.com that she signed a deal with some network for a reality TV show surrounded herself and her 14 kids, like none of us were expecting this crazy turn of events. It did surprise me how my immediate reaction was so angry -- what the heck is this woman doing? Should we really make people like her into celebrities/heroes? This story tags on to all the recent trials and tribulations surrounding TLCs Jon and Kate Plus 8, another show about raising kids (8, in this case) that spotlights people who aren't really being great parents.

When you put someone on TV you immortalize them, and you create fans. You make role models of average people who often are not exemplifying positive character traits. Do we really want to make a person who has had 14 children without any means to support them into a hero? Should she become some sort of scene for voyeuristic American's to look in on and converse about how "wacky her life is with all those kids!" when the kids are suffering?

Does reality TV create heroes by televising/paying these people to make bad decisions on camera?

Photo Courtesy of RealityBS.com

Comic Books and Prop 8

2009-05-28T10:49:00.003-04:00

I didn't even know that MTV had a real website, or that it would be like this, but I found this neato article today on MTV.com.

Out and Proud: Five Comic Book Characters Who'd Oppose Prop 8

"California’s Supreme Court upheld the state’s “Proposition 8″ ban on same-sex marriage yesterday, fanning the flames of what’s sure to be an ongoing debate in the state and the nation as a whole. In light of this event, we’ve decided to look at some of superheroes who are out, proud and feel no shame in how they live their lives — and who’d be most affected by legislation like Proposition 8."

I think that everyone should appose Prop 8, but I love it when comic book characters get in the mix. Its nice to see and hear celebrities like Drew Barrymore get out there and support equal rights, even though I don't necessarily believe celebrity support will change peoples minds. I do like what Drew told Free Speech Radio News, though, that:

"♫ [Prop 8] literally is illogical and cruel and is absolutely unnecessary."

I think equality is the fight of the little guy, the average American, and you know, the superhero. The MTV article lists Northstar (who had an AIDS related storyline) and Batwoman (my best girl) among others. If those comic book characters stand up for LGBT rights, I certainly can stand up for Superhero rights!

Photo courtesy of DC Comics

A Hidden Conservative Agenda?

2009-05-27T11:54:00.003-04:00

I heart history, culture, animals, space, technology and the environment. Where can I learn about all of these things at once on the interweb? My new favorite site LiveScience.com. It’s kind of like mentalfloss for the even geekier reader. Aside from articles about dinosaurs and immortality, the think that interests me most about the site is that a majority of the comments on each post are a debate about science and religion. Weird, right? At first I was really weirded out about how many people were talking about whether Jesus should have been on the "Top Ten Immortals" list alongside Peter Pan and Dracula. I was a little worried that maybe I was being faked out and that the site which appears to me to be a fun science site was maybe actually full of coded subliminal religious messages and I didn't notice! Maybe I was tricked! Scientists are liberal, right? Scientists are usually atheists, right? I wanted to do a little hunting for clues about LiveScience religious affiliation, but I just came across readers who are pissed that the web site clearly falls on the side of the atheists. I'm always afraid that I'm being swayed secretly by a conservative agenda (and I don't mean Fox News, I mean secretly conservative, not blatantly). Does anyone read this site? Does it appear to be tricking me?

Are There Housewives in DC?

2009-05-26T13:45:00.002-04:00

Although I typically speak out against reality TV, there are a few shows that I take a little pleasure in watching. I like Project Runway and Top Chef because they are about talents and artistry on some level. I also like a couple reality shows that are not about talent or artistry. Ok. I'll admit it--I like the Real Housewives Series. My favorite is NYC, but the newest one in New Jersey has been pretty awesome thus far.

And now, aren't I lucky, there are doing a season in DC. From the DCist:

"The producers were looking for a "range of women in DC, from young up-and-comers (determined staffers, aspiring politicians, fearless journalists, and fledgling socialites) to the real powerbrokers on the Hill (commanding congresswomen, sassy socialites and dymanic divas in charge)."

I don't really know what it is about the housewives that I like. Maybe that the shows are about women and although some of them are bitchy and backstabbing and embarrassing, some of them are successful and tough and kind of real. I can't even imagine the DC Housewives, especially because women here work, so the show will be a little different than the others. Either way, I can't wait!

Organ Donation Fail

2009-05-21T12:54:00.003-04:00

Thanks to Feministing for posting this incredible image from an Organ Donation Campaign:

If you cant read the text, it says "Becoming a donor is probably your only chance to get inside her."

Are you kidding me? I can't help but be offended. Why on earth would an organ donation campaign resort to this kind of disgusting angle? Full article here.

This Animal is Not a Toy

2009-05-20T14:18:00.002-04:00

Whats next, people hitting each other in the head with frying pans?

"PITTSBURGH — Pittsburgh police say a high school student is facing charges for using a biology class snake as a jump rope.

Police say the incident happened Monday at Taylor Allderdice High School, according to KDKA-TV.

Police aren't identifying the 17-year-old suspect because he's being charged in juvenile court. The boy will be charged with theft and cruelty to animals.

The animal survived the ordeal and was being examined by a veterinarian.

Pittsburgh Public School officials on Tuesday were not immediately able to say what kind of snake it was." via Fox News

People should be charged more often with cruelty to animals -- you know its going on all the time. As a side note, that Neanderthal Michael Vick just got out of prison. And no, he shouldn't be allowed to play football.

A Magical Breakfasty World

2009-05-20T08:49:00.004-04:00

There are two kinds of people in the world, those who love breakfast food and those who don't. I have an undying love for breakfast food, which I've mentioned once before, but I have never tried a McGriddle. Something about it makes me feel a little uncomfortable -- the combination of egg and meat and pancake belongs together, yet somehow feels wrong when smashed into a genetically altered sammich.

Recently, a friend of mine told me about some folks who love a McGriddle even more than i love a McMuffin. People who love it so much they write about it. That's right, there is a McGriddle Fan Fiction site out there.

Some folks not in the writing/creepy obsession with movies or celebrities communities might not be totally aware of what Fan Fiction is. For a real definition we turn to Wikipedia: "Fan fiction (alternately referred to as fanfiction, fanfic, FF, or fic) is a broadly-defined term used to describe stories about characters or settings written by fans of the original work, rather than by the original creator." A FanFic story might include a love affair between Luke Skywalker and Han Solo, or maybe the characters from Lord of The Rings transported into the future to save the world from evil republican warlords. I don't know if either of those story lines have actually been written, but clearly I have a previously undiscovered talent here.

So, read (or write) some McGriddle Fanfic, or some Lord of the Rings Fan Fiction, some Major League Baseball FacFic, or some Twilight FanFic, and get lost in a magical world!

Nervous Blogger Update!

2009-05-19T11:54:00.004-04:00

I know. I'm a huge disappointment to all my fan(s). I haven't been blogging lately and for this I have a variety of excuses (none of them particularly good). I am officially out of school now, so having much more free time is supposed to make me a better blogger and a better gym-goer. At this point, nothing. The now-healing herniated disc in my back has kept me away from running and the senioritis/post thesis crash has kept me from everything else. But, I'm back. I'm making my move.

Here's some new stuff:

I'm back into dinosaurs again--sorely wishing I had chosen a different career path and that I was currently on my hands and knees in a dusty region of Argentina digging for a tooth or a claw of some prehistoric beast. All I can really do about this sadness is learn more. Sunday I spent the day at the Smithsonian Natural History Museum. It was just awesome. This photo here is of the MegaShark mouth -hes the ancestor of the modern Great White Shark and the star of the upcoming film MegaShark Vs. Giant Octopus. So rad.

I also picked up a book called The Bone Museum: Travels in the Lost Worlds of Dinosaurs and Birds by the fabulous Wayne Grady. Its more a book about history, literature and travel than it is about dinosaurs--but those happen to be my three favorite things. I also wrote a great profile about a local DC dinosaur expert. If you are interested in publishing it in your critically acclaimed magazine please let me know. On a fossil note, this is really cool.

I'm also back into Bob Dylan. Greatest Website Ever. Something about the combination of my affection for Bob Dylan and Dinosaurs makes me feel like I'm actually reverting to 7th grade. Thats Ok--I liked 7th Grade, and Bob Dylan is forever cool.

As for writing, I'm going to try to get back into this here bloggy. I've also just started Twitttering. (Can that word even be made a gerund?) You can find me on there, in really short form, as JScribe, which is apparently also the name of a software development kit. Oh well. I'm way wittier than a software development kit. I've also recently joined up with Examiner.com to be the new LGBT Issues Examiner. I'll be writing about LGBT and related issues as they connect to DC. I'll be linking those pieces (as they come) to Twitter, mostly, but they'll be out there on the interweb for all to read.

As for running? No plan yet. Anyone know a good 5k/8k in DC I can get my rear in gear for?

Three Window Cats

2009-03-22T13:39:00.002-04:00

What we do on a sunday afternoon in the spring.

(sorry its not properly rotated!)

Almost home.

2009-03-21T23:45:00.000-04:00

There is nothing worse than waiting forever at the airport for baggage after a long trip.

Mmmmm....

2009-03-20T18:41:00.000-04:00

You are never alone when you have dessert.

2009-03-14T17:45:00.000-04:00

THIS is st. Pats

Chi-rish Pride!

2009-03-14T12:16:00.000-04:00

St. Pats with the sister has begun!

I heart the internets.

2009-02-18T14:53:00.005-05:00

Every time I hear people wax on about how social networking, online dating sites, online learning, etc has replaced people's "personal" relationships I wish I had a story like this handy.

Three sisters in New York state found a kidney for their dad on Craigslist. Thats right. They posted an ad seeking a kidney for their ailing father and a California woman responded.

"The Craigslist ad was short and to the point: “Please Help Us, My Dad Needs a Kidney!” Jennifer Flood, 30, and her sisters (her twin Cynthia and older sibling Heather, 32) posted the message on Craigslist in a desperate attempt to find a someone willing to make the ultimate sacrifice: donate a kidney to a complete stranger without asking anything in return.
That ad launched a chain of events that eventually led the Pleasantville, N.Y.-based family to find such a person—a 48-year-old California woman named Dawn Verdick—who was willing to donate a kidney to their father, Daniel Flood, 68. The kidney transplant took place December 12, and the family is beyond grateful."

Its not totally unheard of for positive things, like reunited families, to occur through facebook and other online tools. We should be excited about all these resources! Although, I do remember reading a short story in a science fiction collection when I was a kid about a society that became so reliant on robots and technology that no one knew how to operate the robots. No one could turn them off because they had been going about their own business for generations. Then, I think, there was a guy who could do simple math by hand, and that was so impressive and unusual that he was either made king or stoned to death. I can't remember. I hope he was made king, because getting stoned to death for being good at math is really bogus.

Airplane Food Is Notoriously Bad, But Complain On, My Friend!

2009-02-02T15:39:00.004-05:00

I am full of commentary when I am flying. I never cease to have a critique of the temperature, the space, my obnoxious fellow passengers, or, all too often, a permeating odor. The difference between me and the author of a letter to Richard Branson of Virgin Airways is that I keep my thoughts to myself (or maybe between myself and my traveling companion of the moment.). Have you ever had a flying experience so bad you would write a detailed email complete with digital photographs to the owner of the airline?

The letter begins like this:

"Dear Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?"

I highly suggest you check out the full letter. And, pleasantly, Mr. Branson was concerned (or amused) enough to respond.

Abandoned But Not Forgotten

2009-01-26T14:59:00.003-05:00

Just found this creepy/cool site. Abandoned But Not Forgotten is a site dedicated to photographs of sites that have been abandoned. I first checked IL, and found some great shots of the Toboggon Slides near where I grew up--I can remember running up these stairs, but I don't actually remember ever using the slides. I wonder how long they've been unused...

Some pretty creepy pics, definitely some question-raising places.

All The Single Ladies...

2009-01-15T10:01:00.003-05:00

I know it can be hard to find that special someone...times are tough for the economy and also for romance. Don't fret though, because you can now hook up with that one person who truly shares your passions! Especially your passion for Nascar!

"Welcome to Nascar Match Dating and Free Personals!

This is the only online Nascar and racing fan dating site exclusively for Nascar singles to meet and date other Nascar fans for love and dating. Find your Nascar Girlfriend or boyfriend and your next Nascar Date now! It is completely free to place, browse, respond to personal ads, post images, start a blog and more."

For some reason I imagine this site is more popular in the South...

Its Hard Sometimes to Find Personalized Knicknacks

2008-12-15T16:11:00.003-05:00

I often have a hard time finding crappy personalized products with my name. Sometimes, in a really touristy place like Orlando I might be able to find a Mickey Mouse mini-license plate, but thats only because there's probably a wall of 675,000 personalized name plates in 109 languages to serve the Small World of visitors they greet each year.

Usually though, I'm screwed and I'm forces to come home with a chili-pepper painted mug from Santa Fe with "Gene" on it, or maybe a belt buckle that says "Jesus" (because at least two of the letters are the same). My name isn't that unusual, and I have trouble. Its nto the best name, but at least its not something embarrassing like some Bart Simpson Prank--Amanda Hugginkiss, Seymore Butz, Mike Rotch or any other creative name-slam.

I mean, seriously. What name could be worse than I.P Freely? or Ura Snotball? Maaaaaybe Adolf Hitler. Well, its not like anyone would actually name their kid after Hitler...or would they?

Heath and Deborah Campbell of Holland Township, PA have gotten a little creative with their child naming responsibilities. The names of their three kids are JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell, Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell and Adolf Hitler Campbell. If you ask me, Aryan Nation is a pretty crappy middle name. The problem this family is currently facing is that the local ShopRite is refusing to put little Adolf's name on his birthday cake.

""We believe the request ... to inscribe a birthday wish to Adolf Hitler is inappropriate," said Karen Meleta, a ShopRite spokeswoman."

I'm pretty sure that if I worked at Shoprite as a cake decorator I would refuse to write Adolf Hitler in with my star tipped green frosting pen (you know, unless it was for some college history class celebration of his "death", or something) but can the company itself really refuse? Leave your thoughts in comments.

Post Script: This whole discussion really reminds me of this site. Awesome.

Post Post Script: ahhhh! The Cake Wrecks site (linked in the Post Script) actually has a post about the same topic. Double Awesome!

Isn't There One Very Important Question to Be Asked?

2008-12-15T16:06:00.001-05:00

Man sprays 'toilet-papering' teens with fox urine
The Associated Press
Posted: 12/12/2008 12:34:38 PM PST

WILLMAR, Minn.—A 50-year-old man told authorities he was fed up with teens toilet-papering his house during homecoming week. This year, he decided to defend his property—with a squirt gun filled with fox urine.
Now, Scott Wagar is in trouble with the law. He pleaded not guilty on Wednesday in Kandiyohi County District Court to misdemeanor assault and other charges. He was released on personal recognizance.
According to police, on Sept. 16, Wagar used night vision goggles and saw 15-20 people running toward his place. He told them to leave and sprayed them with the fox urine. He also struggled with one teen who he says grabbed him from behind.
In an interview with The Associated Press on Thursday, Wagar says he's innocent, and has a right to defend his property. He says groups of teens have been toilet-papering and egging his house during homecoming for about eight years, and each year it gets more destructive.
He says he sprayed the kids with a mixture of one-third fox urine and two-thirds water because "it stinks, but it doesn't hurt anything."

Where the hell did he get the fox urine?

Kill Time, I Dare you

2008-12-12T13:22:00.004-05:00

Today is a little slow, to say the least. I have been trading fun, time wasting websites with a few colleagues over the course of the last couple hours, which I would like to share at this time. Its amazing that there is such a demand for pictures of humorous things on the web. Is anyone doing any work anymore? The picture above is from engrishfunny.com a site dedicated to poking fun at awkward/funny/inappropriate translations into English from other languages. because of Engrish, I have been sufficiently warned not to point at the creature. There's plenty of fun to be had there.

Another good one I was just turned on to is the Fail Blog. A place where pictures and videos of failure come together in harmony. the photograph below, a display failure, depicts an unfortunate bookstore display of not-so-festive titles under the Happy Holidays sign.

These two sites can take up plenty of time while you are struggling to keep your job during the recession, listening to your hungry baby cry, or browsing your iphone on a city bus. There are only so many legitimate news stories you can read and still convince yourself to wake up in the morning, so you might as well rejoice on other peoples failures or bad English translations instead of cnn.com.

Post Script: I'm really thankful that my Firefox spell checker doesn't know what an iphone is. As soon as it suggests it correctly I'll know Apple is the messiah. Maybe by that point Firefox will stop suggesting "granulate" as the correct spelling of my last name.

The Curse of the Shades

2008-12-11T11:28:00.007-05:00

Every time I take a nasty fall in a public place there is a common factor. It's not a certain gripless pair of shoes, or a tree-root shifted sidewalk square that "just gets me every time!". It's nothing logical. Nothing that would make my unfortunate diggers more understandable or at least a little bit less embarrassing. I'm not that kinda lucky.

The common factor?

I'm always wearing ridiculous, oversized, movie-star sunglasses.

While this has occurred numerous times, I'll just recount my favorite time and the incident which occurred this morning.

The Best Fall Ever
When I first moved to DC I was living in upper Northwest on Connecticut Avenue. This was not a "cool" neighborhood (unless you are an octogenarian), but I sure as hell thought it was cool. I had a great apartment and the state code "DC" on my mail. All was good. Perhaps it was this overinflated sense of self worth which lead to my (literal) downfall.

It was a beautiful spring day and I strutted to the metro in my favorite brown skirt, flip flops and denim jacket. Over my shoulder my green and orange Timbuk2 messenger bag was carefully slung, full of text books for my recently begun graduate studies. My ipod earbugs sprung from my ears as some popular band I probably didn't like that much but thought I should blared. My hair was as big as it can get.

Of course, perched on my nose are my giant, movie star sunglasses.

Strutting my stuff, looking soooo goooooood, I approach the entrance to the Metro, accelerating rapidly. Some invisible object, probably hubris, gets in my way and I trip. And boy do I trip. The weight from Langston Hughes and WEB DuBois sets my liberally propagandized Timbuk2 bag into motion. In the one short second I have to regain my balance and my dignity, the weight of the bag lurches me forward, somersaulting me into the crowd of commuters. My favorite skirt flips over my head, my ipod goes flying and I land like the Vitruvian Man. The only part of my appearance still in tact: the sunglasses.

As passersby stop to assist me, their mouths gaping open in concern (with a touch of schadenfreude), I swiftly gather my belongings and rush down the escalator as fast as I can, pushing my sunglasses up, breathing irregularly and shouting, at an abnormally high pitch, "I'm fine! Thanks though! I'm fine! Gotta run! Thanks!"

The train downtown (and away from my shame) departs just as my feet hit the platform and I am forced to wait 2 minutes for the next one. As I stand there, the entire crowd of people who tried to help me, who were left in my dust as I busted my ass down the escalator to escape them, come quietly down the moving stairs and pass me one by one, trying not to look at me. I hid behind my over-sized sunglasses.

As if that memory hasn't been burned into my tiny ego long enough, I constantly reignite old shame when I soberly eat dirt probably around twice monthly.

I think most people look like they are trying to be Vanilla Ice when they wear sunglasses, as if they also have their ragtop down so their hair can blow. But, honestly, there are only about six times a year in which sunglasses are really necessary.

Five of these times include driving due east or west on a highway, or playing volleyball on a beach in Cancun. They other time, my favorite time, is about wearing sunglasses for no reason whatsoever--when the sun is barely shining or you are maybe even indoors. Its about wearing sunglasses to feel cool. I love sunglasses.

Today's Slippery Slope
This December morning, I intentionally put my contacts in(instead of the usual carefree spectacle look I sport) so I can don my new sunglasses on the way to work. Sure, WJLA had already informed me that it would be a cloudy day today, but from the shaded window of my basement apartment, I judged it to be light enough outside that sunglasses were a necessity.

As I locked the external door and headed up the stairs (ipod, Timbuk2 and sunglasses in tow) I realized it was drizzling. I had no where to safely store the shades so on my face they remained, and on I walked. To cut to the chase, my metro escalator is mighty steep and primarily exposed to the elements. It was still raining on me as I decended the stairs at an "I live in Washington DC, I'm important, get out of my way!" manner. I passed by a few slower folks, cruising at what I'm sure was an unsafe speed, until there it was again, sliding under my loosely laced red converse sneaker--hubris.

I slipped.

As I slipped, an inadvertent, instinctual mom noise tore from my lips, "oooh!". I hit the hard escalator, its angry teeth biting both my calf and vulnerable muffin top.

Faster than everyone could turn around to witness the tragedy (well, I wish it had been faster, but in actuality it was just long enough for everyone to turn) I popped up miraculously, every joint aching from the whiplash, and continued my jaunt to the bottom. Sunglasses still on my face, like a total toolbox. Don't worry, there wasn't a James-Bond-convenient train waiting to whisk me away this time either; I stood on the platform waiting while all the witnesses paraded by, probably thinking "Maybe you wouldn't have fallen if you weren't wearing those ridiculous sunglasses in the rain at 7:30 in the morning."

Oh, sunglasses, you make me look so cool, but why do you bring such ill fortune?

"Is this guy a Governor or Lil' Wayne?"

2008-12-10T14:34:00.007-05:00

I really wanted to comment on the scandal in my home state with good old Governor Blagojevich, but I wasn't sure how to frame my blog until I heard those magic words. "Is this guy a Governor or Lil' Wayne?" Thank you Jon Stewart, for being so dreamy.

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Rod Blagojevich Is a Jagoff

Barack Obama Interview
John McCain Interview

Sarah Palin Video
Funny Election Video

For those of you who don't know, Illinoisians (if thats a word) re-elected Rod in 2006 over his opponent Judy Barr-Topinka, primarily because of bad hair, a nasty Chicago south side accent and her dedication to the White Sox. In fact, it must have been the baseball thing because Rod and Judy have the bad hair and accent in common, but R-Blag is a Cubs fan. (Yes, Chicagoans know that the White Sox won the series in 2005, but we also know that White Sox = guys in sleeveless shirts driving mustangs and punching other guys in the mouth. The only exception is Barack Obama.) This Christmas Card may also have something to do with her loss:

Either way, Blagojevich kept his seat and continued his promise to reform Chicago after the 4 years of Governor George Ryan who began serving his sentence for federal corruption convictions in November of last year (but Ryan did issue a moratorium on executions in IL in 2000, and that was pretty cool of him. Props to you in the Pen, George.)

Oh Chicago, your beauty is again marred by scandal.

Also, you can check out a lil' Lil' Wayne music video here, if the picture above wasn't enough for comparison.

Breast Implants and Suicide Rates

2008-12-08T12:42:00.002-05:00

My weekend research topic was “What happens to silicone implants when you die?” I know that implants can’t be biodegradable or else they would biodegrade inside your body, but does that mean that after your skin and bones become one with the earth that your implant/s would still be in the ground? I’m also pretty sure that all implants have serial tracking numbers, meaning that in a CSI-related moment calf implants found in some overgrown woods could be all that is left of a murder victim?

Unfortunately, I didn’t really find too much about this topic in my internet scouring, but I did find some information about breast implants that I had not previously been aware of. I am not against plastic surgery or implants at all, as long as one decides to go for that type of body modification for oneself and not to please a partner or society (or whatever) but I have always had a little bit of hesitation about the safety of those decisions.

Breast implants have notoriously had problems with leaking or bursting in the past. Silicone and saline and all sorts of things I don’t much understand, but in November of last year, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration okayed the sale of silicone breast implants for the first time in 14 years. I just recently heard about a study completed in 2007 which dropped this frightening statistic:

“WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Women who get cosmetic breast implants are nearly three times as likely to commit suicide as other women, U.S. researchers reported on Wednesday.”

From the same study, USA Today reported:

“Women who have breast implants are three times as likely to die by suicide and have a similar increased risk of death as a result of drug use or alcoholism, a study says. The finding confirms earlier reports linking suicide and breast implantation and suggests plastic surgeons should consider mental health screening and follow-up for their patients.

The study, in August's Annals of Plastic Surgery, is by researchers at the International Epidemiology Institute in Rockville, Md.; Vanderbilt University in Nashville; and the Karolinska Institute in Stockholm. It extends by eight years research on 3,527 Swedish women who had cosmetic implants from 1965 to 1993. No notable increase was seen in the first 10 years after surgery, but 10 to 19 years after, risk was 4.5 times higher, and six times higher after 20 years, compared with the expected suicide rate. Researchers say it's not clear if the increase was the result of underlying psychiatric illness.”

The study showed no rise in the rate of cancer among women with implants, but the suicide connection seems pretty conclusive. The article from Reuters also said that in 2006, 383,886 U.S. women had breast augmentation. Do you think that those almost 400,000 women thought that their mental health could be severely affected by an augmentation? What are the causes?

I'd also be interested if anyone knows about the biodegradability of implants to fulfill my initial topic of interest...

Oh Prop 8, You Make Me Laugh

2008-12-04T16:37:00.003-05:00

There was so much to blog about today, but, alas, the man had me emailing, conferencing-calling and whatnoting all darn day. Because I haven't been too political lately, and because my blogging hiatus awkwardly fell during the whole Prop-8 situation I'll just leave you all with this one lovely video today.

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

Is This News?

2008-12-03T16:45:00.003-05:00

I'm starting a new weekly post on That Makes Me Nervous called "Is This News?" When I say weekly I mean whenever I get around to it, of course. Once every two weeks or once every 2.5 months...you know.

This week comes from a CNN headline that reads: "Obama disappointed in Richardson."

Or course, I have a tiny heart attack. I love Bill Richardson. I love New Mexico. I even love the fun-living folkloric jackrabbit who lights up the desert night with his human-like cry. I felt nervous that for some strange out-of-this-world reason Richardson perhaps turned down the job of Commerce Secretary. What was the article really about?

"(CNN) - Gov. Bill Richardson showed up to his press conference with President-elect Barack Obama Wednesday morning without the beard he has been sporting since dropping out of the presidential race in January, sparking his new boss to tell reporters he is "deeply disappointed with the loss of the beard.""

Oh CNN! You are soooo hilarious! Thanks for letting us in on this little life or death piece of information! Whew. What would I have done without knowing about Obama's little quip?? Richardson sure does look hipper with his beard! Gosh, I miss it already!

Hey wait, CNN! Did you hear that there were terrorist attacks in Mumbai recently? Or that the US is in a financial crisis? Weird! I was so busy thinking about the untimely death of Richardson's beard that I forgot all about all that crazy stuff!

Is This News?

The Greatest Day of 2009

2008-12-02T09:58:00.007-05:00

Since my short experience studying abroad in the UK about a million years ago, London has held a special romance for me. Certainly Big Ben, William Shakespeare, The red telephone booth and that bar in New Cross where I was frisked because someone had recently been killed there--all of it holds a certain glowing beauty about it. It was later my sister and I learned about the one thing that could possibly make London better: the introduction of the 24-hour bar. Now, I'm not sure if there are 24-hour bars anywhere besides in Heaven, but I do know that in 2005 London was blessed with this miracle.

It was the Swan Pub which obtained the first 24-hour pub license, and the owners were kind enough to be thankful while also taking the public interest into consideration.

"Pub licensee Adam Pattinson said he was "ecstatic"-about the prospect. Last night drinkers at the pub were also pleased, but added they hoped the move would not attract an "unsuitable" element of binge drinkers."

You know how those binge drinkers * can be!

In that vein, let me get to the point of this blog post. I've just learned from the dcexaminer.com that DC bars may stay open around the clock for Barry Obama's inauguration! Yes. 24 hours:

"A measure put forth today by D.C. Councilman Jim Graham - who represents the party-friendly Adams Morgan neighborhood - would allow bars and restaurants licensed to serve alcohol to keep pouring until 5 a.m., and to keep doors open 24-hours per day between Jan. 17 and Jan. 21."

The best part about it? I practically live in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood. So, for all of you Obama fans (or i guess just fans of drinking, too) this might the right weekend for you to come on out and see what DC is made of *! Just don't try to stay with me. Plenty of Chicagoans already made reservations at my crib for those days even before the 24 hour bar thing became possible. ESP, maybe.

*Wikipedia states: "Binge drinking is often defined nowadays as drinking alcoholic beverages with the primary intention of becoming intoxicated."
*Travel and Leisure Magazine ranked DC #24 out of 25 cities in which to have a "Wild Weekend". We have quite a reputation for fun, eh?

The Snuggie

2008-12-01T13:39:00.009-05:00

For all of you who at one point or another thought to yourself, "gee golly! I'm freezing, but I just can't be bothered to go put on a sweater!" or "Man, this blanket keeps slipping off my arms when I reach for the remote, I wish there was something that would wrap around me like a straight jacket and keep me warm even when I'm at a sporting event, holding my baby, or reader. Gosh! I wish someone would invent a luxurious fleece blanket with sleeves!" This product is for you! Its The Snuggie, and its ridiculous.

From the website, "Blankets are OK but they can slip and slide, plus your hands are trapped inside. The Snuggie keeps you totally warm and gives you the freedom to use your hands. Work the remote, use your laptop, or do some reading in total warmth and comfort!"

Right. I need a blanket with sleeves. What would stop me from wearing it backwards like a cape? hmmm...a cape. I like that idea.

Unfortunately, the Snuggie isn't alone. There is also The Slanket (and no, I'm not making this up).

Surprisingly, sleeves are everywhere. For example:

Tattoo Sleeves (not real):

Someone without sleeves:

Something that shouldn't have sleeves (wedding dress):

A good time to wear sleeves (handling a wild, taloned bird):

And, you know...the laptop sleeve.

That concludes our lesson of the day. Tune in later this week when we investigate another wacky, indefinable term! Any suggestions?

Monday Kitten Snack with Update!

2008-12-01T13:16:00.003-05:00

LC bought the kits new beds. They have been taking turns testing them out. I think the kits like the the beds because they were handcrafted in a developing nation by women who sold them for meager quantities of money and were then able to feed their families. The kits are really into humanitarian shit like that. l

*UPDATE*

It looks like Eliot has also caught on to the new cat bed (10/2)! Go cats snuggled in cat beds!

True for 90% of 9-5ers

2008-11-26T12:25:00.002-05:00

Via...

Thanks Kim for the link!

I wish I had a t-shirt with this on it.

2008-11-25T11:46:00.000-05:00

A Nelgected Blog is (temporarily) Revived by Cocaine

2008-11-24T14:33:00.003-05:00

So i haven't blogged in months because my school schedule suddenly flew off the handle and left me with minimal time to do so, but this article needed some airtime.

The Guardian recently reported that "four square metres of rainforest are destroyed for every gram of cocaine snorted in the UK, a conference of senior police officers as told yesterday."

So THATS who to blame for the rapidly depleting rainforest. Check out the full article here.

Post Script: I'll make an avid attempt to come back to thatmakesmenervous. I realize that i've been posting funny things I find on facebook anyway, so i might as well post here. For those of you who are facebook friends, watch out for some repeats in the coming days.

Post-Post Script: I am so afraid of drugs, this picture makes me nervous. I cant even watch Blow.

Woot!

Thanks Brad.

2008-09-18T11:06:00.003-04:00

Brad Pitt announced Wednesday that he would donate $100,000 to support gay marriage equality in California. Celebrity opinion on social and political issues is markedly more important when it involves money. You can donate to "No on 8", an organization against Proposition 8 in CA:

"Prop 8 would re-write our California Constitution to provide that only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California -- denying gays and lesbians the respect, dignity and responsibility that come with marriage."

So say no to 8. If we lose California other states don't have a chance---supporting civil rights in CA right now means supporting civil rights across the nation for years to come.

This Quorn Quontains...

2008-09-10T16:45:00.002-04:00

Ew.

This is totally not new to news, but something I've never heard before. I love me some vegetarian meat substitutes--I used to be really into Morningstar Products, and now mostly Boca. I've never tried Quorn, but I've heard quite a lot about its deliciousness over the years.

The widely held belief has been that Quorn was a mushroom based burger (mushrooms and soy being very common bases for meatless products), but it came out a couple years ago that the "mushroom base" was actually a shroom imposter.

The base of the product is a processed mold. Yeah. I said it. Sick, right?

Below, a savvy customer did some research after getting sick from the product:

"The mycoprotein that is in Quorn is called “Fusarium Venenatum”. It is a moldy fungus that is grown in large fermentation tanks by the Quorn corporation. Under certain conditions, “Fusarium venenatum” can morph into toxins known as trichothecene mycotoxins, causing nausea, vomiting and diarrhea. Quorn products have sickened hundreds of people. CSPI has been gathering their sickening stories and sharing them on their website. They also are pushing for the removal of Quorn products from store shelves."

Um. Not only are those words I can't pronounce, but they are definitely words I don't want to eat. From their website, Quorn seems to be up and running...but I certainly won't be venturing into their meatless lands any time soon.

A little short on rent?

2008-09-10T16:38:00.001-04:00

Just check your piggy bank and you might be as lucky as these folks.

Pretty awesome.

Green Screen on John McCain?

2008-09-05T15:58:00.003-04:00

Last night, John McCain spoke at the RNC, and aside from his unsurprisingly boring speech and inanimate robot face, there was a mysterious green screen behind his head... as visible in this video, part one of the borefest:

I thought it was a little odd when I was watching it. Strange to shoot on a green screen like a movie set, strange to make yourself look more mechanical by removing all reminders of reality from the shot. Just strange.

But this afternoon I read something that converts that strangeness into absolute hilarity. Talking Points Memo notes that McCain wasn't talking in front of a green screen...it was just a bad close up on the grassy knoll of a large mansion-like building. Was McCain speaking in front of a photo of one of his very own mansions? At, first no one was sure. This building was recently identified as "Walter Reed Middle School, in North Hollywood, California. Wow. Thats even stranger.

Unless...someone was trying to place a picture of Walter Reed Army Hospital and just failed in their google search? I dont know...but its a pretty hilarious theory. Check out the full article (with pictures) here.